The Truth Revealed

Maybe I exaggerated a teensy bit, but I do estimate that you couldn’t get a brush all the way through my hair for almost a decade. It was clean and everything, and the Rat’s Nest was usually hidden from view (especially for things like my Romper Room debut), but it lurked there mainly because no one in my family could withstand the blood-curdling screams emitted during attempts at Rat’s Nest removal. And cutting was out of the question. I was proud of the fact that I could sit on my hair.
Am pretty sure the candy striper who finally removed it, whose name really was something like Debbi, was a sadist-in-training who was eventually hired by a lesser known dictator to extract military secrets from prisoners of war.

I did learn to juggle in my late thirties. Not well, but to me it fulfilled enough of a lifelong dream just to learn to keep three balls in the air at once. Now if only I could do that figuratively....

I thought you’d think I’m too much of a “Carol” to have partied with Grace. This was not her heyday, by the way, and I was young enough—and she was sedate enough—that at the time I didn’t fully appreciate who she was.

When I picked the lie that I did, I forgot to consider that some of you might think it was impolite even to suggest that I can’t sing. I've had a long time to reconcile myself to it. My non-singing is so legendary that I giggled guiltily even typing such a whopper.

When my oldest was a newborn, I decided I would sing him to sleep just like those nice TV moms. I mean, how could he have any taste about the quality of my singing voice? Tabula rasa, right? So I took that swaddled baby and I rocked with him in the rocking chair and softly sang “Desperado,” because besides my horrible voice, I can never remember words to songs—except that one. And it didn’t sound too bad, if I do say so myself.

Even more amazing, it worked. He fell asleep in my arms. I was so proud! And then I noticed under the blanket…yes, I promise this really is true…his tiny fists were mashed firmly against his ears.

Plus I later read that newborns often respond to horrible noises by falling asleep.

As they grew, darned if those little “blank slates” didn’t moan, “NOOOO! Mom, STOP SINGING!!!” if I sang around them. Except during renditions of “Happy Birthday to You,” when they only snickered.

Do not overrate what you have received, nor envy others. He who envies others does not obtain peace of mind. ~Buddha

Just When You Think It’s Safe to Blog About Boogers….

You win two awards! Hooray!! In the order received, thank you so much to Linda O'Connell of Write from the Heart, good friend and inspirational writer who truly does write—and live—from the heart. Linda ever so tactfully emailed me about the booger post; did I mind having my work showcased…now? I told her the truth: my writing has been as blocked as my sinuses lately. That’s okay…I think maybe this is helping to jolt me out of it! And I think I'm supposed to post a picture of myself blogging, so here goes, but I couldn't clean my desk without compromising crucial Post-It note placement, so I didn't.

And thank you to Jules of Trying to Get Over the Rainbow, whose posts always seem to touch me deeply whether they are funny, serious, or—amazingly enough—both at once. In her case, I understand that I am supposed to tell you four truths and one lie. See if you can guess the lie:

1. I once partied with Grace Slick.

2. People have always told me I should be a singer.

3. I was on a show called Romper Room when I was four. The teacher had a mike around her neck with a long cord, and I remember tripping on it and choking her a little bit and almost pulling her over. At the end of the show, she had that Magic Mirror thing she’d look through and say, “I see Johnny, and I see Beth, and I see….” And I squinted and stared and searched, and she couldn’t see anyone. She was lying! I was horrified.

4. I didn’t grow hair until I was about three. Once I finally got hair, though, no one touched it. Maybe they were afraid it would fall out again if they messed with it any. So my hair just sat there, unbrushed, and grew longer and longer. A knot formed at the nape of the neck that became legendary in my family as “The Rat’s Nest.” As the hair grew longer, the rat’s nest grew bigger.

My sister called it “circus woman hair.” I was enormously flattered. I thought circus women were the most beautiful creatures in the world, and in fact aspired to be The Lady Who Dangles from Her Hair. She had this big, boofy hair, and they attached something to it and hoisted her up and spun her around in her sparkly costume like a human disco ball. It was the coolest thing in the whole world.

I figure The Rat’s Nest existed from age three until I was hospitalized for pneumonia at age ten and an ambitious candy striper insisted on combing it out. In addition to the agony I went through, what she extracted from my head resembled a small poodle and looked big enough for a whole family of rats. My hair was half its size when she got done. I figured there went my career.

5. I learned to juggle as part of a midlife crisis and still have a bit of a circus fixation.

And now, I pass these awards along to:

Valthevictorian at Unbagging the Cats.  I’m so proud that my nose-picking post inspired deeper analysis. And her Toenail Rug made me laugh so hard, my whole screen shook because I forgot to take my hand off the mouse. And the malcontent story….

Ella over at Ella’s Edge is a mother, poet, artist, and probably lots more I haven’t discovered yet...but I'm looking forward to reading more.

Sioux of Sioux's Page is either a kindred spirit or maybe that's just wishful thinking, but I always get a refreshing laugh at her clever, fun posts.

There were more I wanted, but I currently can't see anyone's followers including my own, and it's very frustrating that this has happened on top of not being able to see a lot of pictures.  If anyone knows what the deal is, please let me know! 

I hate, hate, hate being left out. Whether it’s not being picked for a team or being picked for a team and then showing up and realizing that the team doesn’t exist or that the sport doesn’t exist. I should have known…poop ball. ~Michael Scott, “The Office”

Improper Poll: Multiple Pick Jackpot

I dearly love the frank honesty of a friend of mine (who shall remain nameless, but whose birthday is today—HAPPY BIRTHDAY). We were discussing nose piercings, and she commented that she would never want a nose stud because it would impede nose picking. I agreed that would be a hazard. In fact, I’d worry that the inner apparatus would actually trap boogers, thereby necessitating further pickage.

I think I have the wrong look for a nose piercing, anyway. When my daughter was in middle school, one of her friends told me I look like my name should be Carol. I was shocked. No offense to Carols—it’s better than looking like a Tammy, mind you (because of course Tammys wear frosty blue eye shadow and tend to burn down the trailer court when they throw flaming frying pans at their common-law husbands)—but still. A Carol? The horror—she was right. And a nose ring just wouldn’t go on a Carol. If I had even halfway-good abs, though, I’d definitely get a navel piercing.

So today’s Improper Poll question is a multiple, and you get to pick (ha, get it?!) one or more to answer:

Would you get your nose pierced?
If your nose is pierced, is picking difficult for you?
If you had to have one piercing other than the ears, what would you pick and why?

Book Blurb Friday

First...oofdah, what a week! I hope to have time to blog about it later, but for now, please know that I can't wait to get back into blogland and check out all I missed this week.

And now I'm excited to try a new meme begun by Lisa Ricard Claro of Writing in the Buff. Every Thursday evening she'll post a photo of a pretend book cover. In 150 words or less, we are to write a blurb that should go on the back of the book. Then we link from/to her site.

I thought I would play with this too long, but when she posted the photo (below), I wrote up something right away and giggled my way through it. Thanks, Lisa!

~The Deadly Sins~

Envie Prideland was a sixteen-year-old shoplifter who was tired of living in the poor part of town…until she accidentally stole the diary of snooty classmate Sinclair Greedly.

