Yes, dear readers, I hear you, long past time for another edition of The Deborah Chronicles! I'm going to do this in three separate editions because otherwise it'll be far too long. The first two will be odds 'n ends and updates from previous stories, and the third a report on a life-changing epiphany.
Welcome to new subscribers! I think there are several for this edition. Your first reaction might be -- wha???? Especially if you don't know me that well. For those that do, your reaction will be "well, of course."
From time to time I send out stories about my life. The following is another randomly sent chapter that verifies that Deborah Koch IS the quirkiest woman you know. If you would like back issues, please let me know -- I've been told a few are hilarious. But if anyone finds my stories a little too racy for your taste, tell me that, too. I won't stop it, I'll just remove you from the subscriber list! These stories are generally not for children, which is why I'm not quite sure I can share with my young teenage cousin (unless her Mom says OK), but I let go of worrying about what would Uncle Bob think a long time ago -- I figure with as much life as he's lived he can match anything I write!
Alright, let's get to it. Remember -- all together now -- I DO NOT MAKE THIS STUFF UP! This is my life.
In this edition:
Without a doubt the hardest thing to leave behind when moving are friends. But I maintain that there are three things that would run a close second -- one's car repair shop, one's gynecologist, and one's hairdresser. Think about the degree to which you must have trust in each of them.
After three years away from DC, I finally realized that it was neither feasible nor economical to fly back for regular hair appointments; it was time to find a local hair dresser. You can't imagine what courage this took for me -- because I LOVE my hair as much as my butt (although I let more people touch my hair). When I was a little girl, I was afraid to be near scissors because I thought somebody might have a sudden spasm and accidentally cut a swath out of my hair.
I went to a hairdresser in DC, Bill, for so long that we went from the unfortunate short-in-front, long-in-back stage (not his creation; rather, my insistence -- what was that all about?!) to the I-must-have-hair-that-men-want-to-fall-face-first-into stage. I went to him for so long that he fully experienced one marriage and countless romances thereafter, causing him to exclaim one day while I was whining about some-man-done-me-wrong that he was "the steadiest man in my life!" I informed him that, no, in fact that would be my gynecologist. Which was true, the gynecologist had gotten to experience BOTH husbands and the after effects of countless romances before, between, and after the husbands (20 years worth!).
So, one day I actually accept the recommendation of my able assistant Mary, who has managed to convince me that her hairdresser does more than just cut, that she is an aesthetician. I approach nervously and explain to the new hairdresser, Barbara, that I have changed husbands more easily than hairdressers. She is gracious, calming, and damn good, despite Bill's assertion that a woman isn't a good hairdresser for another woman because she will never make you look better than she does. "For us (gay hairdressers), however, you're our own real live Barbie doll!" Through a slip on Barbara's part ("yes, well, Pisces love to have romantic hair" -- I hadn't mentioned being a Pisces), I discover that Mary has spent a great deal of time prepping her about me and my nervousness. When I quiz Mary the next day, she replies, "I just told her that you LOVE your hair."
When I left after that haircut I got uncommonly good service at the bookstore and the gas station and was stopped on the street by a stranger.
But I still don't have a steady gynecologist. Imagine what that might do for me.
**Highway 61 Revisited
OK, so actually it was Highway 91. A Friday night and I'm driving down Interstate 91 to Connecticut to see then-and-still-sorta-beau, Tommy (the German fella I met on an airplane -- see past editions). One of those overhead signs that the Highway Department can post messages on says 91 is closed at exit 22. I interpret this to mean the EXIT is closed and don't worry about it. I'm trying to get to Exit 20, just after that.
After several of these messages appear, I begin to understand that they mean the HIGHWAY itself is closed up ahead (duh, that's what they said, but I just didn't think that highways actually closed, I guess). I try to formulate a plan (of course I have a map -- did you doubt that?) and set my sights on the exit before the exit where the highway is closed, congratulating myself on my clever routing. But you know how sometimes you completely space out on the obvious? I had failed to consider the concept of "backup." Well, of course I get into this monster traffic jam, and somehow -- managing to reign in sniper tendencies -- eventually get myself off the highway at the first opportunity and try to point myself toward the Connecticut shoreline. I'm frazzled from the traffic jam, from not knowing where I am, from being hungry, being enormously frustrated, and without a phone to say why I'm late. Through intuition and an imprint of the map on my head, I manage to get myself going where I intend to -- I think -- but because this is New England and they don't believe in signs for major roads ("Hey, you're on this road, you ought to know what it is!"), I'm not sure. I need reassurance that I AM on the road I think I'm on. No signs anywhere.
Suddenly, the phrase "Just give me a SIGN, Lord!" comes to mind, sending me into fits of maniacal laughter. I notice the Rolling Stones' "19th Nervous Breakdown" is playing on the radio. The humor assuages the frustration, the girls in the 7-11 confirm the road number, and when I finally get there, the beau has a scotch ready.
**What ever happened to...?
Readers are frequently asking me whatever happened to...so here are a few quick updates.
The Accident -- The obvious one. Many of you have wondered am I OK after being hit by that car (see edition #7)? The answer is basically, yes -- but I wasn't for awhile.
