Friday, July 18, 2008

Acting Your Age

I was in Texas earlier in the month – always an experience, Texas. I’ve decided I love driving there. When I drove there the first time, it terrified me, because every time I looked in my rearview mirror, there was a pickup grill looking back. They don’t drive anything except pickups in Texas. But now I like the way they drive, because they’ve made things so simple. If you want to pass, you get up on someone’s bumper, they move over, and everyone’s happy. I mean, I have a Honda CRV, which can’t terrorize anyone. But when I get up on someone’s bumper, they still pull over. It makes me feel powerful. If I did that in my city, they wouldn’t pull over, they’d pull out an AK-47. Which would make me feel dead.

But that isn’t really what I wanted to talk about. When I was in Texas, my niece said that she didn’t like seeing people acting younger than they actually are. Wait, not people. She said, women. Probably because men never grow up, so she’s not carrying the same expectations for them. (Oh, c’mon, don’t send mail... you know none of us do.) Okay, I can agree with her to a point because I’ve never thought micro-mini’s and pigtails go well with laugh lines and jowls, but...

Well, I decided a while back – I think it was about the time I turned 50 - that age was irrelevant. Yes, thinking about it, it was exactly at the time I turned 50, because that decision kept me from driving off a bridge.

I went to to see Chicago and the Doobie Brothers this past June. To clarify, these are singing groups. Don’t ask, as my niece did, “Did you see the Natural History Museum while you were there?” Sweetheart. Dearest. That’s not cute.

It was an outdoor concert. I went with a similarly-aged friend, and we hooted and clapped and danced in the aisles – and we were glad there was nobody there of a respectable age. You know, like my niece. I only once decided we should act more dignified – that was when the overhead clapping started. You know what I’m talking about. It’s when somebody in the band drops his guitar so it hangs by the strap around his neck, then claps his hands over his head, like he’s signaling emergency rescue. And then the audience joins in. Well, it struck me that most of the women there had flaps that could slow a cargo plane. It wasn’t pretty.

But, otherwise, I thought we all looked pretty cool. Even after storm clouds thundered in and tornado sirens sounded in the next county which prompted a lot of cell phone activity, but nobody left, even after lightning flashed, and the skies opened up. Instead, being cool, we all crowded under covered walkways. The concert was suspended for twenty minutes, and then I guess the organizers thought, what the hell, or else they thought, lawsuits for an electrocution or two might be cheaper than refunding everyone’s $72.50 ticket.

Once the music started again, I can assure my niece that the walkways looked like any other mosh pit at any other rock concert. Except, maybe, for the umbrellas. You know, when you get to an irrelevant age, you have these knee-jerk needs to be practical when you’re standing outside in severe storm warnings during a rock concert.

About a half hour before the concert ended, the rain subsided enough that we could go back to our seats, although we couldn’t sit in them because they were too wet. Oh, that’s not another example of practicality; that’s just ego. When you walk around with a wet tush when you’re of an irrelevant age, people don’t immediately jump to the idea you were at a rock concert in the rain. They just think you forgot your Depends.

Another cool thing happened. A cute-looking guy ducked under my umbrella while we were clapping – or rather, he was clapping because I haven’t figured out how to hold an umbrella and clap at the same time. It’s not something I mastered in my youth. Actually, I don’t think I ever held an umbrella in my youth. But nothing came of anything, even though he was cute; I think because I looked really stupid trying.

Concert over, but storm still underway, my friend and I headed to the car. Outside the concert bowl, and between the tall, very tall, trees that line the path to the parking lot, we could see bolts of lightning splitting the nighttime sky.

I guess she was feeling kind of foolish – I’m not sure; I couldn’t study her expression because I was busy trying to look nonchalant. She turned to me and said, “And how old are we?”

I pondered, then lifted my chin. “Old enough that nobody can tell us not to do this.”

Which is a really great age to be when you think about it. Not that I plan to be a lightning rod again in the near future, but I like being this old, and I like not caring what anyone thinks. Not even my niece (whom, if she is reading this: I love you very much, sweetheart, and I forgive you). I can still dance at rock concerts. I can still ride somebody’s ass all the way to Corpus Christi. And nobody can tell me not to.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Life's Little Meanings

I’m always trying to read things into things, find meanings, connect dots, draw parallels. It’s an exhausting business, this being a deep thinker stuff, but I persist, because one day I’m pretty certain I’ll uncover the secrets of the universe.

I live in a nice, middle-class suburban neighborhood. Late this (Sunday) afternoon, I decided to walk to the hardware store, about three-quarters of a mile away, to buy a light bulb. Okay, so I was a little bit bored – cleaning my house was looking like the only other alternative to light-bulb-buying if I wanted to get away from all this thinking.

Anyway, I reached an intersection, just before cutting through this pocket park behind the library, and a little old guy in a little old Honda waved me across. I crossed.

Then he turned the corner, pulled up to the curb, rolled down the window. “Excuse me?”

I eyed him. 80, 85. Perfectly harmless. I’m the type that’s likely to snort at a flasher, and he hardly looked strong enough to suck air into his lungs, let alone me into the car. So, I walked over, thinking maybe he needed directions. “Yes?”

The moment I reached the window, he launched in. “My son—-out in California—-he weighed 350 pounds, but then he got this book by this doctor that was about how it’s really animal protein that causes all the problems, you see, with metabolism, you see, throwing off clots and all. And he followed that diet, and whammo--he dropped a hundred pounds in a year.”

“He did?” I said, wondering where this was going.

“Yes, and I tried it, and I used to weigh 180, but now I’m down to 145.” He patted his skinny stomach and looked meaningfully at my not-so-skinny stomach. “I just had to tell you.”

I waited a beat to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t. I immediately decided I would never, ever, never wear this particular pair of shorts again. Or this shirt.

I glanced down, just noticing the box of wine on the passenger seat. Ah. But I still wouldn’t wear these shorts or this shirt. “What was the name of the book?” I asked.

Heart Attacks Start in the Liver.”