The secret that Envie discovered about Sinclair and her charming surfer boyfriend, Luston Slothby, would not only cause her to rethink her kleptomania and her struggles with poverty, it would leave Envie struggling to save the life of the unfortunate new girl in town, Gluttoni Angership.

This must-have young adult novel…will steal your heart.

(81 words.)

And welcome to new blog follower Ella of Ella's Edge!  I'm so flattered you stopped by and decided to come back!

“I used to be fun, but I had to give all that up. You can’t have two fun parents. You know that kid, Liam, who wears pajama pants to school and pays for things with hundred dollar bills? Two fun parents. Mark my words.” ~Claire in “Modern Family”

Improper Poll: Breakfast of Non-champions

I am sort of known for eating rather unusual things for breakfast. Except during pregnancy, that is, when I actually craved normal breakfast foods at normal breakfast times. So the other day I was sitting at my computer eating Chipotle flavored cashews for breakfast, and it occurred to me that perhaps this might seem odd to a normal person. Am I the only one? What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten for breakfast?

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #17

Mellow Dude
I met Mellow Dude at a Valentine party called the Red and Black Party. If you felt optimistic about love, you were supposed to wear red. If not…well, you get it. My sweater was red and black. Mellow Dude drifted along the shore of the sea of red and black sweaters wearing…a blue, beach-style, summer shirt. “Gets hot dancing,” he later told me.

The party was held at a wild casino bar. The music was hard rock and loud. People either went home early or wandered off to gamble. I looked around, and the only person left was Mellow Dude. He didn’t ask me to dance so much as he cocked his head at the dance floor and shrugged. I shrugged back. What the hey.

Hours and hours later, we closed down the place with a reluctant, sweat-soaked farewell to the band. My feet would ache for days, but it was worth it. During the breaks, Mellow had told me a little about himself. Doesn’t drink much. Never danced in his life until he discovered recently that it’s a nice form of exercise. Likes dogs. Is close to his children. Likes reading books on spirituality. He shrugged again. It fascinates him. Go figure. He didn’t talk too much. Asked a few questions—but not so many that it was prying—and listened to the answers.

Hard to pinpoint, this Mellow Dude. Not a hippie. Not an aging surfer. Not really rural. Not urban. But he didn’t seem controlling, needy, dramatic, insecure, patronizing, or immature. On the dance floor, he wasn’t a swooper, a flailer, a showoff-er, a pretend dance instructor, a St. Vitus Dancer, a bowl-people-over-er, a spin-you-like-a-topper, or a cop-a-feeler. Just smiled dreamily and danced. Not a bad thing, this mellowness. In fact, it was a little like relaxing on a beach after you’ve been through a hurricane.

The next day, I got a better look at the sweater I’d been wearing. And I discovered in the light of day that it wasn’t red and black, after all. It was really red and navy.

Improper Poll: Along for the Ride

Since I'm officially tired of "Stuff," I’ve decided to start a new thing called Improper Poll.  Improper Poll is just an informal poll, usually about goofy things that have happened. Each week you will be invited to respond to a new topic with a short story or comment of your own. The only thing truly improper about Improper Poll, however, will be the silliness.

It'll be on Sundays. There won’t be a quote.

So here’s the first one. It comes from an incident that happened to me the other day when I discovered at work that I’d been walking around all day with a dryer sheet bunched up in my sleeve. I’m sorry to say this was not remotely the first time it’s happened, either. In fact, I have had the dryer sheet fall out of my pants leg in front of entire classes of teenagers, an event which I figure probably boosts my coolness quotient about a bagillion points to these young people, who probably can’t wait to be middle-aged themselves because I already make it look so cool.

Anyway. That got me thinking about a friend who once told me she often went all sorts of places after work, including swimming, so she used to keep entire changes of clothing in the trunk of her car. She told me she went to a party after swimming once, and a pair of panties fell out of the leg of her jumpsuit in front of everyone.

So today’s Improper Poll question for you is: Have you ever found something bunched up in your clothing?

Happy Sunday and have a great week!

Love Song: the Next Stanza

I was so deeply touched by what you all said about the Love of My Life!! Some of you thought I should go try to get back in touch with him. He’s married, and obviously to someone with a heck of a lot more sense than I have.

If he ever finds himself single, he’ll contact me. Or, in the words of Princess Buttercup, “My Wesley will come for me.” But I won’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen. And frankly, I’m still plenty happy if it doesn’t.

The day after Valentine’s Day I picked up the book I’m reading, Eat Pray Love. Today’s quote is what I really, truly did read. I just can’t add a thing, except that I was so uplifted by all of your good, warm wishes for my true love and happiness. May your kindness come back to you a hundredfold.

People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that’s holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with your soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. ~Richard from Texas, as quoted by Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat Pray Love

The Love Song

If the soul truly has a mate, he was mine. It was clear from the beginning that he was Yogi to my uncertain consciousness, guide to a restless spirit. He surfaced and resurfaced several times through the years, but always I was about to embark on a new phase. Bad timing, I told myself. Bad, bad timing.

He even wrote me a song, sung in his deep and honeyed voice, a going-away gift. I treasured that song and put it away for safekeeping, but at some point over the years I forgot where it was.

One of the things that summed him up best was his response when a beautiful, renowned boyfriend-stealer threw herself at him right in front of me. That was the first time I took a step back and realized with a small shock that he was physically lovely as well. Virtually every other guy I know would have flirted back at the very least, but he was cool to her and a little disgusted. When she finally backed off and left, I fished. Didn’t he think she was pretty?

He was careful. He hesitated, felt for the right words. He finally said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think she’s pretty on the inside.”

Goodness, how I loved him then, and forever, in a way that didn’t end when I married someone else. I will forever think of him not just as someone I loved, but as one of the people I admire most in the world. And now I admire him even more because I’ve lived enough to realize how rare he really was.

Some people continue to uplift and inspire us, as I said in another post, and some comfort us. He did both. Does both. When I look back, I realize it wasn’t that the timing was wrong. I wasn’t ready. And I can’t regret. Knowing that people like him exist in the world is enough. Having known him at all is enough.

The other day I was looking for some paperwork for a project, and there was the song, just in time for Valentines Day. This time the timing was perfect; it sings to me again after all these years. But then again, love that comes from the soul is timeless.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is love. ~Sophocles

Stuff from Around My House: The Love Notes

My daughter went through a stage where she made little love notes for me. I knew that stage wouldn’t last forever, so I saved every one and stuck them up all over my office. One day my (then) teen-aged son asked me why I cherished those weird little scraps of paper so much. I told him those weird little scraps remind me that I am loved, and there is no better gift than that. He told me I should just know that I am loved.

What followed was a lecture on What Women Want that I hope he found at least as instructive as all that biology stuff. And I got one love note from my son. It was hurriedly scrawled on a scrap of paper, but still—to this day, it remains carefully taped to my printer with the others.

 He once asked me when I plan to get rid of my love notes. I said, “Get rid of them?” When they eventually disintegrate, I will laminate them. Yep, I’m a dork. But I am a LOVED dork.

And P.S. Welcome to Val Thevictorian!  Val, do you have a blog?  If so, I couldn't find it.  Thanks for becoming a follower!

