For the last few days, I’ve been really angry at my son. When texting came into vogue—a time I remember quite well because he had a girlfriend who discovered it and realized she could contact him anywhere, even in middle school class, and proceeded to do so, oh, not more than every forty seconds, sixteen hours a day, a fact I discovered when I got the cell-phone bill—my son realized if he played things right he may never have to listen to my voice ever again.
That’s working for him.
I’ve learned my calls to him will only make it as far as Voice Mail or, as he terms it, I-must-have-pressed-the-wrong-button-and-deleted-it. Our conversations are text bites. Me: WILL U B HOME 2NITE? And him: SEND $$ 2DAY. Me: ?LOW BATT? Which is my equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ears and saying, “La la la la la.”
Sometimes I can’t rouse him to even answer a text, though, and that makes me so friggin’ mad because it’s impossible to reduce “How can you be so disrespectful after all I’ve done for you, ESPECIALLY knowing I’m wondering if you’re laying dead in a ditch somewhere. This is serious. I mean, really serious. Please at least give me the courtesy of a yes or no. I need to know RIGHT THIS MINUTE if I should set the table for three people or two” to only a handful of words.
So the last few days, I couldn’t rouse him. Which made me really angry.
He finally landed at home long enough for me to actually confront him face-to-face, an occasion when I realized that he’s a foot taller than me and has whiskers.
After checking ID, I berated him for not answering my texts—not the ones I’d sent earlier that day, nor the ones from the day before, and, come to think of it, not the ones from last week, either. He asked if I’d programmed in the new cell phone number he’d sent me and deleted his old one.
Oh.
No.
Kind of reminded me of a time not long ago when I thought a friend’s lack of response to a note I’d sent her meant she had decided she no longer wanted to be my friend, probably because I’d forgotten her birthday, but that was to be understood, wasn’t it, because it wasn’t like she’d remembered mine six months before that, and before that, I’d invited her to Christmas dinner, and she hadn’t even responded till a few days before, which was probably because she’d never forgiven me for calling her Chubs when we were in high school. Then I found out her mother had died, and she was at the funeral.
Hmph. She hadn’t mentioned that on Facebook.
Maybe I should keep the storytelling to my books and out of real life. And remember real life doesn’t show up on my smart phone.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Appleseeds
Lance is my husband; I don’t think I’ve introduced him before. I acquired him in early fall--one of the best choices of my life--and tomorrow, almost exactly six months to the day later, we sign some papers and acquire a new house.
You know the drill--along with the excitement and the sense of adventure comes a ginormous amount of work, money changing hands, and fear. And that was just the lead-up to the marriage. Ta-rum-pum.
I joke. But I’m not really joking.
I’ve got a real thing about change. I always want to take life by the shoulders and shake it to a halt so I can breathe easy for a while. At the same time, I also believe Go For It! would make a nice addition to the Ten Commandments. (I mean no offense. Don’t write.) I know great things can happen if I suck it up, have some faith, and just leap.
And this is a leap. To a more rural area than I’ve lived before. To a house that will require a lot of sweat equity. To a different county.
Okay, so Lance has lived in other parts of the world, and what is the big deal, anyway? And it’s not like I’ve never moved. I’ve moved around the state. The eastern part of the state. Mostly the northeastern part that doesn’t extend more than forty miles outside my metro area. I am now three miles from where I grew up, and a different county is a big deal. Capisce?
As some of you already know, Lance is interested in apple trees. (Hang in there, this is going someplace.) For Christmas, I gave him a couple of books on growing apples. One of the things we looked for in a new house was a bit of land where he could plant at least two trees (at least two are needed for cross-pollination).
The current owners of our new house, Dr. & Mrs. B, have already retired to Texas but are in town this week. Yesterday, Lance was at the new house to meet with a fence guy (we have a big dog), and happened to meet Dr. B. Dr. B once had a dental practice. After he retired, he turned author and published six books in the young adult genre. He’d heard of me, knew I’d published five books in the romance genre. Wild.
Dr. B showed Lance around the yard, which was, he said, once populated with more trees than are there now (and there are plenty there now). In fact, he and Mrs. B. loved trees so much, it’s the reason the house’s design is all elbows and knees--they didn’t want to cut any down.