“And so does cirrhosis,” I muttered to myself, watching him drive off.

I pulled out my cell phone. He reached the top of the street, made a U-turn.

“My God.” I relayed the incident to my friend. “You’re supposed to be my friend. If I look this bad, you’re supposed to tell me before people take pity and start hailing me on the street.”

The little old man pulled even with me. The window came down, and he called out. “Hemp.”

“What?”

“HEMP! Best additive you can get.” He rolled off.

I stared after him. For long, long moments.

I promise you I’m not lying about this.

As I returned from the hardware store, carrying a little bag with my light bulb tucked inside, I crossed the pocket park parking lot. The little old man was long gone. But a little old lady was getting out of her little old Buick.

She directed a hostile stare at me. “You got a dog?”

I do, but my dog was at home. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then, you wanna tell me why you’re carryin’ a poop bag?”

“I—it’s a light bulb,” I stammered, walking on.

She stared after me.

I’m honestly not making this up.

As I continued home, I started my usual pondering. I wondered what the connection was between my two encounters, wondered if I was meant to buy a book about livers and heart disease and how that related to dog manure (yes, I know, but I was seeking something deeper than that), and searched for a possible reason everyone had forgotten to take their meds that morning.

I finally concluded there was no deep meaning beyond the obvious indication that I should stay on the diet I started seven days ago, and, really, that doesn’t take a whole lot of thought. Sometimes things just... are. And maybe that’s one of the big secrets of the universe.

Monday, June 2, 2008

Sitting Like a Lump

I signed up for e-Harmony. And, wow, I’m finding it as much fun as... well, job hunting or trying to market one of my manuscripts or maybe selling Amway. Not that I’ve sold Amway, but I’m just saying.

On e-Harmony, you create a profile, they send you other peoples’ profiles, you pick and choose and wink and wave hi, and sometimes you get really brave and send a few questions for the other person to answer... And then once that flurry of activity passes... we all sit there like lumps staring at each other. It reminds me of junior high dances and why I’ve never been huge on wallowing around in nostalgia.

But it occurs to me that this is very similar reaction to how I face most decisions. I sit there like a lump. Because to choose one thing, means to not choose the others. What if I would have been happier with something else? (And can someone tell me why I think I could ever possibly know that?) And, omigod, what if I choose... and then something better comes along? (And how could I ever possibly know that, either?)

A wise friend of mine recently said, with a fond sigh... maybe, actually, an exasperated sigh, but, I try to choose a glass-half-full perspective...

Anyway, she said, “Jerri, make a decision. If it doesn’t turn out all right...

“Then make another decision.” (She didn’t add “for God’s sake” but I think she wanted to.)

And, okay, it was probably an exasperated sigh.

A few entries ago, I wrote about how your best hope is as likely to occur as your worst fear. Similarly, it’s just as likely you’ll enjoy the consequences of a choice, instead of suffer them. (Once again, I’m cribbing from a daily reading.) And if there’s no decision made at all... well, then we all sit there like lumps. Growing lumpier.

So, I’m off to “wink” and “wave hi” and “nudge” “my matches” into doing the same. (Are we having fun yet, or what?) Then I’m checking into Amway because this job-hunt and market-a-manuscript thing isn’t going that well, either.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

It's All Just Stuff

I’ve had a few tragedies in my life. You’ve had a few tragedies in your life. Some stuff in my life sucks. Some stuff sucks in yours, too. When I dwell on my stuff, it grows. It grows bigger than a horse. Bigger than a house. Much, much bigger than your stuff, of course. And it seems I missed my calling as Mrs. Suess.

I sometimes wrap up in my stuff, bundle it all around me, tuck in the corners, all righty-tighty, and refuse to consider that maybe there's some good stuff in there with the bad. Instead, I poke out my nose... and moan and whine and bitch and complain and wonder why that repels the attention I want, rather than attracts it.

Then, at some point--and probably not soon enough for close friends and family--I realize... gee, this is just life. And I’m only normal.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

A Tidbit About Worry

Rather than try to create a masterpiece with every entry, I decided less may really be more on occasion. So here's a small point to ponder without my pithy observations intruding:

I can't know what the future holds. But my best hope is as likely to happen as my worst fear.

(That's paraphrased from an entry in Courage to Change - which I was flipping through in one of those wee-hours-worry-sessions last night. I can't remember the page or date I landed on, but the contents stuck.)

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Progress, Not Perfection

I’m told that blog writers need to make entries at least three times a week, if not daily, or... else. So, wanting to avoid ...else, I was tempted to never return and just let you think I (a) got bored (b) got busy, or (c) made the mistake of entering my son’s bathroom and am now in quarantine while doctors work to figure out what rare fungus is growing between my toes.

But I didn’t do that. I've showed up. I’m about to take it on the chin, explain the time lapse between entries, and let the chips fall where they may.

I haven’t posted because I’m a perfectionist.

Wait a minute, you say. If that’s the case, wouldn’t you be on top of this blogging thing? No. One of the first rules of perfectionism is: if you can’t do something perfect, there’s no point in doing it at all.

I come by this trait honestly. I share genes with a grandmother who used to run a gloved finger into the corners of the stairs in her farmhouse (the one that sat on a dirt-packed Nebraska road) and would, holding up a gray-tipped digit, tell her daughter, responsible for dusting, that she’d do well to live in a round house.

You see where this is going. Her daughter raised me. When visiting my house, my mother would ask—-and, while I sometimes exaggerate just an eensy-bitsy-teensy-weensy bit in these columns, this is the honest-to-God truth--“When’s the last time you swept under your refrigerator?”

You’re kidding me, right?

Okay. Six months ago. But, honest, I normally ignore the refrigerator, figuring I’m on par if I hit the places people can actually see.

Which I do with regularity, because my thoughts run along the lines of: As goes the direction of the nap of my carpet, so goes I. Or something like that.

