Just For Today

I drive about 2000 miles a month.  Weather rarely stops me, although it does slow down my heavy foot.  Fog is just a fact of life when I go to New York State.  Patches of it follow me all along I-86.  I cope.

The fog this morning wasn't any worse than usual.  I am confident of my own driving as long as I can see the white line on my right and the yellow on my left.  ("Stay between the mustard and the mayo," my son admonishes.) It's the other guy who is too dense to put on his headlights because he can see fine, thank you, or the critter who has to have the greener grass on the other side of the road.  Sheesh.

There was a time when I loved to drive.  Hubby and I would go for an afternoon to the Alleghenies, around the beaches or looking for deer in New York State almost nightly.  We thought nothing of 150 mile round trip to go camping or fishing.

Anymore, driving is another chore.  Between the cost of gas, the morning fog, my Vaseline vision and the icy conditions it is no longer peaceful entertainment.

I am not sure it is only driving that tires me.  Lots of things no longer hold my interest.  I don't want to slip back into the patterns of a year ago; I have come too far.  Perhaps it is God's way, or that of nature, to weed out things that are no longer important.

Today I took out my private bucket list that I made when I began my journey of self-discovery.  My insight into myself has altered.  Some of the obsessions have passed, some of the passions redirected.

If ten months can make a difference in how I perceive myself and my private world, is it any wonder I am conflicted?  What have I been doing for the last decades?  Like driving in the fog, I haven't seen where I was going, I've just been staying between the mustard and the mayo.

I spent some time revamping the bucket list.  I kept the things I have already accomplished.  The promises to myself have changed.  I have found new ways to deal with old problems.  I made another list of the things I used to love.  How many I have added since the first time I wrote them!

Even the blunders, even the misguidance has a purpose.  If I sound confused in my writings from day to day, it's because I am.  The changes inside me are coming so fast, like I must hurry for some unknown reason.  There are no coincidences; I embrace synchronicity.

Just for today,  I will welcome change.  Just for today, I will try to enjoy driving in the fog.  Today, I will be patient, responsible and kind to strangers as well as family and friends.

Just for today, I will enjoy living in the present.

Ka-SPLOOSH!!

Roger was my chemistry lab partner not by design, but by alphabet.  It was painfully obvious that I wasn't his type, nor he mine.  Thank goodness we were intellectual equals.  At least we were able to get along academically if not socially.

On that Monday I was trying to figure out a way to remember certain formulas.  On the atomic weight chart (only 102, maybe 104 elements back then) I could only remember silver, gold (big surprise there) and carbon (diamond, for those who haven't caught up yet).  I wasn't stupid, just disinterested.  I liked Bunsen burners and mixing stuff in little glass tubes and beakers (you break it, you buy it, Miss DiLuzio!).

That day was quiz day. Twenty-five elements to identify, plus formulas to decode.  Geez.  How was I going to finish my essay for Edna Mae and still do the test?  Sigh.

The still on the counter next to me sputtered and spit.  Mr. E came over and tinkered. then walked away.  It gurgled a bit louder, and spit some more. He came back, fiddled with the coils and walked away again.

Just as he turned his back, the piping came loose.  A stream of water shot to the ceiling and came down on my head!  Ka-SPLOOSH!!   AAAAGGGGHHHH!!!!

Roger, bless him, grabbed my test, my notebook and me, yanking it all out from under the monsoon.  My purse, tucked under the table, remained relatively dry.  My essay for Edna Mae did not.  Mr, E made a sniggering comment about having time to study for a make-up test.  I looked like a drowned rat, hair plastered to my head, my shirt soaked through. Talk about attention-grabbing.  Classmates chuckled.  I didn't.

Of course Edna Mae was less than happy about the sopping essay.  I'm not sure she believed me at first, till she noted my wet clothes and the water dribbling down the wall from the chem lab upstairs.  And no, not even the tsunami was enough to make Roger and me friends.

When I toured Academy for our twenty-fifth reunion, I poked my nose into the old chem lab.  The still was gone, of course, the floor long since dried.  No test tubes, no Bunsen burners, no Roger.   It had been a long, long time.

I wonder where Roger is now?

(Note: last I new, he was in Los Angeles working in aerospace. How about that?)

One Day At A Time

If you're a friend on Facebook, or if we keep in touch, you know about my vision problems.  I have tried to be open about them for several reasons.

I am certain that I am not the only person who goes through this.  Maybe, just maybe, I can help someone who is unknown to me as they struggle with the same issues.

I feel better when I can talk to somebody, and they respond with faith, hope and an offer of prayer.  My faith in humankind is restored.

I'm a big baby when it comes to worrying about my health.  My eyes are precious to me.

I have no quarrel with the skill of my eye surgeon, nor with his referral to Dr. Baldwin.  After a long cry and a longer nap, I awoke with a sense of...well, not exactly well-being...but at least a feeling that they will do their best.  I think it was Dr. Zimm's words that scared me.  He really needs to work on his bedside manner.  At least he told me the truth in no uncertain terms.  At least he explained in English why my sight has been deteriorating.  At least he didn't blame it  on my beloved eyeliner.

