Catastrophic Non-Failure

Every now and then, I seem to go through a period of time where so many things break, I am sure someone out there is sticking pins into tiny replicas of my possessions.

I recently ran across a scrapped blog post from last year where I complained of having several blinds break along with my lawn mower, sump pump, coffee pot, and a drill.

The most recent rash of failures included my computer, modem, router, lawn mower (yes, again), phone, and the little plug-thingie in the bathroom sink. Also my printer died a slow and agonizing death and then came back to haunt me. When my hair dryer shorted out in my hands with a tiny explosion, once the small fire was out and the shaking in my hands had subsided somewhat, I found myself laughing at the absurdity.

I was hoping those little fireworks were the finale to this round, but it turned out that was just an introduction to some of the big stuff. My garage door broke along with a door lock, my washer and dryer gave out, leaked, and shorted out. Now my computer has another virus. In spite of thousands of dollars’ worth of preventative maintenance, my car has a light that comes on, but the little scamp goes off as soon as I take it to The Car Guy.

Regardless, I am lucky they are just things.

My ex-husband used to pretend that it took some sort of skill to do home repairs. Really I find they just take time, money, the proper tools and often some physical strength—none of which I have in abundance.

But necessity really is the mother of invention. When my son was in high school, his car happened to get a flat tire in our garage. I can never remember where the jack goes, so we looked it up on YouTube. The whole incident became quite a blessing in disguise—not just for the mother-son bonding it inspired, but because of the way that one incident seemed to spark my son’s passion for internet-taught car repair. Now he’s the person I consult first when it comes to car problems.

And I find it pays to be sort of anal. It took me hours and hours, but when I recently replaced some door hardware, I was pretty excited that I was able to use poultry sheers and art supplies to fix a previous mistake. Now the door closes considerably more smoothly than before.

Right now I am tired, sore, behind on everything (as usual), wounded all over the place from various wrench accidents, and considerably poorer. But I’m also a little stronger, I own a few more tools, and I have a few more skills under my (tool) belt. I might be girly, but it doesn’t mean I can’t figure out how to change a spark plug. I’ve met some amazing people (such as the total stranger who just repaired some electrical work for me on a Saturday, and free of charge), and these breakages have sparked some wonderful conversations—with my children, with friends, and with acquaintances. As always, I am touched and inspired by the kindness of total strangers. Funny the way these things work: what you lose in stuff, you gain in a different set of resources. I am so, so blessed.

Take that, voodoo-ers.

You live you learn, you love you learn
You cry you learn, you lose you learn
You bleed you learn, you scream you learn…. ~From “You Learn” by Glen Ballard and Alanis Morissette

By the Facebook

Does Facebook have a rule book? Because I am truly clueless. Is it a place to meet up with old friends? Find out more about new acquaintances? Network? What?

I originally joined Facebook as a way to Network. What I found when I got on there was that the class reunion I couldn’t attend had just continued on Facebook. It was wonderful, virtually reuniting with old friends again. But if I post about a writing success, these dear people are often the ones who send all kinds of encouragement…that makes me feel like a braggart and a schmuck. I’m not comfortable tooting my own horn, anyway, though I do know sometimes tooting must occur in order to drive anywhere. So how is that handled?

I have a friend who started two Facebook pages—one personal and one professional. Now she tells me she regrets it because the difference between the two isn’t clear enough and the overlap causes much confusion. She also doesn’t like that people have to “like” her professional page in order to join it. “What if they don’t like what I do?” she asks me. I know exactly how she feels.

I also don’t get who should be friended and who shouldn’t. I’ve known people who have hundreds and even thousands of friends, and others who “friend” total strangers. I do have FB friends I may possibly not have met, even though I have no qualms about turning people down if I can’t make some kind of connection. I routinely turn down apps that people send me. Should I politely tell them why? Or just ignore them? And does it really do any good to join Facebook and then turn down people and apps with the illusion that it gives us a little security? Especially when you have a blog?

Then there’s the question of how often we should post. I know people who get annoyed at seeing what others ate for lunch. That one doesn’t bother me, but one of my pet peeves is the ones who have Facebook conversations with relatives who are in the same house. Possibly these people are in the same room, even. What is that? Breakdown in communication? Some form of peculiar exhibitionism? Phoniness? Laziness? What?

What are your Facebook rules?

Sub Notes: Rise from the Ashes

Sometimes on my job I have to talk so much that I forget an even harder skill: listening.