I love these people.
Dr. B pointed out a pecan tree. “It doesn’t yield many pecans, and what it does, the squirrels get.”
And he showed Lance a pear tree. “There are always lots of pears. The squirrels get most of those, too.”
They walked a little further.
“A giant oak fell there in a storm.” Dr. B indicated a clearing between some big oaks still standing sentry.
When we'd first looked at the house, Lance had told me he could plant the trees that he wanted. I liked the idea; I'd see them from our kitchen window.
“When it fell," Dr. B continued, "It took out the two apple trees I'd planted there.”
I don’t feel fearful about this move anymore. In fact, along with my new husband, I know it's one of the best choices of my life.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Finding Balance
If anyone can figure out the whole hormone replacement therapy thing, clue me in, would you? It has something to do with finding the right balance between estrogen and testosterone.
Which is all fine, except it’s so darned experimental. Apparently, if we take too much estrogen, we’ll grow a third foot or, possibly, a polyp or two. I hate the word polyp. It just sounds so… polyp-y.
On the other hand, if we take too much testosterone, we end up with too much free testosterone, which, I’m assuming, is much worse than, I dunno, incarcerated testosterone. Maybe jails are exploding with the stuff, and, in the current economic climate, the last thing we want to do is spend our tax dollars on rounding up testosterone to throw behind bars. Our tax dollars are much better spent on bankers and corporate officers who don’t have the sense not to order a $40 million private jet with public money.
Which I think says something meaningful about testosterone, but I haven’t figured out what that is.
Back to HRT. I’ve learned enough to know that testosterone levels need to stay up in order to support a good libido. Now, there’s a word for you. Much, much better than polyp. Libido sounds fun. Think hullabaloo and whoopee and oh, baby, oh, baby, oh. See what I mean?
But give yourself too much of a good thing and you end up growing, not another foot, or even a polyp, but something much uglier: A two-inch black hair that sprouts on your cheek just in front of your right ear.
Oh, c’mon. Quit ewww-ing. If you’re female and over 45, you’ve had one of those. It’s the one that you miss, even with a superb magnifying mirror, bright make-up lights, and a pair of tweezers that could pick up Jell-O. But you don’t miss it forever. No, when you’re out with the man of your dreams, and a breeze blows, you discover it because it tickles your cheek. Then, no matter how hard and unobtrusively you try to wrap it around your index finger and yank—-and unobtrusively is hard under these circumstances—-it Won’t. Come. Out.
Of course, this leaves your cheek red, illuminating your one big character defect. You know, that one that indicates you haven’t found the right balance.
Which is all fine, except it’s so darned experimental. Apparently, if we take too much estrogen, we’ll grow a third foot or, possibly, a polyp or two. I hate the word polyp. It just sounds so… polyp-y.
On the other hand, if we take too much testosterone, we end up with too much free testosterone, which, I’m assuming, is much worse than, I dunno, incarcerated testosterone. Maybe jails are exploding with the stuff, and, in the current economic climate, the last thing we want to do is spend our tax dollars on rounding up testosterone to throw behind bars. Our tax dollars are much better spent on bankers and corporate officers who don’t have the sense not to order a $40 million private jet with public money.
Which I think says something meaningful about testosterone, but I haven’t figured out what that is.
Back to HRT. I’ve learned enough to know that testosterone levels need to stay up in order to support a good libido. Now, there’s a word for you. Much, much better than polyp. Libido sounds fun. Think hullabaloo and whoopee and oh, baby, oh, baby, oh. See what I mean?
But give yourself too much of a good thing and you end up growing, not another foot, or even a polyp, but something much uglier: A two-inch black hair that sprouts on your cheek just in front of your right ear.
Oh, c’mon. Quit ewww-ing. If you’re female and over 45, you’ve had one of those. It’s the one that you miss, even with a superb magnifying mirror, bright make-up lights, and a pair of tweezers that could pick up Jell-O. But you don’t miss it forever. No, when you’re out with the man of your dreams, and a breeze blows, you discover it because it tickles your cheek. Then, no matter how hard and unobtrusively you try to wrap it around your index finger and yank—-and unobtrusively is hard under these circumstances—-it Won’t. Come. Out.