I know me.  I will worry until my April appointment.  I will dream up scenarios of every description. I will not know contentment until the whole thing is over, my vision restored.

The whole truth is this--I have bleeding from several lesions in both eyes, but more in the left.  I have scar tissue that gives me vaseline-like vision, mostly the left eye, and causes "crowns" to appear around lights at night.   I have some calcification that gives me blind spots when I read, and breaks sentences and lines into uneven pieces.  I get ocular migraines that are annoying but give little pain. The scarring is the aftermath of cataract surgery; the rest is from years of being diabetic. 

I have days when it all depresses  me, and days when I need to summon my salesman's face just to get through.  I have days where I need sympathy and prayer, and days when I feel fine, thank you.

A note to my friends, Facebook and otherwise: thank you for being there when I need you.  I hope I can be there for you, too.

Meanwhile, I need to remember the 12 Step motto--one day at a time.

Acting As If

For all my bravado about being comfortable in my own skin, I am not.  Not yet.  I subscribe to the "act as if"  school.  If one acts as if something is so, it becomes so.  Or at least other people think so.  Am I being clear?

That doesn't work with pounds or grey hair.  Wishing grey hair brown does not make it so, but the grey is not a problem.  My grey hair is silky, not wiry.  In the sunshine it sparkles like a new dime.  No, grey hair is not an issue.  Pounds are.

Since I first realized I was overweight, it has bothered me.  See "Bugaboo".  Even at 118 I felt fat.  I have lost enough twenty pound increments to populate a small nation.  They keep coming back, bringing their buddies along.

Fat men seem to get along just fine.  They hold powerful positions, show up on television, make a living being obese.  Women, not so much.  We are conditioned to be thin as rails, to avoid second helpings or dessert.  Clothing is designed for the size two, not the fourteen or twenty.  Fat  actresses tend to be comedic, with few exceptions.  Some studies show that the most discriminated group of people for jobs is fat women.  A former state cop told  me recently that he never gave a ticket to a fat chick, only the pretty ones.  He said it was probably the only break they ever got.

Fat does not mean ugly.  It does not mean stupid, lazy or gluttonous.  It does not mean sloppy or not sexy.

I, for one, am none of the above, nor are the vast majority of the overweight women I know.  We eat healthy, we exercise.  We are intelligent.  We are beautiful.  We are sexy.  We are, for the most part, as healthy as our skinny sisters.  If we hide (as I do in my current Facebook picture), it is because someone, somewhere, sometime has made us feel unworthy of a second glance.  They didn't bother to get to know us from the inside.

On my travels to a better self-image, I made some changes.  I am more aware of  my presence.  I am more careful of my appearance.   I soak up compliments like a sponge, often writing them down so I can look at them when I am feeling down.  I try to accept them with dignity instead of the giddiness I am feeling.  I still have trouble believing if they are true, and not cruel sarcasm.

Acting "as if" has helped me in a lot of areas of my life.  I will never be a size two, or even an eight.  I will never have the kind of beauty that will stop someone in mid-sentence.  I will, however, before my journey is over, be beautiful from the inside.  I will radiate faith, love and confidence.  I will be well-loved and well-remembered.  I will be your true friend.

Or I will become very good at acting "as if" .

I Could've Danced All Night!

We went dancing.  Yes, we had a REAL date, not just dancing at someone else's wedding.  Yes, I feel like twenty-one again.

Hubby's cousin Matt has a band, the Time Trackers.  They were playing at a nearby club, and Matt invited us to come and listen to the band play.  Will there be dancing?  Hubby asked. Of course, said Matt.  And so I was invited on a REAL date.  Understand, please, that we do go out.  We go to dinner as often as the budget will allow, or a very occasional movie.  Dancing has been almost unheard of.  No, we are not Amish.

I did, however, wear black head to toe, with a touch of ruby at my throat.  Sexy, you say?  Well, at almost sixty and at an unmentionable number of pounds, black is a necessity.  It is slimming, for one thing (what a crock!). Besides, if one should spill sloppy Joe or a drink down one's cleavage, it doesn't leave an embarrassing tell-all stain on the shirt.  Add high heels and I was set to go.

We arrived before Matt, who was going to sign us in.  The door nazi graciously (I use the term loosely) allowed us to be seated, sans gin & tonic, at the bar to await him.  Ah, the rules in a private club.

When the music began, my feet began to twitch.  I knew every word to almost every song.  Tugging at Hubby's arm, we headed for the dance floor.  Swaying to the Righteous Brothers, Elvis and so many more.  Jiving and jumping to Bob Seger and Eric Clapton.  He gave up, except for the slow ones.  I did not.  I have learned to accept sweat from my months at the Y.  When Matt's wife,  Eileen, requested a polka, I was surprised but not intimidated.  Note to self: NEVER AGAIN DANCE TO A POLKA IN HIGH HEELS.  I did not trip, I did not fall.  I was, however, uncoordinated.  We had fun.