I was walking around the room to make sure these high school children were working. He was done with his work, and he was drawing. Part of my job as his special education teacher was to redirect him to something productive, but there was such intensity about the way he was bent over the page, something told me I needed to ask.

“Beautiful,” I said. “It’s a Phoenix, right?”

He was a tough-looking boy. But here is a secret I learned long ago: high school children don’t dress to reflect who they are, but who they want to become. Tough looking ones often are the most sensitive people who are trying to overcome tough circumstances. He looked up from his desk glowing with quiet pride.

“It’s the tattoo I’m getting,” he told me. “I was in a car accident six months ago. They said I died briefly. But I made it. It’s been hard work, but the phoenix represents how far I’ve come.”

I didn’t do my job that day and tell him to work on something else. Sometimes nature lights her own fires, and all we can do is stand back and marvel at what rises from them.

Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire. ~William Butler Yeats

And She Loved to the Very Bottom of her Heart

Though he hid it well, my husband was a very jealous man.

And here I was, unable to quit thinking about my first love, a childhood romance. But I had put away childish things for a more practical life, and I was happy.

Except I wasn’t.

So I met my love when my husband wasn’t home—briefly at first, and then more and more until I felt as if we could never truly be apart again. I looked forward to our trysts with an unparalleled giddiness and left feeling flushed and spent and whole.

“You're back,” an old college friend remarked over the phone. Had I been gone? “Yes, for a long time,” she said.

And then, after a phone call, I made the announcement. “I am guest columnist at a newspaper.” I still remember the way his face went red, then white with anger.

I never looked back.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all who love words as I do.

It’s Valentine’s Day. It’s not the day you run away from love. It’s the day you chase it down. ~Cameron in “Modern Family”

Welcome Warmth

Thanks to the ever-sunny Lisa Ricard Claro of Writing in the Buff for the "Sunshine Award!" I’ve been wiped out by a very nasty cold, and it brightened my entire week. I’ve said before that I think some people have what I call “Writer’s Aura”—where everything the person writes has a warmth and brightness to it. Lisa shines in that way.

First, I am required to answer these questions:

Favorite color: Depends on what it’s for, but the colors on my blog are biggies. Especially warm, sunny coral.

Favorite animal: Love most animals, but this one’s a no-brainer. Dog.
Favorite number: 4.
Favorite drink: These days, tropical flavored iced green teas are way up there. Salada makes one that to me tastes exactly like a spring day feels.
Facebook or Twitter?: Facebook.
Your passions: I’m one of those people who have way too many passions. Some of them are: my children, writing, friends, pets, nature, drawing and painting, and gardening. Had a much longer list, but I cut it down because I sounded like a nerd. Oh, and making nerdy lists.

Giving or getting presents: Have to agree with Lisa’s response: Both!
Favorite day: Saturday.  
Favorite flowers: The traditional gardener’s response is “whatever’s blooming right now.” So that would be the orchid that a dear friend gave me a couple of birthdays ago.

My instructions are to pass this "Sunshine Award" on to two bloggers who cheer me when I visit. So I pick Sioux of Sioux’s Page and Val the Victorian of Unbagging the Cats. Neither one is truly  someone I would categorize so much as “sunshiny”—at least in a Brady Bunch kind of way—because with these bloggers, there will be the occasional sunburn. Which is exactly what makes them both so real and so fun.

Thank you both…and thank you, LisaRicard Claro!!

In poverty and other misfortunes of life, true friends are a sure refuge.~Aristotle

Improper Poll: Name That Shoe

I admit it. I wear only named shoes. Oh, I don’t mean Monolo Blahnik or Christian Louboutin. I mean I name my shoes. It’s hard not to when they’re that butt-ugly.

I am the proud owner of a genuine pair of Herman Munsters, some Minnie Mouses, and some not-so-glad-iators. My sister obligingly spiced up my slipper-wear by giving me a pair of Neanderthal Mans for Christmas. I recently bought a pair of Wicked Witch of the Easts, but they tricked me by behaving very comfortably at the store and then turning wicked once I brought them home. I almost wish a house would drop on them (as long as my feet aren’t in them at the time).

The reason I love my butt-uglies so much these days is because there really was a time when I wore heels on a daily basis. Now I think of them as evil instruments of torture.

I once read that most women own their age in shoes—one pair for each year. I guess that means my shoes make me young, because I only own a small fraction of my age, mainly because I wear my favorites, the boring-but-comfortable Clark Kents, with almost everything at work. When I get home, I usually change into The Beloveds, a pair of old Reeboks.

Take that, Carrie Bradshaw. Do you own your age in shoes?