Still, I’d felt I’d come a long way – nothing’s ever too badly awry around here, but I do let dog hair thicken along the floorboards, dust settle on the sills, and I try never, ever, never to enter my son’s bathroom, although I do experience an occasional slip. It's closer to the garage door, and I'm middle-aged.

So my behavior the other day caught even me by surprise. Our neighborhood had a large trash-pickup scheduled. One of those deals where you drag anything you no longer want to the curb, like a refrigerator whose ice machine broke the last time you moved it during your weekly cleaning.

The day before items could be set out, I was working at my home computer when a friend emailed to ask if she could bring over an old mattress for pickup. Sure, I typed. I won’t be home, but slide it into the garage and my son will take it out the next day. Fine, she replied, my sister will help me move it.

Arrangements made, I returned to work. For ten minutes. After ten minutes, I was in my garage, broom in hand. I didn’t care if my friend saw the state of my garage. She knows me. Too well to ever harbor, in even the very remotest, shadowy-est region of her brain, the idea I’m perfect.

But her sister... her sister doesn’t know me that well. And I was pretty certain, too, after I’d thoroughly examined every side of the matter in that ten minutes, her sister would arrive channeling my mother. She’d even come inside and check under my refrigerator.

So I swept my garage. And straightened a few storage shelves. Okay, and I did put some muddy shoes that had been sitting by the lawn mower since last summer on this stand by the washer so that if she looked over in that corner--which I knew she would--she’d conclude that’s where we always put muddy shoes before we clean them off. On every Tuesday, without fail. But I stopped with the shoes, and congratulated myself for not touching the refrigerator.

Just as I now, with this entry, pat myself on the back for again showing up here. I’ve experienced enough personal growth to allow you, and whichever one of you is channeling my mother today, to know that I haven’t blogged lately, not because I was trying to locate the can of Dr. Scholl’s, but because I just didn’t feel like it.

It’s all about progress, not perfection.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Appreciating the Obvious

Because rare is the writer that actually makes a living from writing, and I'm no rarity, I supplement my income with editing work. Some writers would consider editing work a trip to the Dark Side, but the jobs measure well against the Big Three Criteria For Freelance Jobs that I use to make sure I maintain my integrity: Is it legal? Is it moral? And, most importantly, does it pay enough for a bowl of corn chowder and a buttermilk spice muffin at Mimi’s Cafe?

When I edit another author’s work, I largely refrain from even a hint of a raised eyebrow, because I know that for every fissure I find in someone else’s writing, there’s a deep crevasse in my own. Occasionally, though, I just can’t help it. Occasionally, I run across some little ditty that not only raises an eyebrow, but sends it flying up into my hairline.

So, okay, I’ll show you what I mean. Here’s a quote from a manuscript I read recently. Okay, not an exact quote, an almost-quote, because, along with my Big Three Criteria for Freelance Jobs, I also adhere to a list of How to Avoid Frivolous Lawsuits. Number one on that list is: Don’t be an idiot.

So, here’s what the author almost-penned:

Patricia pondered Max’s dilemma. “Isn’t there someone who could bail you out?”
“No. I’d just as soon slit my wrists than ask my brother for help,” Max said.
Sensing animosity, Patricia fell quiet.


Sensing animosity? Boy, that Patricia. I thought, as I pulled down my eyebrow. Nothing blows past her.

Then, just this morning, I had my own Patricia Moment.

I woke, mind spinning with my latest issue. I sighed. “Isn’t there a way to turn off my brain?”
I opened a daily meditation book and read the first line: “No problem lasts forever.”
Sensing truth, I fell silent.


Sensing truth? Boy, that Jerri. I thought, untangling my eyebrow from my hair. She doesn’t miss much.

Monday, March 3, 2008

A Bible Story

God knows, I’m no Biblical scholar. So I may get part of this wrong. I also need to attribute some of the humor to Rev. Richard Rogers, who spoke at my church Sunday. Yes, I go to church. Mostly because I’m no Biblical scholar, and, as I just said, God knows. So I’m hoping attending services makes it up to Him. I think that’s called hedging your bets, but I’m not sure, because I’m no gambler either.

Rev. Rogers brought up Lazarus. It’s a popular story at this time of year, the time leading to Easter, which I do know about because it’s when K-Mart starts selling Easter egg baskets, those flimsy, multi-colored ones that always look so cute tied with a ribbon and loaded with candy, but you can never figure out what possible use they have after that, because who decorates their house in fushia, purple, yellow, and emerald green? Yet, at the same time, they’re so cheap that, next year, instead of re-using the one you bought this year, you’ll buy a new one. And then you end up with a cabinet full of old Easter egg baskets because it seems a shame to just throw them out, and if anyone ever figures out a great thing to do with them, well, come see me.

From what I understand of the Lazarus story, Jesus didn’t catch the first call from Lazarus’s sister or something, so he didn’t reach Lazarus’s deathbed until a few days too late. For most people, that would pose a problem, but not if you’re Jesus. He simply decided to wake old Lazarus up. (Note: Rev. Rogers put the spin on this next part, so if you want to call or write anyone about being sacreligious, you give him the ringy-dingy and not me, okay?) Lazarus’s sister was skeptical when she heard about Jesus’s plans. She said something along the lines of, “But, he’s been dead three days. Won’t he be kind of, well, smelly?” (I looked this up, by the way, and she really did say that, although she used “decayeth,” which sounds worse than smelly, so I’m sure that’s why Rev. Rogers paraphrased her.)

I’m sure everyone standing around waiting to see what happened thought the sister was just whining, so they shushed her because, sheesh, Jesus was about to perform a danged good miracle, if he could pull it off. They weren’t sure. But she was. As Rev. Rogers pointed out, she was the only one in the crowd that had faith. What she was saying was, “I don’t have any doubt you can do this, Jesus. But... do you really want to?”

Anyway, we all know what happens after that. Lazarus gets up, and, we’ll assume, someone hands him a bar of soap so he won’t be shunned during the celebration they’re about to have in his honor. (In Kansas, we’d gather to light candles and pray, in Texas, they’d have a barbeque. I don’t know what they did back then.)