He escorted me to the floor for every slow dance after that first one.  Neither of us are great dancers.  I would not expect to be able to follow another man's moves on the floor.  But after forty-plus years together, we mesh.  The music was the messenger, the closeness its own reward.   I was sorry to see midnight come. 

There were others like me on the floor--most of them, in fact.  Middle-aged or older,  a few (or more than a few) extra pounds.  No specific moves, except for the line dancing which I won't do because I feel silly when I turn the wrong way.  I am a free spirit.  I felt comfortable, relaxed.  I needed no salesman's face.  This music, which had always been part of me, surrounded us for four hours.  It filled me with happiness, energy and youth.  Once again,  I am blessed.

I wrote an article on reconnecting awhile ago.  I was so concerned with reconnecting with people and places from my past that I had neglected to reconnect with one from my past who is also my present and my future.  It will take some effort, maybe some more Righteous Brothers to sway us;  maybe overlooking the things that bug me will make it all new again. 

Whatever it takes.

Characterz

If you were in Erie in the sixties and seventies, these faces would be a part of you, too.  They, and others like them, were the salt that gave flavor to our fair city.

I was lucky.  My first job after high school was writing advertising copy for the Boston Store in downtown Erie, PA.  It seems everyone I knew had spent time under its clock, shopping or having Cokes in the cafeteria.  I loved my work there.  It was the place to be.

And the people!  There were too many for these few paragraphs, but someday I will tell you more.  From my sixth floor window I could see a good part of downtown.  Many a day, I would see the "pigeon lady".  She wore a black raincoat with a hood and tall boots.  Pigeons would sit on her head and shoulders, and cling to her back.  In her pockets she kept dried kernels of corn.  When she finally shooed them away, I closed my window.  Oftentimes the pigeons would bring the remainder of their lunches to my windowsill, cooing and snacking until night fell.

Then there was the widow lady, Carmella, I want to say her name was.  She had a well-mannered German Shepard who went everywhere with her.  No one would even think of taking her red purse from that dog's mouth.  He gave it up obediently to a shopkeeper, who would retrieve his fee and give the purse back.  There was the fellow who wore a black cape and hat.  He stood by the Peach Street door, waiting for his lady, reading poetry or the Bible.  There was the "White Knight", a gallant young blond man who held doors and hummed to the ladies,  and the grandma who passed out hard candies to the employees.

Of course, there was Archie.  He did the windows and displays for the Boston Store when he wasn't having coffee.  Archie's voice boomed down the escalators from the first floor to the fifth.  Carrying props, he ran from floor to floor issuing orders.  Archie was a character, OK, and a talented one to boot.

Mrs. S spent every lunch hour in the dining room, often bringing her poodle.  She was easy to spot. Her favorite attire was a teal blue satiny dress with a silver-sequined peacock the length of the front.  One day a mouse sat by her chair in the dining room, patiently cleaning up her crumbs.  Thank heavens she, the poodle and the other patrons never noticed.  Becky and I were mesmerized.  Speedy Gonzales would trap a morsel in his jaws and make a beeline for a crack in the wall, hide his stash and come back for more.

I made friends with the ladies in the grocery store who would purposely bruise peaches so I could get them for half price.  There was the security guard (R.I.P., Eleanor) whom I had known for several years.  I spent many a happy moment following her around  GOTCHA!!

Lastly, for now anyway, was Helen.  Helen happily shoplifted her way through six floors of goodies.  Eleanor paid her no mind, nor did the salespeople.  Everybody from the penthouse on down just kept an eye on Helen, noting what she tucked in her pocket.  At the end of the month, her parents got the bill.  At least Helen was entertained.

There used to be a mural on a downtown building depicting the characters of the neighborhood.  I sat often in the little park, studying those faces and remembering.   I suppose every place has their own colorful personalities, but these were special.  They were OURS.

I wonder if someday people around me will say, "she was quite a character" about me.  I think I would be pleased.

Confessions Of A Pack-Rat

PACK-RAT:  one who saves everything thinking it may be of use someday, because one likes it, because it has memories attached, because because because.  Check my picture on Facebook.  It is followed by the definition of pack-rat.

Tonight I went through some old boxes, just to see what was in them, looking for my long-misplaced yearbook from 1969.  I don't know why I still have my corsage from one of the proms.  I mean, I MARRIED the man, for Pete's sake.  There were birthday cards, kids' art, old books.  I found a bag of chocolate molds from my candy store.  I found stuffed animals that did NOT belong to my sons, 31 and 33.  I found our first set of dishes (I thought those went out at a garage sale years ago).  There were flea-market finds and toys, clothes from a size ten to a size whatever.  I found my aunt's amber horses and promptly made room for them in the curio cabinet. There were magazines I had intended to read for the recipes and buttons I had intended to sew.

I got a few garbage bags and a couple of new boxes.  I put many things at the curb.  I hardly made a dent.