Of course, this leaves your cheek red, illuminating your one big character defect. You know, that one that indicates you haven’t found the right balance.
Monday, February 8, 2010
What goes around...
We’re selling a house and buying a house and along with all that comes chimney inspections. Ours is in need of repair. It shouldn’t be, because the previous homeowner said he’d fixed what was wrong when I bought the house four years ago. He hadn’t.
This fixing of chimneys is a tricky business because it’s not only very expensive, you can’t really see what you’re getting. It’s a matter of trust and faith. I have a lot of faith. But I also tend to put my trust into hands that I shouldn’t.
Mea culpa.
And shame on him.
During the time I’ve lived here, I’ve continued to get mail for the former owner. Some of it has looked really official and serious, but, having no forwarding address, I sent it back to the post office.
The other day, the same day I found out about the chimney, the postman handed me a document that required a signature. I started to sign, then realized it was meant for the former owner. I was happy to hand it back. This particular missive looked really, really official and really, really serious, and I was glad I was dealing with chimney repairs and not the IRS agent who’d sent it.
I’ve heard the IRS can be very, very expensive, much more than the repairs on a chimney. My trust may have been misplaced, but my faith remains intact.
This fixing of chimneys is a tricky business because it’s not only very expensive, you can’t really see what you’re getting. It’s a matter of trust and faith. I have a lot of faith. But I also tend to put my trust into hands that I shouldn’t.
Mea culpa.
And shame on him.
During the time I’ve lived here, I’ve continued to get mail for the former owner. Some of it has looked really official and serious, but, having no forwarding address, I sent it back to the post office.
The other day, the same day I found out about the chimney, the postman handed me a document that required a signature. I started to sign, then realized it was meant for the former owner. I was happy to hand it back. This particular missive looked really, really official and really, really serious, and I was glad I was dealing with chimney repairs and not the IRS agent who’d sent it.
I’ve heard the IRS can be very, very expensive, much more than the repairs on a chimney. My trust may have been misplaced, but my faith remains intact.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Cat Behaving Badly
I love my cat, I really do. Recently, she learned that what the dog can do, she can, too. Namely, use the double-doored hole in the garage wall to get out of the house. We don’t necessarily want her to be outside the house, but in the interests of keeping the dog happy, who was, after all, here first (as she likes to remind us), we can’t close that door.
So my cat, whom I love, I really do, has now turned from plump fireside kitty into sleek and mighty feline warrior. She spends her nights, or at least parts thereof, terrorizing small animals.
How do I know this?
Because she likes to bring them, or parts of them, inside. Like the dead chipmunk I stumbled over in the kitchen doorway. Or, my personal favorite, the bird’s head deposited next to my closet. I have a feeling the rest of said bird could be somewhere inside, but because it’s touch-and-go whether anyone who enters my closet, even on a good day and without the possibility of a dead bird, or parts of it, buried under the pile of shoes in the corner, will ever emerge again, I haven’t gone in to look.
I love my cat, I really do.
She illustrates something I need to remember. That everyone sometimes behaves badly. No, wait; I’ve phrased that wrong. I mean, sometimes people behave in a way I don’t like. Sometimes, they just behave according to their nature. Sometimes, they do something that has consequences they didn’t expect or intend. Usually, it’s nothing personal, nothing intended to harm me or hurt my feelings or ruin my day or even make me walk into my closet.
And how do I know that? Because I do it, too.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Just a slight pause...
... in case you haven't noticed, and you probably haven't, I stopped blogging over a year ago. Almost two years ago. You see, I write about my everyday life. And my everyday life suddenly got romantic back in July of 08. It culminated this past September in getting married. While I love sharing my thoughts with you, this was a pretty personal deal, and since my thoughts didn't seem to wander too far from this pretty personal deal, I stopped blogging.
Clear as mud? Thought so.
If you're still checking every once in a while, keep doing so, as I plan to get rolling on this blog-thing again.
Clear as mud? Thought so.
If you're still checking every once in a while, keep doing so, as I plan to get rolling on this blog-thing again.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
...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.
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.
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