After telling this story, Richard Rogers went on to talk of faith and reaching for the impossible and how on person can change the world. I’m sure most ministers emphasize the same thing, which is all true and good to know.

But I was thinking about this afterwards, and it struck me that it’s too bad we gloss right over Lazarus’s sister to get to the good stuff. because the sister had a lot to say here. Every day, we’re making choices, big and small, for good or bad. And, each time we do, shouldn’t we be asking ourselves, “Well, yeah, I can do this. But do I really want to?”

Easter’s also the time of year when a lot of people decide to give something up for Lent. That something is often chocolate. Even if buying another new Easter basket makes no sense, getting one does, seeing as they’re usually loaded with chocolate and will arrive at a time when you can finally eat it again.

But the thing is, do you want to?

Monday, February 25, 2008

Remembering What Counts

It’s been almost a week since I posted. I need to post today because I know that if I don’t update this blog regularly, those of you who are checking in regularly will stop. (If you’re not checking in that often... try harder.)

It’s not subject matter I’m having trouble with. Nor is it, even, the time to write. I’ve come up with subjects, and I’ve even had a few minutes of spare time. But the topics I’ve thought of—midlife psychosis, understanding teenagers, and why Xanax is so expensive—are the kind of subjects about which books are written. I write at that length only if I have some expectation of being paid for my time. Nobody’s paying me to do this blog, but if you want to make an offer, we can talk.

Small subjects... things where I can toss something off and leave you thinking I’m clever and pithy, yet wise... have eluded me. And also, if we’re going to be frank here, sometimes I just forget I have a blog I need to update. Maybe because I have these my-mind-is-an-arid-wasteland days.

Do you have those days? They’re the kind of days where you can meditate for hours, but still not find a single answer to the meaning of life, a single way to achieve the dreams of your heart, or a single thing listed on the menu of a fast-food restaurant that doesn’t cost more than the 76 cents you can find in your car if you hunt hard enough. That last is pretty important. I know, because the other day I didn’t have time to go home for lunch and I’d forgotten my bank card, and I was really, really hungry.

Okay, what I just said is a little misleading. About the bank card, that is. It’s not just that I’d forgotten the bank card; it's that I don’t even know where it is. I know, though, it’s somewhere in my house, so I’m not calling the bank yet. I’ve already replaced that card three times. This year.

Which brings to mind this idea I had. People who make bank cards should start equipping them with those beeper-things that are on a cordless phone. You know—-the ones where you push a button on the phone base and the receiver squawks from between the sofa cushions, from your son's room, or from the dishwasher? That beeper works really well for me, as long as I notice the receiver is missing before the battery runs down. I’m not buying another new phone this year, either.

Someone told me this blanking-out I experience is a result of declining estrogen. Or maybe I read it somewhere. I don’t remember. I do remember that the information was offered as if I’d find it reassuring to know that, at midlife, this is a normal phenomenon.

I’m not reassured. In fact, since I don’t expect spontaneous regeneration of my ovaries, I find it worrisome that this is something I’ll be dealing with for a while. If I'm lucky, quite a while.

Well, that’s the natural progression of life, I suppose. And maybe it’s not so important that I remember where I left my bank card or the cordless receiver, as long as I do remember the important stuff: never go to bed angry, always take time to smell the roses, and Hy-Vee Supermarket has Nature’s Choice Granola Bars for only 50 cents plus tax.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Reaching the Top of the Happiness Scale

I read the other day about a study published in the Perspectives on Psychological Sciences journal. No, I hadn’t heard of it, either, but it sounds very important. And it must be since I was reading about it in TIME magazine. And TIME doesn’t report on unimportant stuff, so I’m assuming this is a very important study. It was on happiness. A bunch of experts asked a bunch of people a bunch of questions about life satisfaction and income, then ranked the whole bunch on what was termed a happiness scale.

And they apparently found there was a correlation between happiness and success. The higher you ranked, the more money you made. The article didn’t editorialize on whether this implies happiness leads to success or success leads to happiness or indicate if the experts who conducted this study had drawn any conclusions. Maybe its just a vicous circle. The kind of circle you’d like to join.

But apparently the correlation falls apart if you reach the very tippy-top-top of the scale. If you consider yourself blissfully happy, Number Ten Happy, your life satisfaction completely, well, satisfied, then, weirdly, it seems it’s likely you don’t make as much money, have as much stuff, or have GPAs quite as high as those who fall into slots Number Eight and Nine.

I got excited. Isn’t this proof that money doesn’t buy happiness? In which case, I have a shot to become very, very, very.... very happy.

But when I read on, I became confused. Experts think, therefore, that there may be an advantage to being slightly dissatisfied. Experts posit this means that the slightly dissatisffied try harder. They’re more likely to change a career. A major. Their hairstyle. Which means they’ll probably get a bigger house, have TiVo, and a Harvard degree.

Advantage, advantage... I pondered that word. Pondered the article. Pondered the perspective. Pondered changing my hairstyle. And after all that pondering, I could only conclude that this very important study missed something very, very important.

Ponder it.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Grab the Gusto

I announced I was moving to Texas. Now I’m announcing I’m not.

Dagnabbit.

I’m not sure if that word originated in Texas or Arkansas or Oklahoma, but the three syllables and hard consonants make that a gusto word. One of those words you can fill with feeling and really roll out there.

So, dag-nab-it.

Not that I’m feeling all that horrible about staying, either. There were, and are, lots of reasons to go and lots of reasons to stay put. So, how’d I decide? I didn’t. My child’s future-vocation decision—-which involves colleges and tuition and programs and a nice girl in English—-did it for me. So, here I stay for the foreseeable future.

I wrote something recently about, “When in doubt; wait.” I took the advice. And the decision was made without my having to make it.

And now there’s another. Should I stay put in this house or go smaller; buy a cute bungalow with a big front porch and a good spot for a bird feeder and a shower wider than the measurement from one of my elbows to the other when they’re positioned to wash my hair?