One of my stages of reinvention is to clean house, literally and figuratively.  I need to clear my home, the closets and the drawers and the dreaded basement of almost forty years of accumulation.  I need to cleanse my body of the excess pounds and my mind of the worthless trash in it.  There are some people who have to go, too, because they make me feel constantly on eggshells when they are around.  I want my home, my head,  my heart and my life to be full of the people and things that I truly love.

Little mementos mean so much to me.  My youngest grandson gave me a piece of rope this past Christmas so I could tie up  the monsters.  My father-in-law whittled a basket from a walnut shell.  I have my mother's jewelry box, full of the cherubs she valued.  One time, I gave back a gift because I was so angry at the giver I couldn't see straight.  I wish it would be returned to me.  These things are part of the reason I am a pack-rat.  Some of those things will have to be pried from my cold, dead hands.

Tonight I rid myself of some of the junk, mostly papers and magazines and plastic containers. Some of the clothes and shoes I bagged for donation.   I still have not found my yearbook. 

When I got to the box with the corsage, I looked at the blue carnations and baby's breath, the silver ribbon still attached.  I had worn a pale blue gown, he had a blue tux with a paisley print.  It was 1968.  Tonight that same man put on a blue uniform when he left for work. 

I put the corsage back in the box.  Some junk is too priceless to throw away.

60 Celsius

Let's see, 60 is 16 celsius. That explains everything! I am only 16!

When I read Rex's post, I jumped for joy.  Being sixteen (Celsius anyway) clearly shows why I have been acting like a kid of late.  Here I thought I had an eighteen-year-old's brain.  Nope, only sixteen.

When I was sixteen, I knew everything.  I had answers to every question about life, love and the pursuit of happiness.  Mom and Dad were here on earth not to offer unasked-for guidance and advice, but to provide food, shelter and clothing, transportation and an allowance.  After all, what did they know?  It had been far too long since they had been teenagers.

At sixteen, I could have a sundae on the way home from school, eat a spaghetti dinner and still go out for a cheeseburger later on.  I never gained an ounce.  Chocolate did not make my face break out.  My hair changed color with my mood.  We bought magazines that had the words to our favorite songs so we could sing along.  We danced to any beat.  We were invincible.  The biggest problem was if the boy I liked returned my affection.  He did.

When did I grow up?  Sad to say, I never even noticed.  Suddenly I was a wife, then a mom, then a grandmother.  Where had all the years in between gone?  I had almost forgotten the fun of dancing, the silliness of Waldameer's carousel and the days at the beach.   I got caught in the same trap that you probably did--life got in the way.

It's not that I haven't had a good life, even an easy one.  There have been plenty of memories,  laughter and excitement.  I know I can never be sixteen again, but I want to capture some of that time, put it in a bottle and save it to bring out in my dotage.  Now I really do know the stuff I thought I knew back then, only now I know how much more knowledge is to be found.

About a year ago, I began my journey backwards in time.  I wanted to look for the things I had missed out on then.  I wanted to talk to some of the people from my past, just to see if they remembered me, and remembered events the same way I did.  I wanted to drag out old passions, begin a new career and savor some long cherished momentos.

So here I am, an almost sixty year old with the brain of a sixteen year old child.  I find I still have some of the same talents and desires.  I still want to try new things if my body will let me.  I don't care much for the carousel anymore, but I love the sky ride. I look up the words to Springsteen on the web.  I indulge in hot fudge now and then, and I still love to dance.  This time, I will not allow my life to get in the way.  I will not grow up so fast this time.  Been there, done that.

At least I don't have to wonder if the boy I liked returned my affection.  He does.

You Don't Know $%#&

I will call her Dee.  Dee has been my friend since we met in kindergarten.  Even if we don't see each other for a dozen years, we pick up the conversation as though we left it yesterday.  She will forgive me for telling this tale.

Dee has a house--the farmlette, she calls it--in the boondocks of Crawford County.   Over the years she has kept horses (although she would rather have a camel), turkeys, chickens, cats, dogs and a lop-eared rabbit or two.  Her home is a comfortable, homey conglomeration of stuff from her world travels and auctions.  Creative touches abound.  Outdoors, from her once Moroccan styled deck, your can see scads of flowers and a flourishing vegetable garden.

The vegetables are really the heart of the story, regardless of how long it took me to get there.

From the first day of the season the garden boasts lettuces, onions and herbs.  No peas.  Dee hates peas.  It has cucumbers on wires, tomatoes in cages, rows of beans on poles--all of it neatly fenced to keep out marauding critters.  Nice thought, anyway.  The pesky woodchuck found his way in to the buffet, inviting his friends to share the free meal.

Well, Dee was not happy with that woodchuck.  She would take out her .22 on a regular basis, clean it and load it and wait for the rodent (or is it a ruminant?) to show up.

One lovely summer day, after  "Chuck" and his buddies had decimated the green beans, Dee was livid.  She guided the horses to the barn, out of harm's way.  She took her precious .22 and sat on the back porch.  It was open season for groundhogs.