Do I only have two pictures total now?!  Arg!  This is so frustrating!

Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth. ~Kahlil Gibran

A Story of Young Love

He was my first husband.

We married on the church steps. My friend Chris was the minister. He kissed me—on the lips—and everyone giggled, including me. He gave me a ring that turned my finger green. I gave him a lock of my hair.

He was the new kid in a school that rarely got new kids. He was tall and handsome and exotic.

One day his mother came to school. She was statuesque and graceful, like a dancer. She picked him up and he left. I never saw him again.

I grieved. Anger is a part of grief, so I angrily buried the ring in my backyard. He hadn’t even said goodbye. Later, when I had moved on to the acceptance stage, I tried to dig it up again. I couldn’t find it. So I grieved over that, too. Honestly, I sort of still do.

And now, as an adult and a mother, I have to wonder what made his mother leave so quickly. And I grieve now for her...maybe most of all.

Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle in their journey.

Thank God and them for the opportunity to walk this leg of their journey with them.~Anonymous

Totally Random Tuesday: Life

Sometimes life is a violin and sometimes a fiddle, and sometimes both at once…but it’s all beautiful music.

Stuff Around My House: Pet Memorial

I had no idea what to write about today since I was going to make sure everything had a love theme until Valentine’s Day. And then, as usual, I was inspired by reading your blog posts.

First, Linda O’Connell  posted about the various dogs she’s loved in life. It reminded me about my Pet Memorial. I got the idea from my mother, who used to have a shelf in her bedroom with little figurines representing all of the dogs she had loved. In many cases, the figurines had been painted to look just like the pets themselves. She even affixed some masking tape to their undersides where she’d lovingly written their names and the dates they’d lived. I think one of the paradoxes of today’s society is that it is getting both more necessary and more difficult to cherish and preserve our pets’ memories. So I thought I’d share the idea.

The tough thing is when you’re a fan of mixed breeds like I am. Our lab mix is represented by an oversized Jack Russell that’s painted black, and our female vizsla mix is captured by an obvious male with the docked tail of a weimaraner. Still, when I look at these little statues, I smile.

You may notice there is even a turtle on the upper shelf. That was a gift from my sister, who understands the value of both the pet turtles and the shelf. How I wish someone made little hamsters! (Yes, I know.  I am a terrible nerd.)

Also wanted to welcome my newest follower, Judie of Rogue Artists. Judie, I've become a follower, but I have ceased to show up in people's Followers area and no one seems to be able to tell me why.  In yet another paradox, her blog, with its desert Southwestern header, somehow reminds me of a watering hole, an oasis of art. Be sure to scroll down to look at the paintings. I loved one of her comments so much that I am quoting her. Judie, I hope that’s okay with you! Also hope my little brackets are okay.  I took out just a couple of words in this instance because I thought this lovely statement applies to our beloved pets as well.

I have been sitting here trying to think about [those] whom I remember warmly, and I think that the one thing they all have in common is "selflessness." They never do the right thing to make themselves look better—they do it for…love…. ~Judie of the blog, Rogue Artists

It Keeps on Giving

In honor of Valentine’s Day month, I was going to write about some of the greatest loves of my life. But a blog post inspired by my long-ago friend Marcus turned into a writing frenzy that’s lasted for days…and what I ended up with is not a blog post, but something that feels necessary and complete and much too dear to my heart to send into the world just now. Not sure what I’ll do with it yet, but right now I can honestly say I’ve enjoyed being snowed in for the past few days! Okay, except for the shoveling and pushing my daughter’s car out of a snow bank (thanks to the help of a kind stranger), that is....

Why is it that with some people we’re left feeling bleak and drained, and with others, even their memory is forever uplifting and inspiring? And what is it that inspires you?

May you find yourself surrounded by warmth—warm people, warm surroundings, warm memories, warm hearts.

Friendship is a sheltering tree. ~Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Stuff Around My Desk

A friend of mine who is writing a book mentioned a while back that she was going to have her picture taken at her desk. I think that is so cool. To be photographed, smiling, clutching a cup of coffee over a spotless desk…! This would be completely staged b.s. in my case.

One of the reasons I refuse to get Scype is because I don’t want anyone to know what I look like when I sit at my desk. Or what my desk looks like whether I am there or not. I was going to take a picture to show you what I mean, but it's too awful, even for me.  So here is one of the various things I have taped up around me besides about two dozen post-its.  I've always loved how Dave Barry made fun of "English Major's Brain,"  which I have, big time. 

And welcome to my newest follower, Kim Sloggett! Kim, thank you so much for becoming a follower. If you have a blog, please let me know!

Don't you wish you had a job like mine? All you have to do is think up a certain number of words! Plus, you can repeat words! And they don't even have to be true! ~Dave Barry

Pierced by the Thread

A while back my blog friend Jules wrote a post titled “Who Sees the Common Thread?”  about how upset she and her mother were after the shootings in Arizona. Though they viewed the tragedy from slightly different perspectives, Jules and her mother were both moved to tears by putting themselves in place of some of the people more directly affected by the crime. I was deeply touched by the empathetic responses that Jules recounted. Appropriately enough, guess what someone who doesn’t have empathy or conscience is called? According to Martha Stout, PhD and author of The Sociopath Next Door, this is all a sociopath is.

Sounds like almost a small thing, doesn’t it? Like a minor flaw. But without empathy, people not only can’t judge good and evil, they don’t care. Without conscience, people’s evil has no “brakes” and careens out of control, wantonly destroying whatever is in its path, no matter how undeserving. Sociopaths care only about getting caught. They ironically see themselves as superior to normal people, see others as objects to be manipulated—and are proud of their ability to con, trick, deceive and lie. They attack good people not merely in spite of their goodness, but because of it; kindness to the sociopath is only vulnerability, one more trait to exploit. They cling, need and use, but they don’t love. They seem blissfully ignorant of ways they’ve hurt others. When caught in the act, they lie with surprising alacrity. They are the victim; the person who accused them is the cruel one to say such things! Yet when they think honey will catch the particular flies they happen to be after at the moment, their personalities are more honeyed than any you’ve ever known. As Stout says in the book, “…charm…is a primary characteristic of sociopathy.”

Although many criminals must be sociopaths in order to commit the crimes they do, not all sociopaths are criminals.  In fact, most are not—simply because they can be so talented at avoiding justice. According to Stout, four out of every one hundred people is a sociopath. One out of twenty-five. One in every average-sized classroom. How can that be? The more covert sociopaths are extraordinarily good at keeping themselves hidden. They “mirror,” or imitate, good people—not because they want to be like them, but to do what they do best: take advantage in order to manipulate. Though you may not know it, there is a very good chance that you know not one, but several. As Stout says in the book, “…by far his most impressive talent is his ability to conceal from nearly everyone the true emptiness of his heart—and to command the passive silence of those few who do know.”

Jules and her mother responded to a very obvious kind of sociopath by exhibiting the opposite response—showing empathy. That struck me as so perfect. Jules says we cannot comprehend evil, nor should we try. Maybe we can’t know what that hideously cold lack of empathy or conscience is like, but when we directly experience seemingly random attacks, don’t we automatically ask why? Don’t we have to?