This decision is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish that has to do with interest rates and housing markets and how many steps it is from my car to the kitchen with an armful of groceries, and that’s all wrapped up in another choice involving career directions and income and trailers in Texas and... well, the only thing it doesn’t involve is fish, so I’m not sure why I brought them up.

On Friday at lunch, a wise, very wise, friend of mine told me I needed to “embrace the wait.” That instead of acting like cats trapped in a burlap bag, I should relax... look at this time as a suspension from decisions... a space where I can be free from doing.

Another friend called today, and when I told her of my Friday-friend’s advice, she said my Friday-friend was wise, very wise. And that while her advice may seem obvious, all of us need to hear it at some time or another because “embracing the wait” is precisely what we believe we aren’t allowed to do. But she couldn’t tell me why any of this would involve cats, so I’m not sure why my Friday-friend brought them up.

Still, you might want to give her recommendation a try. Today, if you face a decision and don’t know which way to go, embrace the wait.

I know. It's not in my nature, either. But, seems to me waiting eventually leads to a serendipitous confluence of circumstances.

Serendipitous confluence of circumstances. Now, there’s a phrase with gusto.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Unmet Expectations

I had a lesson in expectations the other day.

A friend of mine, let’s call her Hildy, lost a good friend of hers recently. Hildy and I don’t live in the same town, or even the same state, and Hildy and I don’t even see each other that often, so I’m not even sure you’d call us friends as much as friends of a friend. And it was that friend who’d died.

But I really felt for Hildy. She’s older—

Which reminds me. When you get to a certain age, suddenly everyone older than you is older. Nobody is just plain old. Even if they’re 127 and counting. Have you noticed that? I thought so.

Anyway, I knew Hildy had lost a sibling this past year, and another good friend, and that her only son lives forty-five minutes away, and she wasn’t overly fond of her daughter-in-law. Not that she’d ever said a word, mind you; it was just something in the way she’d spit whenever her name came up.

So I pictured Hildy dragging herself up each morning, switching on the TV (assuming she had one), and settling on the couch (assuming she had one of those, too) where she’d doze off and on all day, forgetting to eat.

So, I determined to call Hildy twice a month. I even marked it on my calendar. I felt pretty good about myself after I did that. But, you know, every time Hildy’s name turned up, I was squeezed for time. So I’d push Hildy’s name off onto another day... then another week... and...

Drag your feet enough, and you can procrastinate something right into next year. You know what I mean? I thought so. But I can go you one better. I am entirely capable of procrastinating Hildy clear into a future when I’d look at my calendar and say, “Who the hell’s Hildy?”

I’m self-enlightened enough to know why I was doing this. I missed that friend, too, but I was handling it okay, and I knew Hildy wasn’t. I knew we’d have a weepy conversation—-well, she'd weep, and I'd bravely hold back my tears. She’d do a lot of why-me’s, and I’d do a lot of there-there’s, and eventually I’d invite her to move into my guestroom.

But last night, I had my work done, my house clean, my car washed, my clothes washed, my hair washed, my bills paid, and I remembered Hildy. And after I’d alphabetized my spice rack which didn’t take as long as I’d hoped—-I mean, thought—-I ended up with nothing I needed to do for the next hour except watch American Idol. Have you seen that? I thought so.

But, feeling saintly, I called Hildy, instead.
“How are you?” I asked with those inflections that say you really care about the answer.
“Who is this again?”
“Jerri.”
“Oh, Jerri. I’m fine. I just got—”
Are you? Are you really fine, Hildy?”
“Yes, I'm fine. I just got back from the Shop ‘n Go.”
Good. she was eating. Feeling relieved, I settled into a more comfortable position on my couch. I was in for a dull conversation, but at least it didn’t sound like she’d need to live in my guest room.
“Clementine oranges,” I confided. “On sale for 68 cents a pound at my Shop ‘n Go.”
“Oranges? Oh. No, no. Not Shop ‘n Go... Mexico.”
I laughed, asked her to give me a moment. I turned up the volume on my cordless, put it back to my ear. “How funny. I thought you said Mexico.”
“I did. A friend of mine owns a villa in Cabo. Right on the beach. Real marble floors. Even a pool man.”
“Pool man.”
“A real hunk. Skilled.” Hildy giggled. “If you know what I mean. What have you been up to?”
I thought of my completed work, clean house, clean car, clean clothes, clean hair, paid bills, and alphabetized spice rack. “I’m sorry, I just realized the time. It’s almost nine.”
She misunderstood. “I won’t go to bed for hours yet.”
“No, it’s me. I... A favorite show of mine’s about to come on. American Idol. Ever watched it?”
“Don’t think I have.”

I thought not.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Gone With the... what was that?

My good friend, Libby Sternberg....

...normally I don’t name names, so if you’re a friend of mine, besides Libby, that is, or, another friend, Karen Brichoux, don’t hesitate to share with me as I won’t publicly announce your name here, but Libby and Karen are also authors, so they have public names and this is a favor I’m doing for them, you see, a plug for their very good books: look under Libby Sternberg or Elizabeth Malin, or, of course, Karen Brichoux...

Anyway, my friend, Libby Sternberg, wrote me the other day about the roller-coaster track her thoughts have traveled lately. (Karen’s don’t do that, largely because Karen is not yet fully estrogen-deprived.)

And I told her (Libby, that is) that her paranoid, schizophrenic, anxiety-laden, neurosis syndrome, occasionally accompanied by bouts of mild depression, or PSZALNSOABBD, as we of a menopausal age refer to it, is, in fact, fairly common. I notice it whenever I try to intuit the outcomes of writing vs. a bi-monthly paycheck, moving to TX vs. staying put, or cutting my hair vs. leaving it long.

The other day, I decided that the best possible advice I could take was from my daily meditation book, Courage to Change (which I obviously do not have in great abundance, so I will keep reading it). The February 6 entry was lengthy, thought-provoking, and basically boiled down to, “If in doubt, wait.”