She saw it then.  The bugger was in the horse pasture, sitting calm as could be.  He never twitched an ear as she got up, cocked the .22 and fired.  Now, Dee is as good a shot as I am, maybe better.  She knew she hit the blasted thing.  Still it sat.

Reloading, she aimed again. BANG!!  Still it sat.  Disgusted,  she walked out into the field to find out how the little devil could take several bullets and not fall down.

Could be because it wasn't a groundhog at all, but a nicely shaped pile of horse manure, a bit worse for wear from the bullet holes through it.

Well, I roared! My sides hurt.  I laughed till I hiccuped.  She was not amused.  I couldn't help myself.  I kept picturing my pal plugging away at a bunch of dung.

I suppose you're going to tell everybody about this, she gritted.

Yes, Dee, nearly twenty years have passed and I am still telling the tale.  It is too good not to share.

The moral today?  Sometimes the things that bug us most are no more than a pile of doo-doo.

Every Other Saturday

There are five of us.  Sue, the owner of the salon where we gather, is the vessel that helped us to come together.  Grace, Sue's niece, is the gentle artist who helps us to feel beautiful.

The rest of us are an unlikely trio.  We are all professionals in our careers.  We are are all strong-minded and independent.  We are all searching for the peace that can only come from within oneself.

We come together on payday Saturdays, the hour appointments stretching into two hours or maybe three.  Sue doesn't seem to mind.  She goes on about her work, joining in now and then so we know she is listening. We have become friends, the five of us, all because we have one more thing in common--pride (maybe a little vanity) in our appearance.  It doesn't matter; what matters is that we are all on the same road.

We talk about everything from dogs to fences, from pack-ratting to self-image.  We can share without argument, our different ways of viewing things molding and changing a litte bit every other week.  We are all wiser; we have more insight.  We are learning from each other.  Our stresses grow smaller, our challenges less frightening because we know there will be someone to share it with come Saturday.

We look for excuses to stay a little longer.  We are trying to convince Sue that she needs to install a sauna, a massage table and a tiki bar.  Sue is not convinced.  We will work on that.

I leave the salon with hands that I am no longer afraid to extend, actually and figuratively.  I leave with the smiles of my new friends in my mind.  I leave with the feeling that they like me as much as I like them.  It is good, this sensation of trusting those who were strangers a year ago.

These women were unknown to me a year ago.  A year ago, before I began my journey to find out who I really am, would we have become friends and confidantes?  I can't answer that.  I have become less selfish with myself;  I am more willing to share my hopes and dreams than I was a year ago.  I have found growth in my faith.  I crave these new friendships, maybe because I have felt isolated for so many years.  Will we ever be pie-and-coffee friends, or shopping buddies?  I don't know, but it doesn't matter. 

What matters is that we have someone who listens and shares, even if it only every other Saturday.

The Socks

A couple of months ago I bought six pairs of socks with purple toes.  Shortly after I joined the Y (when I found out we had to take off our shoes for Pilates), I invested in six more pairs of pristine white socks.  That's TWELVE pairs, TWELVE of each style of sock.

So why the blazes can I never find even TWO that match?    I end up with my husband's socks, or too-short ones, or one with purple toes and one without.  Worse yet, one with holes. Trash them.  Geez.

The truth of it is, I am my own worst enemy.  I blame the washer, the dryer, the laundry basket.  I blame static cling when I find one stuck to my silky pj's.   Let us be honest here.  It's because I didn't put them away.  I took them out of the dryer, they landed on a pile of whatever, got covered by sweats and sweaters. 

I worked on that pile today.  I found seven matching pairs of socks, a pair of pajamas, a few unmentionables, a blouse with the tags still on it....you get the picture.  I also found three dimes, a few freshly laundered tissues and a dog biscuit.  I returned the biscuit to its rightful owner.  He re-buried it.

For now, the socks match, the blouse is hung, the tissues tossed.  In another week I will once again be cursing the sock thief.

One of the items on my private bucket list is to overcome my pack-rat tendencies and to clean that damnable basement.  It seems no matter how much I throw out, no matter how good my intentions, there is still the proverbial "sock pile" to deal with.

The trouble is, it is not just socks, or pajamas, or dog biscuits.  It is the accumulation of thoughts, habits, possessions and people from sixty years of living.  Some of it has to GO.  The hard part is deciding what stays and what goes.   There are people and things that mean a lot to me.  There are memories attached, or the "I might need it someday" syndrome.  Some of it--things as well as people--is just plain junk.  Sooner or later, they will have to be tossed.

Some lessons are harder to learn than others.

One Iz Silver, The Other Gold

Make new friends, but keep the old;  one is silver and the other gold.  It was a campfire chant, sung in rounds, when I was a Girl Scout.  At age eleven or twelve I didn't really understand.

Today I cried a long while over the loss of a friend.  No, there was no death.  Death would have meant closure.  The friend just....left.  I don't get it. Yes, I have asked.  No, no response.  I have begged, please tell me what I did wrong.