You'll recall that I refused an ambulance, that I had no bruises and that I went dancing anyway. All of that was absurd considering how hard I landed on the car that hit me. And if anybody else tried to tell me that the mind can suppress pain to that capacity, I would have scoffed, yet that is exactly what happened to me. Because friend Dee, who was with me that night, had delicately pointed out the next day that to not have had considered how badly I could have been hurt (especially since I'm a dancer -- my legs!) or not to have felt extreme gratitude after the event was not normal, I made an appointment with a therapist. (Wanna imagine the intake call on that one? "Umm, I got hit by a car, but it didn't hurt. It has occurred to me that perhaps there's a problem with this?")
I went several times in quick succession to determine why I felt no pain and why I minimized the accident. THREE weeks after the accident (and several therapy appointments later), I began to feel a lot of pain (except, I kept calling it "discomfort"). My knee, my thigh, my hip, my butt. I couldn't get comfortable. I went to a sports medicine/orthopedist who confirmed that my injuries were exactly in accordance with how I described the accident. Apparently the emotional exploration expelled the stoic in me and the pain was allowed to rise to the surface. [I'd say that was damned effective therapy, huh? I have extra cards if you want!] I would never have believed this possible if I hadn't experienced it myself. Most of my relief was at the hands of a skilled massage therapist and some exercises, but Tommy's car with the seat warmers did its part, too.
The Yale Job -- The parallels between job hunting and dating are frighteningly similar. You go on the interview (date) and you're on your best behavior and you hope the other party likes you. Then you go home and wait for a call. After awhile you find out that they are interviewing (seeing) someone else. Feeling defensive, you convince yourself that they weren't that hot anyway.
So the headhunter tells me that the folks at Yale were intrigued by me because I'm creative, I've make them think about things in a new way, I'm obviously bright, BUT the other person makes them feel secure because they do things the tried and true way ("you're the kind of woman I want to date, but not marry"). By now weeks have gone by with no word from the headhunter -- neither asking for another interview nor telling me that they've hired someone else. It is hard to keep childish reactions from creeping in -- "if they think I'm going to want them after all this time, hmmmmph!" Actually, I have lost my zeal for them. Sound like "I never liked you anyway"? Sheesh. I think the fountain of youth can be found in insecurity, where you always get to feel 14.
The Pilot -- Some readers have inquired whether or not the South African (still have a couple of continents to cover) pilot from California is still in the picture. John (a new subscriber!) and I haven't been an item for about a year. He has joined the ranks of Former Beaus/Current Friends. Seems like these guys should get some kind of honorary title, like former Presidents are still called Mr. President. Of course, I would not be inclined to address each Former Beau as The Honorable So and So (sometimes just So and So would suffice!). I'm rather fond of the bluesmen's description -- My Used-to-Be. Or perhaps Your Ex-ness?
The Computer -- My hard drive crashed. (which is part of the reason for a Chronicles delay) My fancy-ass Apple turned out to be a Lemon. I was only 5 months out of warranty. I lost everything because I didn't even think about back-up. For some reason, I associated back-up as only for the office. (Please file this under "D" for Duh.) I lost the Deborah Chronicles Parts 1-6 (although retrieved them from my sister's computer, where she had them in the Trash -- ahem!), some consultant work, e-mail addresses, and lots of sweet things you guys wrote to me that I had saved in a file entitled Smiles. And if you think I owe you an e-mail, you're right, I lost that, too.
Neither Apple nor the local computer store, Yes Computers, felt any responsibility about the piece of junk they sold me. Ever the Intrepid Consumer, I finally got the computer store to comp me a diagnostic so I could find out what was the problem. My Used-to-Be John pointed out that sometimes hard drives have different warranties than the computers. And he was right! But neither Apple nor Yes Computers bothered to even mention that. The drive was made by Toshiba, and they have sent me a new one. Apple would have sold me a new one, giving me a discount if I sent the old one back to them. Anyone see the scam here? I send them the old hard drive and they send it back to the manufacturer for a free new one and charge me for it?! I haven't yet written that consumer letter, but you know it's coming. Apple sux, Toshiba rules!
**A Fix for Deborah Chronicle Junkies
Can't wait for the next edition of the Deborah Chronicles to laugh so hard that milk comes out your nose? Want to relive those moments where Deborah leaps over cars in a single bound or prepares for an interview by giving herself whiplash (while naked! see edition #2)? Now, coming to you soon -- Deborah, The WebSite. Yes, an entire website devoted to your favorite Piece of Work, with pictures no less (yes, Wayan, at last, the go-go pics will be available!).
But I need your help, I am trying to remember some of my better stories and hope you will remind me of your favorite Deborah tales. In the Deborah Does Dating category, there's the all-time favorite, "Isn't this AWKWARD?" (also known as the "do you need more room or are you just trying to make contact?" story). In the Deborah Does Disaster category, we'll have the Naked Earthquake and the Near Death on Half Dome Mountain. In the Butt Stories category, there's the not-possible-but-true Bulldog Bites Butt story. And of course, in the ever-growing genre of Do I know a Tom Bradley? category we have true -- and embarrasing -- stories starring Jesse Jackson, Dianne Feinstein, Henry Cisneros, and both Paul Simons. Please send me reminders of your favorites so I can put them on the website.
That's all for this edition, dear readers! Stay tuned for Part 9, which is nearly written.
And be safe out there!
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