Jules mentions in a later post that it’s hard to feel so much, hard to feel other people’s pain. Yes. But it’s rewarding, too. As Stout says, “…the awareness provided by extreme conscience improves people’s lives and makes them happy.” Sociopaths, with their furious, terrified need to control, aren’t able to enjoy the truly good things in life that the rest of us automatically embrace.

Her words reminded me of something I recently read in M. Scott Peck’s People of the Lie that I’ll use as today’s quote. And thank you again for being so inspirational…and for shifting the balance of power in the world.

I know that good people can deliberately allow themselves to be pierced by the evil of others—to be broken thereby yet somehow not broken—to even be killed in some sense and yet still survive and not succumb. Whenever this happens there is a slight shift in the balance of power in the world. ~M. Scott Peck, M.D., People of the Lie

Invisible Awards Are Fun, Too

Many Many thanks to Jules for the above blog award! At least I THINK that’s the award! Some time ago, I quit being able to see some pictures on blogs—whether my own or those of others. (I also can’t seem to join other people’s sites as a follower. Help!) Anyway, I can’t tell if there was a picture attached to the award, but I suspect that there is because there’s a blank spot on the page. So I got this one from Yvonne of Welcome to My World of Poetry, who originally gave the award to Jules and looks like another great blog to check out.

Jules has a knack for deep, inspirational stories…with endings that are anything but expected.

I think this award is a great thing to pass along to my newest follower, Lynn of Present Letters. Lynn’s letters to her mother are touching, inspiring, and sometimes simply fun.

Also to Sioux of Sioux’s Page. Sioux once used the phrase, “fierce spirit” on one of my blog comments, and that’s become one of my favorite phrases ever. Sioux is herself a fierce spirit who never fails to make me laugh, cry, think or nod in agreement.

And finally, to Becky, great friend and writer, who inspires me as both...even though my stupid computer won't even show me most of her blog page.  SIGH....

Jules coincidentally posted something last week that really inspired me, but I’ve decided to save it for another post since this one is already so long. But I will end with a quote of hers that I just loved, and I hope she will tell me right away if she doesn’t want me quoting her!  (And P.S.  We are having yet another snow day here.  You know you've had too many when even your kid acts disappointed.)

"The truth is I write when the voices in my head tell me to and no, they do not have indoor voices." ~Jules

LOTS of Snow Stuff Around My House…and a Surprise

What’s black and white and red in one flitting little spot? My backyard with this cardinal in it.

Like everything else, photography is something I’m learning to appreciate as I attempt to try it.  Each time I find out the truth behind all of the arts:  it's a lot harder than it looks to capture what the soul feels. I didn't even come close with this guy, who stood out like a flying ornament in the ten + inches of snow we got in my area.

And right now we are getting more snow. As I age, I’m learning to appreciate ALL of the seasons, but some are harder than others. This little bird is a happy reminder for me—a bright spot. 

When you have come to the edge of all the light you have

And step into the darkness of the unknown

Believe that one of the two will happen to you

Either you’ll find something solid to stand on
Or you'll be taught how to fly! ~Richard Bach

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Dating…Then vs. Now

Then: Do I look okay?
Now: Would my picture appear on “People of WalMart?”

Then: Does this make my rear end look big?
Now: Good thing I don’t have to look at myself from behind!

Then: Does my hair look perfect?
Now: Uh oh—the back of my hair looks awful. Good thing I don’t have to look at myself from behind! Also, does the skunk stripe from where the gray is growing back in look too obvious?

Then: Uh oh, my clothes are wrinkled! I’d better iron!
Now: Uh oh, my clothes are wrinkled! Maybe people will think that either, A.) the wrinkles appeared in my car on the way over, or B.) this is a crinkled fabric that’s supposed to look like this.

Then: Is my outfit brand new and perfectly coordinated?
Now: Will a little spit get the toothpaste blobs out of the outfit that I’ve worn all day? Because I don’t want to have to do more laundry than I have to.

Then: Ooh, he’s really cute!
Now: Ooh, he sounds sane!

Totally Random Tuesday: Departures

First of all, thank you so much to Jules for the blog award! Even before the award, Jules recounted on her blog an experience she had that I found so inspirational that it may become a blog post. So I will pass along the award later in the week—and double thank you to Jules!!

Speaking of inspirational…. Your kind and wonderful comments about my last post made me realize that this slow, bittersweet send-off we go through when our children go off to college or move out is really nothing new. When I thought about it, I realized that for mothers, child-rearing IS a very prolonged departure. It’s a series of separations—from body, from breast, from arms, from hands…eventually from home. That’s okay, though. As Pat said, it’s an exchange like almost everything in life. In this case, we lose a little of them, but we get a little of ourselves back again—changed, reworked, molded, reshaped, softened in ways, better defined in others.

In this process of living, I like to think that we are left more nearly…art.

Silly Stuff From Around My House: The Lone Egg

When she was little, the smiley faces began appearing in the condensation on my car window. When they started appearing on dusty furniture, I told her that her new chore could be dusting. So the faces started appearing on her plate instead. She knew I couldn’t tell her not to eat, the imp.

Now she is almost ready for college, and this is what appeared in my refrigerator the other day. “Why?” I asked.

“He was lonely,” she shrugged.

Gracious, I will miss her.

The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves. ~Victor Hugo

Why I Love My Day Job

Overheard in the teacher’s lounge:
Teacher 1: “Remember the kid who glued his hand to the table, and I had to call a custodian to get a solvent that would get him unstuck?”
Teacher 2: “Remember the one who ate off the tops of several pencils, and I had to send him to the nurse to make sure he hadn’t perforated his intestines?”
Teacher 3: “Remember the one who stuffed a gum wrapper in his ear and finally had to be sent home to get it removed?”
(Collective sigh from all of them, followed by a few moments of contemplative silence.)
Teacher 1: “Hard to believe this is high school.”

Totally Random Tuesday Again: Truth

Thank you to Sioux and Anonymous for some great comments a couple of weeks ago about my hiker friend. They inspired today’s random thought about people who are good at seeking out truth…and those who aren’t.

I’ve learned that people are too good to allow obvious evil to survive in the open. We are, however, notoriously easy to fool. Evil therefore relies on fools because it needs deception in order to survive. It is by nature a coward and a mimic and a sneak, but it isn’t content simply to slink off into dark alleys and crevices. Instead, evil revels in its favorite form of deception: camouflage. And it doesn’t dress itself as an old crone with warts, either—evil polishes its own façade and loves to drape itself in beauty. It loves cameras and spotlights, grinning with perfect white teeth and grabbing hold with a warm, firm handshake. Worst of all, perhaps—it doesn’t shrink from good, but cloaks itself in it like a chameleon. In fact, it gravitates toward decency, seeks it out, searches for a collar that looks just like all the other collars and a robe that looks just like all the other robes. Evil is at its most dangerous not when it dives in and slaughters an innocent lamb, but when it hides under the fleece so that it can quietly devour the whole flock while everyone scratches their heads and wonders what the hell is going on.