Several of my friends are as wise as the guru on the mountain top.  They tell me to let it go, that the dysfunction isn't worth the effort. They say that some people cannot be reached and we will never know why.    Some people stubbornly refuse to accept us as we are, and like the feeling of superiority when they turn us away.  Some are afraid to get too close.  I don't think there is such a thing.

My friends are right, of course.  When someone, be it a friend or family member,  saps your inner energy it becomes a burden, not a relationship.  Like a pit bull, I clench my jaw around what I think should be.   I need to learn to relax and let it go.   So someone doesn't like me.  Big deal.  Yes, it is.

On my journey to find me, I have made some discoveries.  I am a work in progress.   I have found places that offer me peace;  people and places that energize me.  I have found that my thoughts, while often  disconnected, don't seem so disjointed in print.  My plans are more concrete now.  I have reconnected with classmates and old friends.  I can now talk about the loss of my parents and remember the good times with smiles instead of sorrow.  I have laughed over childhood incidents and talked to cousins I haven't heard from in many years.   I am not whole yet.  I am getting there.

I stopped growing once, putting myself on hold.  That was a big  mistake.  A series of events jolted me awake.  I am grateful.  I no longer wish to stand still, but to keep moving forward.  I no longer want to hold on to relationships that don't work. The trouble is, I want them ALL to work.

So, my friend, I will welcome you back into my life any time you are ready.  There will be no argument, no recriminations.  Coffee?  Ice cream?  I'll treat.  I ask for nothing but your friendship.

"Hello, how've you been?" will do just fine.

How Ugly Iz a Tree?

Now, before you send me emails on the beauty of nature, let me say that it was NOT my title, nor my essay.  It was written by Robert G-for-genius just because he liked to harass Edna Mae. She took a sabbatical after we graduated...small wonder...

Edna Mae liked me.  She put me on the Academe yearbook staff writing copy.  She made the photographer take pics of me as a swami and in lederhosen (look it up) for our senior yearbook.  She put me on the public speaking class debate team against SENIORS. We won.  Best of all, Edna Mae liked my essays.  If she had figured out that I wrote most of them in homeroom or study hall, she never said.

I liked Bob.  He and I had an easy friendship, bantering and teasing.  He was NOT a favorite of Edna Mae's.  Well, no wonder. 

That day I had scribbled "Ten Per Cent Chance of Showers" about coloring my hair with a water soluble dye and how it rained...you get the picture.  Not literary genius, but Edna Mae liked it.  She would have liked it if I had written about doggie doo-doo.  Well, just to get her goat, Mr G-for-genius came up with "How Ugly Is a Tree?".  I knew he had pulled a stunt of mammoth proportion when I saw her face screw up and turn several shades of purple;  I thought she was going to spit.   Her glare settled on Bob.  I squirmed.  He grinned.

She HATED it.  He had gone into wonderful details about the rough bark, the awful color, dead branches.  He must have spent hours thinking of what would annoy Edna Mae the most.  She asked me if I knew what he thought he was doing.   Now how would I know?

Well, to add insult, she read his essay aloud, criticizing it at every comma.  Then she read mine as an example of what she wanted to read.  I came out from under my desk at the end of class, embarrassed beyond belief.  Not Bob.  G-for-genius thought the whole thing was funny.  He always had a sense of....humor.

Now forty years later, I am still writing about cosmetics.  G-for-genius is writing funny, enlightening newsletters at Christmas.  Not once did he mention an ugly tree.

R.I.P., Edna Mae.  I think a lesson has been learned.

Mmm...Chocolate

I have issues, I admit that.  I can be obsessive, compulsive, vain and possessive.  I also have a few good points--I can be compassionate, loyal, sweet and affectionate.  If you want to see my evil side, try to take away my chocolate.  Don't even think about it.

I am very particular about chocolate, at least most of the time. ( Some days I will wolf down kisses like I never ate one before.)  Some brands are too sweet, some too cocoa-y, some taste like they are full of paraffin.  My uneducated palate does not apply to chocolate.

I used to own a candy shop where I made lots of chocolate confections from fudge to Nativity sets.  Before the doors opened I researched until I found the right blend of smoothness, cocoa and melt.  Boy, did I have fun sampling.  I ended up blending my own.  I have yet to find a brand on the market that meets my standards, connoisseur that I am.  I keep trying.  Needless to say, a Hershey bar doesn't make the cut.

Chocolate perfection is in the mouth of the beholder.  Some like the cocoa flavor of Hershey, some the cloying sweetness of Cadbury.  Me?  Give me 85% cacao.  It doesn't taste like baking chocolate as my son says,  nor like processed cocoa.  The snap as I break a piece tells me it is in perfect temper.  The melt is silky smooth on my tongue.  It is more than a treat.  It is Valium, Prozac and Jack Daniels, all in one incredible bite.

When I worked with chocolate every day I never tired of it except for the day before Easter.  The days before, the days after,  I could hardly wait to get to my little shop and take a deep breath.  Even now, more than 20 years later, I remember the taste of molten milk  chocolate and the smell of that kitchen on a chilly March morning.

