Semper Paratus/Always Ready

Semper Paratus (Always Ready) -- It's a Sign

I came home this afternoon and said to John (my landlord), "I may have accidentally joined the service." It's definitely a character flaw that I enjoy scaring him just for fun. The horrified look on his face (as he thought about the loss of my rent, no doubt) didn't go away when I said, "No, I'm kidding. I'm 50, remember?" I have to admit that it's sweet of him to think I could pass for younger.

Lately, John has been the only caring and concerned person in my life. He's still the same man who acted so badly when Gwen was dying and shortly thereafter, but I'm finally seeing the good she always saw in him. No, I'm not the least bit attracted to him. I find that thought rather repulsive, actually. But now I know, on an emotional level, what I've always known intellectually -- no one is all bad just because they've behaved badly.

I was about to write that I've been battling the black hole of despair for the last couple weeks. But, truthfully, no battling went on. I waved the white flag and fell in, looking up only to notice the latest slings and arrows. I'd get up each morning when the alarm told me to, take my vitamins, fire up the computer, look at what wasn't in my inbox, and decide that under the covers was the place to be. Back into bed I'd crawl, since I had no job to go to, no friend to meet for lunch or any other reason, and no love life. Poor, pitiful me. Usually I'd manage to be up and dressed by noon, maybe one o'clock. Hardly ready for what the day might hold.

I have a friend who lives south of Los Angeles (I'll call her Allison, since I didn't get her permission to include her in my blog, and I wouldn't want to ruin her day by possibly portraying her in a way that she, and only she, finds derogatory, since learning that particular lesson has left a bitter taste behind). Allison has been out of work for a long time, too. She has more marketable skills than I do, but she's still in the same boat in this economy. The longer you're out of work, the less they want you. In fact, I don't think they even read your application or resume once they see you're unemployed. Positive thinking doesn't change that fact.

Yet Allison remains upbeat and cheerful, and always encourages me. She doesn't thoughtlessly tell me what I ought to be doing (as if I'm not doing it), or imply that if I'd only try harder (as if I'm not trying hard enough) or not be quite so picky (as if being willing to weed or clean for a living is being too picky), then surely I'd have a job by now. Yes, I'm smart. Yes, I'm capable. Yes, I could do just about any job that doesn't require the kind of training you must go to school for, like, oh, being a surgeon. Yes, I usually display a winning personality. But in this day of "Please apply online. Please do not call or come in," it really doesn't matter what those who know me think I can do. I can't actually just walk into a business, win them over, and get hired. And saying so isn't a compliment or helpful -- it's just another way of telling me that I'm not doing enough or trying hard enough. Allison gets that, because she is actually unemployed, NOW, in this economy, and not someone who was unemployed once upon a time, a year or more ago.

While I appreciate that about her, what's inspiring to me is how she doesn't (or doesn't appear to) become so depressed that she curls into a ball and pulls the covers over her head. I can't manage it. I have a love/hate relationship with hope, and lately it's deserted me. Peri-menopause takes some of the blame here, too. All I've been doing is listing the Bad.

Bad

I have no job.

I am undesirable to most employers because I have no job.

I have no college degree.

There are idiots out in the world who think a college degree is necessary for the simplest of jobs.

The skills I do have are not current, so the same idiots think I've forgotten how to type or answer the phone.

I've been care-giving for years, but in order to get paid close to minimum wage for that, I'd have to spend a thousand dollars to get a certificate.

I'm running out of money.

I do not have enough nerve to rob a bank.

My best friends, the ones I could call at 3 AM to bail me out, don't live anywhere near me.

My best friend here, Gwen, is gone.

If I could afford the movies, I have no one to go with.

I have no love life, and am so unhappy with myself right now that I can't imagine any guy wanting to be near me.

Through all the days of hearing me fix breakfast (my blender sounds like a low-flying chopper) at noon, of asking if I'm not going anywhere because I'm worried that my car will break again and hearing me sigh, "I have nowhere to go," and of noticing that I don't even bother to put makeup on anymore, John has tried, in his own way, to cheer me up. He comes to my door and announces loudly, "I am going to Costco! I know you want a hotdog, so let's go!" Then he spends the dollar fifty for my dog and drink. He cooks too much food for dinner and tells me he's going to throw it out if I don't eat it, since he can see that all I have left in the freezer is a bag of frozen cauliflower that I have not been in the mood for. He says he'll change my car's oil if I clean his part of the house for him. He comes up with entrepreneurial ideas for me. And when I complain to him about a friend who hurt me, he says exactly the right thing, which I find amazing coming from a man who can say the wrong thing as easily as breathing. So, John has become a good thing in my life. And I'm trying not to be creeped out by that.

My friend Panther (not her real name, either), asked if I'd house-sit later this month. Just for a week, but it'll be some money and that's better than none. That provided a small spark of hope.