I’m learning that there will always be those who search for truth, those who work hard to cover it up, and those who really don’t care. And the most dangerous of those could very well be the last group. Although the second is the purest evil, it’s the foolish who allow evil to flourish by—perhaps unwittingly—becoming its minions.

Stuff From Around My Backyard: Lazarus Frog

I’ve mentioned before that my little pond is much too small to over-winter fish on its own, but this year I decided to buy a heater and net and give it a go. So far the fish seem fine, but the frogs are another story.

I once looked up the term for a group of frogs. “Army.” This year we ended up with an army of two. Then one frog apparently fled when the net went on. I made sure to cover the overhanging rock so that they could find their way in by going under the ledge, but that obstacle course was a challenge for them. Apparently only one of them passed froggy boot camp and learned to take the less direct route. That was only the beginning of the battles for this little army of one.

Then on a warmish winter day, I saw this (left). I was so upset! What had caused the little guy to croak? The fish looked fine. I consulted the internet, which assured me that belly-up is just never a good sign in the animal kingdom. I turned to my friend Fran for “Franalysis.” She is a master gardener and my consultant for all things nature-oriented. We both agreed he had pretty good color for a dead frog. She told me to delay scooping the body to see what happened. Good advice.

Long story shorter: I’ve taken to doing almost daily Frog Checks. The “body” disappeared, reappeared on the other side of the pond, and disappeared again. There is no current in there. Then on New Year’s Eve day (which was very warm here), I saw the following sight.

 I’m sorry if this is a boring post to the non-nature lovers among you, but I feel obligated to share with the world my completely non-scientific discovery that apparently frogs CAN hibernate belly up. And anyway…I don’t think it hurts to start the new year with a tiny miracle of sorts.

Good luck Lazarus! You’re one tough little soldier.

There’s a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive. ~Miracle Max, “The Princess Bride”

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #16

The Cowboy
We’d met once about a year earlier, so we hugged warmly. Old friends in singles group world. We were eating at a restaurant where the fare was a bit tricky. My buddy—a somewhat solicitous man—asked me if I’d like some help with it. I asked him about something he was eating. Here, he said, try some. I couldn’t eat my potatoes; did he want them? We exchanged. Later, a friend asked me something about my date. Date? I assured her that I barely knew the guy. But it made me realize how easily I’d fallen into that old-married-couple interaction with this man. Odd how emotionally attracted I am to that calm, masculine energy, that ruggedness, yang to my yin. A cowboy quality.

I was reared in Nebraska. Reared in the city, but still, a part of me knew this man, knew that he knew horses and dust and how to cup a cigarette in callused fingers, flicking the ash like a small gunshot. I knew he could mend a fence and casually lean on it as he pulled the hat down to shade his squinting eyes. I could feel without touching the dryness of his hands and the stubble on his chin.

And he sensed, in turn, that I have learned to sniff the air around people, easy to spook. He knew to move smoothly, self-assuredly, not too suddenly, so I don’t bolt. He quickly had me—a separate species, really—eating out of his hand.

But helpful very quickly seemed to turn…patronizing. Is there a time in life when condescension is ever truly appropriate? I can’t think of one. Even my father was never patronizing, bless him, as the truly great never are. Those little digs cut like spurs.

Snort. Gallop.

Stuff from Around My House: OVER-Stuff

As I’ve mentioned before, our beloved lab mix, Buddy, turned 14 last April. Of course he is the resident spoiled child who gets more excited about Christmas than anyone in our family, but like most elderly loved ones, it’s hard to know what gifts to get him. His digestive system can’t take a lot of variety as far as treats are concerned, and his toys are everywhere. So I’ve taken to giving him beds. To keep the whole thing cushiony enough for his aging frame, I got into the habit of just stacking the beds from year to year. At the very top, I throw a rug over the whole thing to make it easier to wash.

Last year Santa tried giving him those little stairs to help him climb into human beds. The only traffic the stairs saw was from people trying to lure him up with dog biscuits. Buddy learned that the stairs were really weird dog biscuit dispensers.

This year Santa outdid himself with the reasoning that we could streamline the dog’s giant pile of bedding. The box pretentiously declared it the “Dogpedic Sleep System,” constructed of five inches of supportive, orthopedic memory foam. It was the biggest gift under the tree. The human members of the family, at least, were very impressed. After a ceremonious unwrapping (during which the gift recipient himself paid absolutely no attention, distracted as he was with eating and then yakking up a gift tag), we all took turns curling up on The Dogpedic, unanimously pronouncing it more comfortable than our own beds.

Buddy was less than impressed, however. His old bed sags in the middle. In human world this might be a bad thing, but in dog world, I see now that this was actually the goal. That work-in-progress has literally shaped itself into a custom made nest.

The fancy-schmancy Dogpedic Sleep System? After much trial and error, it simply got added to the bottom of the stack, just like every other year. My daughter recently surveyed the whole conglomeration, which is well over a foot tall, and pronounced it “The Princess and the Pea” bed. Yes. That’s it all right, even though I actually pitched two of the nastier layers. It’s hard to see, but the Dogpedic is the lowermost of four beds. So here is Princess-Pea-in-the-Pod himself…perched atop (or should I say, “within?”) the official Budpedic Sleep System.

Snug as a Bud in a Rug.

What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other. ~George Eliot

Not Your Father’s Grandma

I have to admit that aging is made easier for me thanks to my heroes. My heroes are those women I run into everyday who are amazing, dynamic, fun human beings in addition to being older women. I just recently met two of them.

While Christmas shopping, I stood behind one of them in the long, long bathroom line at the department store. She looked a little like a jeans-clad Auntie Em. “I say we storm the men’s room,” she announced, elbowing me conspiratorially. “We can do it if there are several of us. Are you in?”

I laughed and nodded, but this was before I realized she was serious. “It’s not like I’ve never done that before,” she laughed. Well, me either, frankly. But I found out men get very upset when women go into their bathrooms, even though all of those stalls just sit there while we needlessly suffer. Go figure! But besides that, men’s rooms creep me out a little. That foreign wall décor is just icky….

My almost-partner-in-crime, Auntie Em, was a little miffed with me when she found out I was a wimp. That’s okay. She was still my hero just for thinking about it.

Then there was the woman I talked to at my hiking group. She had to be close to twenty years older than I am. In town visiting her mother, she said. The mother was in her nineties. The daughter, the hiking one, is a therapist, she told me. Still working, of course.

When she started asking questions about me and I told her I was divorced, she turned to study me for the first time. Her eyes took my breath away for a second. My mother’s eyes. Fierce eyes. Fiercely sharp and fiercely good, all at the same time. She pronounced me a “courageous woman” in a way that made me feel frightened and moved and oddly transparent. I like to believe that sometimes God sends people to deliver the messages we most need to hear. Courageous woman. I secretly carry these words like a totem, a gift from a wise Earth Mother, hug them close to my soul.

She told me about her various groups. Biking is over, she lamented, as is kayaking. And swimming of course. So she hikes. That was when I realized she had been slowing her pace to stay behind enough to talk to me, because I was starting to get a bit winded on the hills.

I know who I want to be like…when I don’t grow up.  Happy New Year!