An aside here.   We made hundreds of bunnies at a friend's house one year--no cats, no pig (see Christmas Cookies and the Pig).  We must have been punchy from the intoxication of the chocolate and the  Manhattans we were guzzling.  Putting marshmallow bunnies in the nuke seemed like a good idea at the time....they GROW...and just before they explode, open the nuke door. They SHRINK, right down to hard little bullets.  Amazing how funny that is  when you're loaded...I mean, sleepy...

I love everything about chocolate from its fascinating history (which I can tell you if you ask) to the modern production.  I love the feel of it, the creaminess.  I love to make novelties from painted ornaments to 25-pound rabbits and daffodils for charity.    I love the aroma, getting even better as the warmth takes over.  I even love the colors, from the milkiest white to the deepest brown.  Even better, now they are saying that chocolate is good for us!  I could have told them that.

So take away my spaghetti if you dare, my gin and tonic if you must.  Take my chocolate and you are dead meat.

Nuttier 'N Fruitcake

I have been told by reliable sources that I should give up caffeine.  Who, me?  Hey, I already gave up diet Pepsi.

I only have one cup, sometimes two, in the a.m.  At the church mingle hour, maybe one or two. A couple (make that a few) if we go to breakfast.  Maybe another if I am invited to  share during the workday, or whatever is left in Mr Coffee when I get home.

Otherwise, unless you include my love of 85% cacao chocolate,  I don't drink that much caffeine.  There's the occasional (any occasion) Monster energy drink, but I don't think those have caffeine...or maybe a Rock Star now and then.  I tried Red Bull, but it was only palatable with gin.  

They tell me I talk too much when I am caffeinated, that I am excitable and way too lovable.  I get much more antsy, and only a tad more productive.  Caffeine is like alcohol to me.  I think I might be addicted.  I know I become nuttier than a fruitcake.

Oh, I function just fine, as long as I have my morning java and a piece of dark chocolate every day.  I hate to admit this, but I like myself better when I am slightly high on Folgers.

A dear friend recognizes my need for the drug.  She says if not caffeine, I would find something else.  She says that exercising at the Y and my writing have become my new drugs of choice. Do I find myself drinking less Rock Star now?  Sigh....no.  No less jewelry, either.  It seems I am capable of piling one habit on top of another and relishing them all.

I used to belong to a 12 Step program.  It works if you work it, and I did, for awhile.  I turned everything over to my Higher Power over and over again.  I tried to make amends, until the person I wanted the most to make up with rejected my actions completely and thoroughly.  I gave it up.  Although I believe in the 12 steps as principles, I got caught up in a couple of them and could not move on one day at a time.  My addiction had shifted from the problem to the solution!

Today is a better day. I am fully caffeinated.  My blood pressure is normal, my heart isn't racing.  I sleep well, with or without Monster energy.  There are far worse things than Folgers and Rock Star.  I will balance my habit with a walk and an hour of Pilates, maybe some tai chi for good measure.  Only a miracle can deliver me from chocolate.

If I'm talking too much, please tell me to shut up.

Reconnecting

I took a chance, albeit a small one.  Not being sure if anyone from Academy Class of '69 remembered me has been bugging me royally for weeks.  I have an insatiable need to be remembered.  The first few names on my friend list were easy ones.  They were childhood friends, or are friends still.  The next group...well...that was harder.  Would they have any idea who I am?  So, I nervously clicked on twenty names from my past.  Some I remembered from Biology 101, Miss Wagner; some from Honors English, Miss Burgoyne; some from the Academe staff, junior high Christmas caroling or chemistry.  Some I remembered for their piercing eyes, their smiling faces, their laughing voices, their genius or their chutzpa.  Some had prowess on the football field; one took a quarter off my lunch tray.

I am amazed as I check my email and notifications on Facebook.  It has been just a couple of days, but at last count eleven  twelve thirteen fourteen  fifteen accepted my request.  It seems we all share a need to come home in some way.  "Academy, class of '69" jump-starts our memories.

Some of them I will never see again, some faces I may not recollect if I saw them today.  Some are in town still, some far removed.  Some will come to the reunion in 2014.  I hope so.

My life has been a simple one--marriage, children, grandchildren and several careers.  It has taken me many years of searching to find out who I am.  I learn more every day.  I am crossing things off my private Bucket List almost daily, not to be confused with my public list (See "The Bucket List" post from February).  I have arrived at the place I want to be.  Well, almost.

Oh,yes, there are some I will never hear from for whatever reason. So sad!  Back then, we had a camaraderie even if we were not bosom buddies.  There were crushes and envy, smiles and endless walks around the hallways.  Things are different now.  We were part of a special generation, one of protest, music, love beads, men on the moon and tragedy. We made more technological, scientific and cultural advances than any before us.  Those events alone should bind us.

I am working on a series of essays about those I remember best.  You might have read "Beth and Deb BFF".   There will also be my recollection of the disturbance that separated us for the moment, but made us stronger and closer in the long run.  The people we knew, the things we shared, the friendships we made or missed out on--all of these contributed to who we are today.

