The Husband and I sat on a plane, en route to San Francisco for a summer visit (see flickr photos right). Fading in and out of sloppy sleep, I became fascinated with a much older couple eating turkey sandwiches and Fritos. They sat in the row across from us and I watched them through droopy eyelids until the seatbelt light went off.

I imagined they brought this food on board from somewhere else, the layover in Phoenix most likely, and now they’d given themselves full permission to relish every crunchy bite while the rest of us sat drooling and cramped, uninterested in our stale nuts.

They each held airport best-sellers and read with focused attention, keeping their heads in their books, pausing only to take hungry bites of turkey on sourdough and grab handfuls of curly corn from a single shared bag.

It was sweet synchronicity. Turn the page, take a bite, grab a chip. A practiced routine perfected over many trips together. Or at least, that’s what I supposed. They continued uninterrupted like this for twenty minutes.

I smiled and let my eyes close shut. As I drifted off I wondered about this seasoned couple and about my own future. Is this what marriage looks like years down the road? These simple moments of sharing chips while sailing through the sky.

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After a small(ish) breakdown in Linens N Things where I announced to myself (and anyone who cared to listen) that I wasn’t ready for full-blown domestication, I threw my shapeless clothes to the back of the closet and dusted off my designer boots. It was time to get back to work. My beloved TV biz needed me. Didn’t it?

So, I took a freelance gig in Houston, a 3-hour drive from Austin. Pecan stands and legal explosive warehouses are about the only thing along the way, but I decided that producing for Big Texas News was worth the drive.

I was strongly encouraged to incorporate “tricks of the trade” into my script.

My first assignment: Write promo copy about prostitution overrunning the city. I was strongly encouraged to incorporate “tricks of the trade” into my script. When I submitted my copy for review, my supervisor asked quite impatiently, “Don’t you have any sound from a pimp?”

Meaning, did I locate any discriminating sound bite from a badass playa that I could work into the piece. I said, “No. Not from any ho either.”

No smile. He just stared at me with uneven breath. He told me to go to lunch.

When my new Houston co-workers aren’t eating the flesh of dead animals (Angus chopped steak from Luby’s ranks high on the list), they’re next door at the Coffin Café. The Coffin Cafe is a hodgepodge ethnic market that sells sandwiches, fried rice and candy bars. It’s located in the lobby of a huge mortuary company. My new promo pals explain to me that the true name of this market is Sunshine Deli, but they think their clever title more fitting.

So, as we stand in line to order I ask, “Is this actually the building the bodies are kept in?”

“Who cares,” they say. “Just order tuna on wheat. It’s only two bucks.”

Perhaps my San Fran colleagues were right. They had advised me to take some time off before jumping back into the work force. Really think about what you want to do next, they’d said. Before you start dining at the Coffin Café.

They were right. In Houston, I’m just prostituting myself to prove my market worth. After swallowing my last bite of an unimpressive two dollar sandwich, the fog cleared.

This isn’t the right street corner for me. Haven’t you heard, this town’s already overrun with hoes?

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Just after The Husband and I moved into our ranch house in downtown Austin and before the boys (my soon-to-be-step-sons) took up residence with us full-time, I found myself with endless afternoons to unpack our combined loot while the breadwinner was off at work.

The move from CA to TX had reduced me to unemployed houseperson status. Never mind that just two months ago I’d been producing award-winning television in San Francisco and hauling in a decent amount of cash. I had decided to wait (some call this foolishness, some thought it daring) to look for work once the dust settled.

It seemed, just overnight, I’d become the little lady at home, polishing the silver and putting it away in its’ own, linen-lined drawer. In the absence of a career, I took up whistling.

I will not let this be the soundtrack of my death.

There were many mornings when The Husband pulled out of the driveway, a luxury we never had in the Bay Area, and I’d wave a limp wrist from the front door. He’d look back at his sophisticated City Girl who was wearing, (with regular frequency now), a dowdy, maroon fleece vest and flannel pajama bottoms. Hardly recognizing myself in this pathetic Lands End outfit (and believe me, this vest wouldn’t even make it to the clearance rack!), would be just the motivation I needed. I’d watch his car disappear down the block and I’d be at the sink, dumping out my coffee and going straight for the hard stuff. Or at least, that’s what I wanted to do.

I’d think, “How has this become my life?”

People (my ex-colleagues especially) would try and talk me into enjoying these isolated afternoons. They’d say, “take this time to figure out what you want to do next…enjoy the quiet…paint a wall…find yourself.”

I was finding myself at Linens N’ Things in the middle of the day.

Before I offend a large population of women, including friends and family, let me just say that buying towels is a perfectly acceptable thing to do. It’s just that after many years of working 10 hours a day in the frenzy of a loud newsroom, where someone’s always shouting “We’re LIVE in 5 minutes,” where seconds mean everything and everyone’s writing, editing and running in a panic right down to the wire…

Linens N’ Things was just a little too quiet. Except for that damn smooth jazz.

I will not let this be the soundtrack of my death, I thought. I am better than this fleece vest. I am not Mrs. Bread Winner.

How many women have reached their personal breaking point at a mini-mall buying scented candles they don’t really need?

I’m sure I’m not the first, but I might have been that day in Linens N’ Things. I apologized to the woman shopping next to me, “You know, I’m just not ready for full-blown domestication.”

The silver would have to wait until the night before Thanksgiving. It was time to get back to my career. I put the window treatment down and whistled right out the door.

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