That is what you love a friend for: the ability to change your angle of vision, bring back your best self when you feel worst, remind you of your strengths when you feel weak. ~Erica Jong

Snow Stuff

Jules asked about some of our favorite Christmas memories. The one that immediately came to my mind was lying with my head under the Christmas tree every year and looking up at the blinking lights while “Silent Night” played on the music box that my grandfather made.

That inside view of my Christmas tree was going to be today’s show and tell, but the picture just didn’t do justice to the experience. No matter. We had the first white Christmas in ages yesterday—a lacy, lazy, Christmas card snow. This picture doesn't capture it, either, but I finally decided that nothing really could. Favorite Christmas memories? Yesterday, for one. Hope you are enjoying this magical last week of the year.

Genius is childhood recaptured. ~Bauldelaire

Christmas Memories: The Gifts We Give Ourselves

Some of my favorites:

My son, aged three, excitedly pointing to a nativity scene: “Wook! The Baby Cheese-It!!!

Riding through a Christmas light display with the children when one of them gasped with reverent wonder, “OOOH! It’s the Taco Bell sign!!!”

My children, trying to recite the names of Santa’s reindeer: “…and Comet and Cupid and Cancer and Dander….”

When I was a kid, the thing that made me wonder about Santa was the oranges. Santa used to leave a big old orange in the toe of our stockings. Worse, none of my friends got oranges. I was a late-in-life baby, and I think this tradition came from having much older parents than those of my friends. No one (except possibly my dad) ever ate the stupid orange—it just went right back into the fruit bowl. But the worst thing was that our fruit bowl in the kitchen was always filled with oranges, except on Christmas morning. On Christmas morning, that bowl was conspicuously emptied. That was when I figured it out. Not only was Santa sort of cheap for wasting valuable stocking space on worthless oranges, HE HADN’T EVEN BROUGHT HIS OWN ORANGES! HE’D JUST USED OURS!

Have a very merry Christmas, and make some wonderful memories!!!

At Christmas play and make good cheer,

For Christmas comes but once a year. ~Thomas Tusser

Silly Stuff: Have a Super Christmas

 Years ago someone gave us a gorgeous collection of four ornaments that spelled out the word, “NOEL.” But when the “L” fell, it shattered beyond anything that glue could accomplish. So some years we spell “ONE,” and others, “EON.” Sort of like Christmas Tree Scrabble.

After lamenting the fate of the “Christmas EON,” my daughter created this treasure. It is a super ball covered in foil candy wrappers and plastic wrap. Her reasoning, of course, was that Christmas ornaments should be shatter-proof. Heck, they should bounce if they fall!

I like to think that someday, many years from now, someone will unwrap this objéct de Christmas art and exclaim, “What the heck is this thing?!” Christmas is about symbolism, and to me this heirloom beautifully illustrates both my daughter’s practical and creative sides. Every year I hang it front and center. I like to think it is the true Christmas Eon.

Conversation with my daughter when she was in third grade:

Daughter: I signed up for the school’s Hanuka pageant!

Me: Wow—that’s great! Why did you decide to do that?

Daughter: Aren’t we Jewish? 

(This is only funny if you realize that we’re not. She was baptized Catholic thanks to her dad. I think she got confused because I used to have an interest in world religions and tend to be an over-explainer. When she'd asked me about our religion, I'd waxed on about how Christianity came from Judaism, yadda yadda, when the poor kid had only wanted a name she could recite to people, like “Methodist.”    Oh, and belated happy Hanuka…and joyous NOE .)

Unexpected Holiday

My daughter and I sat and watched the names of school closings scroll along the bottom of the news show, holding our breath as the alphabet neared our district. We compared stories. The rain was freezing on everything, encapsulating it in sparkling ice. When she went out to cover her car, she slid the whole way. When I wheeled the garbage to the curb, I skated.

Around us, the Christmas lights twinkled. It took two weeks, but they’re up. The dog wound his way between us, cat like, asking to be scratched, looking hopefully at his stocking. Although he checks his stocking daily, he’s learned in his 14½ years that it isn’t Christmas until we gather. He was clearly wondering: did this make it a holiday?

And it did, in a way. Odd, to me, that the times I remember most fondly through the years often have to do with bad weather, because it forced us to stop and come together, united against the elements. One of my favorites was the time the thunderstorm took out our power. My middle school- and grade school-aged children were torn from their lights and electronics, and we all gathered in the dark and comforted the dog and laughed even louder than the thunder.

We were lucky, of course. Lucky that the roof was okay, that the ice hadn’t knocked out power, that we were warm and comfortable in our home. That our district announced its closing the night before. That we had another unexpected holiday, the best kind.

“[Miss Maudie’s sunhat] was suspended in a thin layer of ice, like a fly in amber….” ~Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird. (I’ve used that one before, but it seems too fitting to pass up.)

Friendship doubles our joy and divides our grief. ~Cicero

Book Signing

Becky Povich, Teresa Sanders, Linda O'Connell, and me (with Deborah Marshall in back)

Saturday’s book signing was a rousing success. Turnout was great in spite of the rain, and we made it just before the snow moved in. We sold lots of books, collected lots of food for the local pantry, and laughed until our sides hurt. Below is a shot of Vicki’s lovely store, Main Street Books in Old Town Saint Charles (Missouri).  If I could sum it up in a word, that word would be warm. Warm store, warm hearts, warm friendships, warm soup…warm souls. What a great place to be for the holidays!

P.S. I’ve been translated into French!!!  Scroll down to the last story on the left, "Le meilleur chien au monde."

There is an electricity about a friendship relationship. We are both more relaxed and more sensitive, more creative and more reflective, more energetic and more casual, more excited and more serene. It is as though when we come in contact with our friend we enter into a different environment. ~Andrew M. Greeley

Surprise Stuff from Around My House: Decorated Tree for Christmas

Every year, I put my tropical brugmansia tree in the unfinished basement storage room that my kids dubbed “the scary room.” That room is cool and dark enough that the tree goes dormant. We store the Christmas decorations in the same room. So this year, when I went down there to get the Christmas decorations, this was what I found. We’re still working on decorating the “real” tree, which is in fact plastic. Don’t you just love irony?

History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again. ~Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Chicken Soup for the Soul…Christmas for the Spirit

Coming This Saturday, December 11th: “Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body!!!”

Linda O’Connell, Becky Povich, Teresa Sanders and I will be signing books this Saturday from 1:00 to 3:00 pm at Main Street Books for the second year in a row. Last year was such a good time. Be sure to bring a canned good to donate to the local food pantry! A publisher accidentally sent me an extra carton of books that I was told I could keep, so I will also be giving away free books (as long as they last) with a purchase.

It’s worth a trip just to see Main Street St. Charles (Missouri) this time of year. Come out and get into the spirit of Christmas…and of Chicken Soup for the Soul!

We are each of us angels but with one wing. And can only fly by embracing each other. ~Luciano de Crescenzo

Stuff from Around My House: Gone Cold

December was going to be silly-Christmas-decorations-month, but we don’t have our tree up. And if you are one of those people who has all of your holiday shopping done, please, please don’t tell me. I am proud merely that I started mine before December this year.