I shared this with Libby. She said it sounded closely akin to the strategy plan she was following: the SOH plan, SOH, of course, standing for Scarlett O’Hara, the heroine created by Margaret Mitchell. Ms. Mitchell is no longer with us, but you should sometime take a look at her book, too.

If you already have, you probably remember Scarlett’s famous words, don’t you?

No, no, no... not that one about as God is her witness, she’ll never be hungry again. Although, I'll say that's not a bad one at all. It's one I’ve taken to heart, along with that one about Rhett—-or was it Ashley?—-preferring a girl with a healthy appetite. And somewhere between those two, I remember Mammy fretting. “It ain’t fittin’, it just ain’t fittin.” Which is precisely what I think when I pull on my jeans in the morning.

I’m also not talking about that quote I just know you thought I was talking about, so don’t deny it. Not, I’ll think about that tomorrow. After all... tomorrow is another day.

I’m talking about that other famous quote:

Fiddle-dee-dee.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Right Between The Eyes

I haven’t written for a while because I started thinking I needed to have something BIG to say first. But I’ve changed my mind. We’ll talk about something small. Well, small to you. I had an epiphany last night. It wasn’t the lightning bolt of epiphanies, but it was a big deal to me.

After I’d bemoaned the difficulty I’m having deciding among some choices that have recently opened before me, like moving to the Texas gulf now or moving later (oh, the horror of it all!), a friend emailed an offhand remark:

“Gee,” she said, “how exciting.”

I gave that a second’s consideration, then replied:

Huh.

And decided I really needed to find a friend with more tender sensibilities.

Then, last night, I was at this support-group thingy and someone read from one of those daily-meditate-on-this books. I don’t remember which book and I don’t remember the entire passage and I don’t even remember the central thrust of the writing. But one of the lines—-something I do remember that the author thought was not A Good Thing—-was: “I viewed my life as a tragedy.”

The sentence smacked me up the side of the head. Along with the trace memory of my friend’s emailed remark, it made me look harder at the perspective I’ve developed in the last few years. For two of those years, life handed me some pretty nasty stuff. Tragic stuff. So, I, naturally, understandably, and even forgiveably, viewed my life as a tragedy. But for the last year, life’s pendulum, as it’s wont to do, has swung back.

But I’ve stayed stuck in the old mindset. I--once an eternal, infernal optimist--I am stunned to discover I’ve become a glass-half-empty person.

So last night I decided—-and this morning I reaffirmed—-to be more aware of all I have to be grateful for. I firmly believe that f I focus on, and consciously make the effort to appreciate, what I already have, then the answers I want will arrive with greater ease. And hopefully with more gentleness than a smack on the head.

Thursday, January 31, 2008

Double the Pleasure

I was speculating with a friend last night about meeting up with an old boyfriend. Note I did not say fantasizing. I hate to admit I’m this shallow, but, I said, if an old boyfriend connected with me on the internet, and invited me for coffee, my response would likely be somewhere in the realm of, “I’m free the second week of March. In 2009.” Because, of course, that would give me time to lose fifty pounds and get my thermage treatment.

Not that I get thermage treatments. Not that I even know what one is, but I saw a sign about it at the dermatologist’s last week. Where I’d gone for an ingrown neck hair. Don’t you hate that?

But, I said to my friend, if he absolutely insisted on a meeting within this lifetime, then I’d be forced to say, “Here’s how you recognize me...”
“But,” my friend interrupted. “Wouldn’t he recognize you? You were married to him for four years.”
“In my twenties,” I replied. “Trust me.”
In my twenties. When I thought I was fat. Fat. I was one-hundred-twenty pounds or, taken in today’s context, about the size of my left thigh. Don’t you hate that?

So, she said, “Continue.”
“Here’s what I’d say. I’d say, ‘Just remember me as I was at twenty-five...’”
I waited for her laughter to subside. She waved a hand. “Sorry. Continue.”
“I’d say, ‘Just remember me as I was at twenty-five. Then multiply me by two.’”

Makes sense. I’m double the chin folds, double the bra size, double the hair length (to hide the chin folds), double the wrinkles, double (make that double-double-double) the gray hair, and double the weight. (Okay, that last is an exaggerration. Even here, amongst friends, I don’t want you picturing me the size of a, well, doublewide, when I’m only half the size of a fifth-wheel.)

“You forgot something,” my friend said.
And, just as I was turning over in my mind the true meaning of the word friend, she said, “You’re double the wisdom.”

She’s right. There’s a reason why each boyfriend from my past became an old boyfriend, and each experience left me a little older, maybe a little sadder for a while, but definitely a whole lot wiser...

Don’t you love that?

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Caramelicious Lattes and Dementia: A Research Study

This is an age where I have odd things haunt me in the middle of the night. Big things. Big, nasty things. Like, will I get osteoporosis? What if I lose all my money and end up in a tent down by the river? How can I bear it if my son marries someone I loathe? Will I eventually develop dementia? Do I have anything in the freezer for dinner?

I never used to worry about this kind of thing. Okay, maybe sometimes I’d spend a little time fretting over that freezer thing, largely because it’s hard to figure out what will take less than ten minutes to fix and my son would get tired of peanut butter, banana, and crushed potato-chip sandwiches. (Hey, don’t scoff till you’ve tried one.) But the rest of it seemed a long dreamscape away.

Not anymore.

So, last night, I perked up when I read about a recent dementia study. It seems researchers in France have concluded that women who drink 300 milligrams or more of caffeine each day are 33 percent more likely to retain their ability to remember words, and 18 percent less likely to lose their nonverbal memory than those who drank less. I’m not sure what nonverbal memory is, but it sounds like something I want to keep.

Hot dog. Finally, I can claim that a $4 Caramelicious Latte from Scooters is a health drink. But before I could be entirely reassured, I needed to figure out how many milligrams of caffeine was in one cup of coffee or one Diet Coke or one Caramelicious Latte from Scooters. Damn French. Once upon a third grade, I’d memorized that pesky metric system. Remember doing that? Everyone thought it was the coming thing, but it never arrived. If you don’t remember it, it’s because you’re too young or haven’t been drinking enough coffee.