Thankfully, (or not, if you're so bored with this that you've moved on already), my body craved some decent, real food. I still have Slimfast and instant oatmeal, and hot dogs are tasty, but I literally felt the need for fresh vegetables, so I ventured out to Ralph's, since their flyer showed the most deals. After making the bigwigs at Mastercard even happier by adding to my debt, I headed home. And, stopped for a red light, I saw a man in a powerchair crossing the street. From the number of bags attached to and slung over his chair, and their condition, I'm 99% sure he's homeless. Homeless and can't walk. I know, from time spent with my friend Pamela (her real name, and if she happens upon my blog and doesn't like it -- bite me, Pammy!), that those chairs break down on a regular basis. The batteries have to be charged. It's difficult enough to deal with for her, and she owns her own home. This guy, well, I don't really have words. Just the feeling of immense gratitude that flooded through me when I saw him.

Seeing him didn't instantly lift my depression. If only. But I did start mentally listing the Good. A roof over my head, even if it's only for now. A car that's currently running. So many belongings that I add to my debt each month to keep them in storage. My health. My faculties and abilities. Those friends, even though they're thousands of miles away, who I could call at 3 AM and be sure they'd answer the phone. John, who is trying in his own way to keep me from sinking.

I picked up a copy of the local freebie newspaper, the VC Reporter, and saw that today is National Marina Day. Who knew, right? Since going to the Ventura harbor only costs the gas it takes to get there, I decided I'd go and see the tall ship. Get some sun. Maybe perk myself up some more. The first sign I saw when I got there was an apology that the tall ship couldn't be there. I did not say, "That figures" because I was alone and I'd look like a crazy person.

I noticed that the Coast Guard had a boat there, and the public could board it. I walked down the dock and did so. Twenty-something members of the CG were talking to possible recruits, extolling the virtues of serving. I went below and a middle-aged man, who I thought was active duty CG (but now I'm not sure if he was that or a member of the Auxiliary), talked about rescuing people, using the litter to bring the injured aboard, giving them coffee to warm them up, etc. I immediately imagined someone croaking out, "Is that decaf? It's kind of late in the day."

After the kids went up to pretend they were driving the boat, I chatted with the CG/Auxiliary guy for a while. I couldn't really talk about what I did in Gitmo and he could only tell me some of what he did in Cuba once, but we both appreciated each other's contributions. That might be him standing at the bow, later when I thought to take a picture.

 

 

 

Then I went over to the area with the booths and band and food. I bought a two dollar "sample" of clam chowder from Andria's Seafood Restaurant and Market. Now I never need to eat there. Passing potato and carrot (!) chowder off as clam should be criminally wrong. The band was a bunch of middle-aged guys who either had a band when they were young, or are finally doing what they always dreamed of back then. They sounded good, but the one guitarist looked like a bobble head on 'ludes. I had to get up and leave for fear that I'd start mimicking his movements, the way I begin to speak with a drawl within five minutes of encountering a southerner, even though I don't want to.

I noticed that the Coast Guard had a booth, so went over to it. It was run by a couple of members of the Auxiliary, both men my age or slightly older. The one who talked to me asked if I boated. I said no. He asked if I went fishing on a boat. I said no. He looked at me for a long moment and said, "I'm trying to think of what I can offer you here, by way of helpful pamphlets, but I'm drawing a blank." Then we both laughed. I said that perhaps I'd get lucky and someone would take me fishing, and he grabbed the appropriate booklet and handed it over with a flourish.

We talked, I mentioned my Navy service, and said something flippant about it being too late to go back in (for those who still think I might be too picky, are you willing to enlist? just askin'). He said it certainly wasn't too late to join the Coast Guard Auxiliary, and told me what they do, when and where they meet, and asked if I'd like to fill out a form to be contacted about it. I was sort of interested (admittedly my brain first went to, "this might look good on my resume"), and figured he might get points of some kind for people filling out the form. I said I would, just as soon as I dug my reading glasses out of my purse. After I provided my basic information, he went from professional and friendly to flirty. I'd gotten enough sun and fresh air to be able to notice, yes. I said I had to go and he shook my hand, not giving it back until he said, "I'm Ray. And now I have your phone number, Mary."

It was not as creepy as it's now looking, as I type this. It was just a nice little ego boost. And the entire exchange allowed me to come home and scare the bejingles out of John for a moment. When he fully understood what I was talking about he said, "That's a great idea. You should join. It'll get you out, you'll meet new people, and you know....mumble mumble something something." I think he was going to say it might make me happy, but thought better of it. For some reason people fear saying the wrong thing, or saying it the wrong way, around me. Strange.

Anyway, since the Coast Guard's motto is Always Ready, I saw it as a sign. I need to be ready for each day, not hiding from them in bed. Being alone there only adds to my despair, and serves no good. I might need to double the dose of "sanity cream" (non-prescription hormones) I use, too. But if God is going to refuse to give up on me, if He's going to send me signs and make sure I see them, then I should probably stop googling "painless poisons" and not give up on me, either. Who knows, there might even be an Alpha male type out there who's just made for me, and available. And a job that'll pay the bills. My wants and needs are worthy, I think.