Soooo…I have a Possessed Coffee Thermos. It clicks, groans, shrieks, hums, and makes such an interesting assortment of noises that it’s really pretty entertaining. Oh, I guess the scientific explanation is that the stainless steel outside broke away from the insulated inside, and the two parts expand and contract differently according to temperature changes. But it’s more fun to think of it as possessed.

Adding to that notion is the fact that it also traps water in between the layers when it’s washed. As I drive to work, the thermos adjusts to the temperature of my car. That means that more often than not, The Possessed Coffee Thermos celebrates my arrival at work by letting out a shriek and relieving itself all over someone’s desk. Or my shoes.

I kept this for a shockingly long time only because it was one of those things that I just kept forgetting to replace. I’ve now retired it.  But I have to admit that I miss its entertainment value sometimes.

Certain flaws are necessary for the whole. It would seem strange if old friends lacked certain quirks. ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Lawnmower Stuff: Ten Steps for Mowing a Lawn, from the Girly Gurus

When my son went to college a few years ago, my daughter and I were left with a lawn that kept growing and an old, unreliable machine that we had no idea how to work. After several years of practice, I’m happy to report that my daughter and I about have our lawn mowing techniques down. And we have had lots of practice since our front lawn is one of those uselessly huge corner-lot things with pointless side yards and lots of wasted space. Usually my daughter is the one who mows, but these days she is so busy that I do have to do it from time to time. This recently happened when I used the mower to mulch leaves. So as I mowed and mulched for hours and hours, I came up with these instructions on how to mow a lawn at my house:

Step 1. Make sure it has gas in there. Gas makes it go.
Step 2. Be prepared. Point it in the direction you want it to go just in case it starts this time.
Step 3. Mess with the little handle thingy until it’s halfway between the bunny symbol and the turtle symbol. This is because we don’t know which one is right. My daughter prefers bunny and then switches to turtle, whereas I tend to favor the halfway point, where I imagine some imaginary freak hybrid animal should live. Like maybe an armadillo.
Step 4. Say the Mower Good Luck Chant, which goes something like, “Please please please turn on!”
Step 5. Think angry thoughts (but not too angry so as to offend the mower) in order to give your arm some oomph, and pull the ripcord a bunch of times while saying the Chant. If it miraculously starts, jump up and down and say the Thank You Chant. Do NOT—this is important—do NOT swear at it or call it names if it won’t start! I have never known the mower to start after swearing has begun.
Step 6. Mow the worst parts first in case it quits halfway through, even though this means you weave in random patterns and create crop circles. The Laws of Mowing clearly state that mowing SOME lawn is better than mowing none at all. If the mower quits and we leave that weird reverse putting green again, the neighbors will at least know we tried, and the really nice ones’ grandson might come over on the riding mower. (So far it’s only happened when my daughter has been mowing in shorts, but you never know.)
Step 7. Do NOT stop the mower for any reason, even if you see sticks in your way, because it may not turn back on. So just close your eyes real tight and run over stuff, and say “Sorry, mower!!” to appease it. Alternately, say, “Ow ow ow”—whichever is required.
Step 8. If the mower does poop out again, repeat all the steps. When you are tempted to swear at the mower, call the Lawn Goddess, the resident teenaged daughter. She will consider a moment, nod, blink sagely, and ask, “Did you say ‘Please?’” You will of course report that you did, three times, at which point she may prescribe adding just a few more “pleases.” Because she has the most technical knowledge in our home, she may also suggest something like “more bunny” or “switch to turtle.” That’s pretty much the extent of our cumulative knowledge.
Step 9. If, by some miracle, you manage to mow the whole thing, put your hands on your hips and survey what you have done. Say to yourself, “I am She-Mower, Conquerer of the Lawn, and I am awesome.” Be sure to repeat the Thank You Chant.
Step 10. The preferred alternative to all of this is, of course, hiring the cute bronzed Lawn Guy with the rocking biceps. Check his progress often by sneaking peaks out the window. Sometimes he takes his shirt off.

Remember, happiness doesn't depend on who you are or what you have; it depends solely on what you think. ~Dale Carnegie

Ten MORE Good Things About Getting Old!

Because there are so many more than ten good things about aging, I originally made one very long list and then split it up. In fact, at some point there may be more....

11. A bad reputation is no longer bad; it’s almost kind of cool. (Not that I have a bad reputation…but I hope to someday.)
12. You get to call people “young man.”
13. You learn that what Jane Austen said over 200 years ago about the importance of character is still true today, because the reason she’s still relevant is that she captured the essentials of human nature so well. You choose better friends and learn who to stay away from.
14. There are better products on the market now, such as teeth whiteners. That means that some body parts can actually improve a bit as you age.
15. I used to walk carefully in public when my shoes were wet to keep them from squeaking. Now I squeak them on purpose (much to the humiliation of my teenaged daughter).
16. My fear priorities are more straight. I am less afraid of what others think of me and more afraid of the things that really can and do kill.
17. Sagging makes me look frowny. People take me more seriously because I scare them a little bit without even trying.
18. You know what to say to people when they have a crisis because you’ve been through it yourself.
19. I may not be able to remember much, but I really can synthesize information better.
20. No need for Blueray or high def TVs—if I want an unusually clear picture, I just put on my glasses.

“…forgetfulness can be a blessing. When I forget what I'm angry about, I figure it must not be important.” ~Donna Volkenant

Thanksgiving Stuff: Thank Like an Egyptian

Is it an Egyptian god of some sort? An asp that got run over in the middle? The Loch Ness monster? Small Viking ship? Nope! Those moms among you probably figured out “turkey platter” right away. If so, you are awesome. Happy Thanksgiving from me and Pharaoh Turkeykhamun.

P.S. Some of my pictures are disappearing! Does anyone know why? They are my photographs, so it can’t be a copyright issue. Also, I have two quotes today because I couldn’t decide:

Conversation overheard at grocery store between a teenaged girl and her mother:

Girl: Mom, I can’t tell whether this is an orange or not.

Mom: That’s a grapefruit.

Girl: (Dropping fruit like it’s burned her) Ewww!

Hank, the day after Thanksgiving is, in my opinion, the biggest shopping day of the year. And I will not spend another year giving Dallas Mavericks crap because the Cowboys stuff was all sold out. ~Peggy Hill, “King of the Hill”

I Am Thankful for Blogger Buds

Thanks so much to Lisa Ricard Claro of Writing in the Buff for awarding me the Beautiful Blogger Award!!! Lisa can zero right into the naked heart of a matter and magically clothe it with heart of her own…using her keen insight, humor, wit, and that charming Southern-lady-graciousness. And congratulations to her for being almost done with her NaNoWriMo word count EARLY. I am so awed, but inspired as well.

I have a hard time passing along awards because there are just too many talented people, but this is a great chance to note my three newest followers! I’m flattered that they’re so diverse.  Welcome Reckless Driver, Domestic Sweetheart, and Avery James Photography!  You are all amazing. 

For memory has painted this perfect day with colors that never fade, and we find at the end of a perfect day the soul of a friend we’ve made. ~Carrie Jacobs-Bond

Ten Good Things About Getting Old

(Accompanied by garden pictures taken in the past couple of weeks.  The top is viburnum carlesii, and the bottom is passiflora 'Incense.')