I finally figured it out, though, after converting milligrams to the... cup... system. (And into pony kegs for you Texans.) And, I can now confidently tell you that the average cup of coffee has about 100 milligrams of caffeine. A pony keg? It has a lot more. And a Caramelicious Latte from Scooters? Does it matter?

Now, that may seem reassuring—-you can retain the ability to remember words for as long as you live merely by downing only three cups of coffee a day. Except, I’m here to tell you that I drink plenty more coffee than that, and I forget words all the time. Maybe they mean only some words.

If that's the case, I hope four of mine are Caramelicious Latte from Scooters. Then I won't mind that tent by the river.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

The Quest for Self-Knowledge or More Thoughts on Hardie-Plank

I like to know stuff. Bring up something arcane (Hardie-Plank, anyone?), and the next time you see me, I’ll have googled the life out of it. If I know something lies around the next corner (Hardie-Plank, anyone?), I want to know something about that something.

I’ve always put this tendency down to healthy curiosity, a keen interest in life, a ravenous desire to acquire knowledge just for knowledge’s sake. And isn't that just oh-so-cool (or hot or sick or wicked or sweet—I recently looked up teen jargon)? But this quirk of mine has a dark side.

I’ve read fourteen-gazillion-million self-help books, give or take a few. Whenever a problem, a challenge, a new stage, or a seminal event (I’m talking Really Seminal here: marriage, birth, death, divorce, and unexplained weight gain) crops up in my life, I turn to research. Right now, my bedside table holds:

THE LANGUAGE OF LETTING GO (Hazelden)
THE GRIEF CLUB, Melodie Beattie
EAT, PRAY, LOVE, Elizabeth Gilbert
THE SEVEN SPIRITUAL LAWS OF SUCCESS, Deepak Chopra
WOMEN’S BODIES, WOMEN’S WISDOM, Christiane Northrup
TRAVELING MERCIES, SOME THOUGHTS ON FAITH Anne LaMott
OPENING OUR HEARTS, TRANSFORMING OUR LOSSES Al-Anon Family Groups
EACH DAY A NEW BEGINNING (Hazelden)
CODEPENDENT NO MORE, Melodie Beattie
THE POWER OF NOW, Eckhart Tolle
LEAP! Sara Davidson
And, the BIBLE, among others.

It’s a big bedside table.

They’re all there because I either haven’t finished them...

(For whatever reason, I reserve what I call my “spiritual reading” for bedtime reading only. Bedtime reading may consist of only thirty-four-point-oh-eight seconds before I’m snoring. Also, I rarely read an entire book before starting another; which means I’m reading all of these at once.)

Anyway, as I said, they’re either there because I haven’t finished them, or because I have, and I've appreciated their wisdom, and I like having them where I can readily poke through them again.

A perusing of the titles at my bedside gives you a snapshot of the challenges my life holds at any particular moment. Admirable of me, don’t you think, to want to face my problems head on? Well, it is, kind of. I try not to keep my head in the sand. I aim for self-awareness, even though I often fall woefully short.

But the sheer number of titles indicates the dark side of my self-knowledge quest. It indicates my tendency to think that if I just know enough, I’ll be in control... if I just read enough, I’ll know all the outcomes. Laughable, of course. Nobody can ever know what lies around the next corner.

And is that really so bad? As my exasperated sister said the last time I verged on an anxiety attack (right after she said, “Will you just stop it already?!”), knowing everything might just take all the fun out of life.

So, I suppose I could lighten up on my reading. But, sometime, ask me about Hardie-Plank.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

I’ve been spending my spare time online, looking at real estate in Rockport, TX. Yes, that’d be spare time... that thing you have a lot of when your hormones insist that the two minutes between 12:45 and 12:47 at night are more than adequate for your sleep cycle to do its thing.

Anyway, looking at real estate in Rockport, TX usually points up how much I do not know about this place where I’ve chosen to move. For example, around my neck of the woods, you’d highlight “Thermal Windows!” and “Basement!” There, the ads tout “Hurricane Shutters!” and “HardiePlank!”

HardiePlank? Thank God for Google. By the way, that’s har-d-i-e, not hardi- or hardy- for those of you who actually live in Texas but have advertised it incorrectly because you probably have better things to do at three in the morning than look it up.

If you did, though, you’d discover it’s named HardiePlank because James Hardie invented it. Frankly, I was so fascinated by his great luck in having a name that lent itself so well to the product he created, I almost missed the little fact that people-who-should-know claim this fiber-cement siding offers great protection against termites, rot, and water damage.

But I didn’t miss it. And, of course, that set me to wondering (in Texas, you don’t just wonder, you get set to wonder) how big a problem they have with these things. If I’d thought about it much before, which I hadn’t, I probably could have figured out that in a place where I can landscape my yard with the tropical plants I currently have in pots in my house, moisture might be a problem, and it's likely they grow termites the size of Cadillacs, termites that consider a four-by-four a light snack.

Which then sets me wondering about the size of other bugs indigenous to the region, given that, unlike my Midwestern clime, there’s no freeze snap to kill ‘em dead. (That's right... not just kill ‘em, kill ‘em dead. You're catching on.) Which is pretty much how I prefer my bugs.

Guess that’s something I can Google tonight.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

Buy the Blue Duck

I have one of those garden windows over my kitchen sink; it provides a nest for a trio of wooden ducks. You’ve seen them before: Target? Smith & Hawken? Anyway, last June in Rockport, my sister and I were strolling along a row of shops when I spotted a blue wooden duck in a window. At the time, my trio was only a pair: I had a tall orange duck, and a short green duck. The blue duck was of middling size, and given that my kitchen included orange, sage, and blue, and, in the duck category, so to speak, blue was the missing link—again, so to speak—well, you get the idea.

Except the duck cost thirty dollars. Now, people are oft-possessed of the idea that published writers are rolling in loot, but when you think of me, think more along the lines of rolling in pocket lint. Thirty dollars isn’t a huge chunk, but it’s a chunk. (Not to mention, I come from a long line of practical Swedes. My mother would not have approved.)

But my sister nudged me into it. “Sometimes,” she said. “You have to buy the blue duck.”

So I did. And I love it. And if that thirty dollars caused a squeeze somewhere else, I didn’t notice.

My sister is right. Life’s short. Buy the blue duck.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

A God Thought

I don't want to scare you off by talking about God, but I have one, so occasionally I might bring Him up. Like today. Because it's struck me lately how often I get what I pray for.

But a lot of times, I don't recognize it right away. For one thing, it never happens in one fell swoop, like, God: "Alrighty, then! Here's your million, sweetums. Enjoy." Or in an organized manner. I mean, it was my idea to earn my living through self-employment, but I had in mind via one very sizeable book advance--or, better yet, a blockbuster movie deal--not by juggling 1.1 gazillion freelance endeavors. (I'm currently praying for a bigger calendar upon which to notate my deadlines.) Nor does the answer to my prayers ever look quite the way I'd envisioned it... Me: "Um, scuse me? God? When I asked for a stretch of R&R, I forgot to mention I didn't want to spend it in a hospital."

I write books, right? Well, the way God continually closes doors and opens windows in resopnse to my choices and requests strikes me as similar to my writing process. Until I'm all done, it looks like one big mess. Yet, each chapter eventually comes together. If I'm patient.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Hero's Journey or Midlife Crisis?

As I’ve mentioned, life has snipped a lot of strings that tied my life together in the last couple of years. After a near-year of contemplating my navel, er, life, I’ve taken a deep breath and decided to step out on faith. Or rather, two-step to Texas.

I live in a Midwestern city. I’ve always—except for ten years spent, first, in the cocoon of campus life and then, in a job in that same university town—lived in this Midwestern city. In fact, for most of the time, despite a population of over 2 million, I’ve lived in a neighborhood less than a mile from the one where I grew up. After my divorce, I moved on. Only three miles on.

And now I want to jump a state to Texas? Actually, make that two states. I’ll count Texas as well, since the place where I want to live there is just shy of an oil rig on the Gulf of Mexico: Rockport.

Anyone heard of Rockport? It’s about forty minutes north of Corpus Christi, on Aransas Bay. It’s a funky, part working-class, part snowbird-class, part upscale, part downtown, part shrimp-boat, part yacht club kind of a place. (You can see pix at www.cityofrockport.com - choose “Rockport Beach” from the menu; there are slide shows at the bottom of the page.)

I can’t decide if I’m launched on a hero’s journey or immersed in a midlife crisis.

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Why here? Why now?

So, let’s get this party started!

Nah, the title I’ve given this blog doesn’t refer to menopause – or not just to menopause, although that might be a topic sometimes, but I thought if I referenced that Big Change somewhere upfront, it might be a clue that this blog is intended for women of a certain... a certain, special... age. Or for women approaching midlife who want to get a handle on what’s coming up. Yowza! Or are leaving midlife and are willing to share the wisdom of their experience. Please.

Maybe you’ve stumbled upon this blog by accident (instead of being driven there by the whips I’ve employed on some of my friends). If so, I’ll start by introducing myself. I’m Jerri Corgiat. I’m of that certain age. I have one son, now 18, and I’m now glad I let him live that long although there was a recent time when it was tempting not to. I’m divorced (almost two years now—although I still refer to him as my husband intead of my ex-husband; when does that stop?). And, until last year, I (with my sister’s help) managed the care of our aging parents.

I mention these things as, for the most part, they constitute my credentials for this topic. I’m sure you have similar.

I’m also a writer, a published one. As such, I have a web site and I issue a newsletter. And these things I mention because that’s where this all got started.

When the career-going got tough in the last year, I got... I got to whining a lot. I whined to my friends, to my family, and, not wanting to spare anyone, to the people who subscribed to my newsletters. I whined about how much I’d been through. I whined about how hard it was to keep a stiff upper lip. I whined some more about how much I’d been through...

And then one day I realized I’m not all that special. Yes, a lot has happened—there’s been a lot of change. I’ll spare the details for now, as I don’t want this blog to get bogged down in the wailing and gnashing of teeth—at least, what teeth I have left. Suffice it to say (I love that phrase—kind of rolls off the tongue), in the past few years, I’ve seen a lot of change. I no longer fill a daughter’s role or a wife’s. My mother role has shifted as my son has graduated. He still lives at home, but I’ve relinquished control. (You know. Control. That thing we fool ourselves into thinking we have.) I’ve also moved from a home I loved into one I still only just kind of like, and am—as writers like to put it since it sounds much more gentle than hosed—between contracts. I’ve also started a new part-time job as a writing instructor. Another change.

Some of these changes have contributed to—probably escalated—all those other changes that also come along right about now, like...

The physical:
Hello? When did I start getting the hint of a jowl line that one day will look like my Uncle LeRoy’s?.

The mental:
Where, exactly, was my mind at when I hung up my car keys in the freezer?

And the emotional:
My God, I’m pretty certain I now have the mortuary’s phone number memorized...

(Okay, okay. Maybe too much dark humor, but sometimes that’s the best I—and probably you—can do. Better than no humor at all.)

So, yes, lots of change, but the only thing special about what’s happened in my life is that it all landed at once. Along with the trauma and... let’s call it what it is: near-psychosis... that gives rise to. As a friend of mine once put it—and I think she was just contemplating the rush-hour traffic at the time, not the fact that she had one kid leaving for London and the other for the wilds of Montana after nineteen years of fixing their dinner: “I’m either depressed... or homicidal.”

Of course, you’ve been there. So I asked the subscribers to my newsletter if they wanted to discuss it a little. And many of them said yes. So here we all are. I’ll post a little; you post a little. We’ll celebrate together and moan together and weep together and share what’s helped get us through. And what hasn’t.

In short, let’s party.