1. Your face no longer breaks out. Unless you’re me, that is! But I mean if you’re normal, meaning not me, you probably stop getting zits.
2. The fact that you’re coloring the gray gives you an excuse to change your hair color often.
3. You and your hair have cohabited so long you’ve been forced to get along with each other. You’ve worn it poodle-permed and stick-straight. You’ve had almost every hair length, cut, and color that exists, so you know firsthand whether a certain style will make you look like Betty Boop…or poopy-doop. You even know exactly where to put the perm rods, how long to hold the hair in the curling iron, and which products make it look stringy. You have the home number of that perfect stylist who knows, via some sort of divine telepathy, exactly what cut you need even if you aren’t terribly sure yourself. You’ve had years and years to learn exactly how to subdue, control, and manipulate your hair in all kinds of weather. As a result, you have A LOT fewer bad hair days.
4. Young men no longer do favors for you as an excuse to get your phone number. They do favors for you because you look like their mom. Then they say, “You’re welcome, Ma’am” and go on their way.
5. You can be crabby and people sort of expect it.
6. Nobody heckles or grabs your rear end anymore.
7. Better friendships. Your best friend no longer breaks your plans to spend time with her boyfriend. She breaks her plans with her husband to spend time with you.
8. You can take a crisis better because you’ve been through only too many of them and know the pattern. You’ve learned that you are strong, and that this, too, really shall pass.
9. That whole wisdom thing. What you lose physically, you really do gain emotionally.
10. You can wear what you want because nobody cares. No one looks at your arms or legs, anyway, so you might as well go sleeveless and wear shorts! And make them purple!

“’Tell me one last thing, said Harry. ‘Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?’

Dumbledore beamed at him….’Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?’” J.K. Rowlings, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Throw Open Those Doors…to Poetry

A couple of months ago, I won Karen Elaine Greene’s book of poetry, Three Thousand Doors. I didn’t know much about Karen other than the fact that I enjoy the writing prompts she posts every Monday on one of her blogs, “The Absinthe Road.” Plus…sometimes you just have a feeling about people, you know?

Of the title, Karen says, “Sometimes, life presents you with so many opportunities the toughest decision is choosing which door to walk through and every opportunity, every door, leads to hundreds more.” Wow, do I know that one. As soon as I read the first two lines of her introduction, I knew she was a kindred spirit: “Why do I write? Because I HAVE to.” Yes. Yes, this is someone who knows.

I’ve always believed that good poems are the delicacies of the writing world—precious as truffles or good wine. They can’t be guzzled. They are rich and rare delights which must be savored by the senses with a timing that allows them to transcend the mind and settle the heart and soul with a satisfied ahhhh.

Karen’s book was that sort of treat for me. Treats, I should say, because though I enjoyed them all, I felt touched on a deep level by far too many to name. When I gazed into “Self-Portrait,” it was myself I saw. In “Kathy,” I met my childhood friends again. In “Twister,” I saw the troubled people I’ve known who only seem to feel validated when they are drawing others into their disturbing personal storms. My soul danced with the imagery in “Rain Dance” and soared with the imagery in “Soft” and “Goddess” and so many, many more.

This book itself was more than a gift. Each poem, each word is a gift, a treasure.

I was so inspired, as a matter of fact, that I started thinking about my own poetry. I hadn’t written much of it in years, but a while back I started trying again thanks to Linda O’Connell, who teaches poetry and often urges people to just give it a try. So I put together some things for the haiku section of the Springfield Writer’s Guild’s 2010 literary contest and forgot all about it until this nice surprise came:

Looks like the 2009 winners are published on their website, but I don’t see 2010 yet. Will let you know.

So thank you again to Karen Greene for a gift that truly did open more doors!!

I crave the rush of power necessary to push words through my pen and onto the page…. ~Karen Elaine Greene, Three Thousand Doors

Silly Show and Tell: Put on Your Nerd Glasses

I bought these magnifying lenses as actual reading glasses, and I don’t think they were even intended as a joke. Even the dog refused to model them. Why I got these, I can’t tell you. Did I need glasses, or what? Oh…right.

But still, I can’t believe I was too blind to notice that they are just butt-ugly. And they’re not even women’s butt-ugly—they are men’s butt-ugly glasses. Nerd-man-glasses. I think the reasoning was that the lenses were nice and big so as not to get in the way of the print, but they are so big that they fall off my face. Although I have known reading glasses to evaporate into thin air, “The Woody Allens” are perennial. Even the gremlins don’t want them, I guess.

I usually use my own pictures and quotations I’ve already collected, but today I specifically looked up Woody Allen quotes. Like those potato chips, I couldn’t have just one:

-Eighty percent of success is showing up.

-Tradition is the illusion of permanence.

-You can live to be a hundred if you give up all the things that make you want to live to be a hundred.

And finally:

-I've never been an intellectual but I have this look.

~Woody Allen

When You Look at the Steps in Your Life and Realize You Were Learning to Dance All Along

Wow—what a week!! I had a significant birthday recently, and everyone kept asking me if I was okay about it.

When I think back to my last significant birthday, I felt so miserable and so terrified and so alone.  In this past decade I experienced a great deal of hurt. But I  learned from it. Am learning from it. And what I am learning is how wonderful it is to be around truly loving souls again.  

And can you guess what some of the kind, loving souls in my life did? They threw me a dinner party…to distract me from an even bigger surprise party! These pictures show the birthday glasses they made me wear. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. My former sister-in-law even flew out here from San Francisco.  As if their presence wasn’t enough of a present, I felt absolutely showered with love. Then they gave me gifts—both silly and serious—and a journal in which every person there told how we had met and become friends…a gift that is, like these friends, truly among the greatest treasures of life.

When I was a teenager, my goal was to become a fully self-actualized human being by the end of my life. It’s been a much longer, harder road than I ever could have imagined. But as I age, I learn that life really is more about the journey than the arrival. It’s about knowing we are, at this moment, on the right path. Or maybe even just on a path. When I look back at my past and see all of the mistakes I’ve made, I’m horrified. But when I look back at how very far I’ve come with the help of my genuine loved ones, I am much more satisfied. And how far I’ve come has so altered the quality of my life that I awaken every day and am so grateful that I’ve been allowed another day, another step.

That’s what aging is. Another day. Another step along the path. Another chance to love more, to learn more. To dance more.
Okay with aging? Seriously? It is one of many ironies in life that the longer I live, the more I love life. Sometimes I think this aging thing is absolutely the greatest thing ever invented. When I am thankful for every day, every day I find I have so much to be thankful for.

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. ~Buddhist Proverb

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. ~1 Corinthians13:13

Stuff from Around My House: Just Curious

Twins separated at birth, perhaps?

What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies. ~Aristotle

Tricky and Certainly Not a Treat

Conversation with two trick-or-treaters:

Me: Oh, aren’t you cute! Are you a Barbie doll?
Little Girl: No, I’m a girl from the 80s.
Me: Oh…uh…and are you…a clown?
Little Boy: No, I’m a hippie.

Crap, no wonder I didn’t recognize them. They were my youth. I quit asking children what they were from then on. It’s scary when your youth is being sold to children as Halloween costumes.

It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell. ~Buddha