It has taken me forty years.  At last I feel like a part of the Class of '69.

I Won! I Won!

I WON, I WON, I WON!!

I am persistent.  I fill out coupons, call radio shows, enter sweepstakes.  I am a sucker for any box that says "Win a free...whatever".  All I usually win is junk mail.

So of course when I heard Julie on WYNE offer a 20.00 coupon book to the third caller, I gave it a shot.

I was caller number one....

I was caller number two.... WYNE is on speed-dial.

When the Captain answered the phone the third time, I found myself holding my breath.  Caller number three!! You'd think I had won a million bucks.  The point was, I had won SOMETHING!

My luck leaves a lot to be desired for the most part.  I am caller four instead of five.  Number thirteen instead of fourteen at roulette--for over an hour.  Two numbers out of three on the lottery.  You get it?  I am relentless in my pursuit of winning SOMETHING.  I keep slugging away.

On the other hand, I believe that luck doesn't just happen. Much of it is our own doing.  We can make our luck better by our actions.  Pro-active, that's the key.

I was born in (insert year here), the year of the Rabbit in Chinese astrology.  Since 2011 is also the year of the Rabbit, this is supposed to be an exceptionally fortunate year for us Rabbits.  The closer it gets to my birthday in July, the better my luck is supposed to be.  (I accept gifts. Jewelry will do nicely. No rabbits, please.)  I anticipate a very good year.

Guess I should buy a lottery ticket.

Play It Again, Dan

Like many of my generation I still groove to the sounds of the sixties and seventies.  The Righteous Brothers still make me swoon.  I still tap my foot to Jefferson Airplane.  I can't sit still for Credence, or the Zombies.  Moody Blues? Yes. Protest songs?  I hear ya, man.  Dylan?  My, my, my.

Captain Dan has been a radio personality for lots of years. I've been listening since I was a child...well, not really, but he is older than me by a year or two.  He and his crew operate WYNE, an oldies station affiliated with Mercyhurst College, North East, PA. The stuff they play is music from when music was music.  (Whew, what a mouthful that was!) Each  song brings back a memory of a "first time" in my life.

They have created an oasis in a desert of rap crap and head-banging rock for us old folks.

Do you remember the first time you heard the Beatles?  The DC Five? Ah, yes.  My first semi formal, my first formal dance, swaying to Slow Dancin' or Ebb Tide.   Today,  I roll down the highway driving
faster and faster to Aretha, slowing down for Peter, Paul and Mary (or the state cop in the median).

My first encounter with the Captain, however, was not a pleasant one.  There was a game on his morning show and I called in.  I was quiet and nervous in those days--yes, doubters, I was once shy and introverted.   He  cracked--ON THE AIR, YET-- about my charming lack of personality.  Oh, Dan, that remark helped to create the monster you know today.  Since those many years ago I have gotten to know Dan and some of  his crew.  I  feel free to call him "friend".

Music will always be a big part of who I am.  It might be Springsteen or Vivaldi, Jackson Browne or Santana.  It warms me, makes me move, helps me to relax, passes the time, brings back memories I can hardly wait to share.  I take music wherever I go.   The way to my heart is to dedicate a song to me on WYNE between eight and nine a.m. EDT.  Jewelry works, too. I am easy to please.

Play one for me, Dan.

The Thinking Spot

There is a place I go to,  several actually, every chance I get.  They are places of refuge where I can think about something, or nothing at all.  Sometimes I will use the time to do the inevitable paperwork, sometimes to text a friend, sometimes to write an essay, sometimes to just be.

I love Lake Erie.  The place where I view it has a host of migrating waterfowl in the spring and hot sand in the summer.  Fishing boats come and go.  Beach glass pickers abound. A hound dog chases seagulls; a black lab takes a swim.  Sometimes the Flagship Niagara, the magnificent brig that calls Erie "home" is in sight.  I sit under a tree and people-watch.  No one bothers me.  No one knows I am there.

I love the cemetery where Mom and Dad reside now along with other family and friends.  I think of how happy they must be, all together again.  The geese live at the pond. Occasionally I see deer and turkeys near the gazebo.  The chapel is simple and peaceful.  The cemetery is on a hill overlooking a gorge with tall trees and the proverbial babbling brook.  I walk there when the weather warms, me and many others.  It is a place of comfort.

I love the parking lot behind the grocery store.  There are other salespeople like me, all taking advantage of the spot for a quiet lunch in our cars  before donning the salesman's smile again and returning to work. As I watch the trains go by, I can recoup.  They energize me.

Everyone needs a thinking spot, somewhere you don't have to smile the salesman's smile, laugh at the boss's jokes, argue about anything at all.  Everyone needs a place where they can cry without having to explain, or sneak a Twinkie without recriminations.  We can daydream or nap, file our nails, read a trashy novel.

My thinking spots are one of the things that are just mine.  Few know about them, fewer still will catch up with me there. Even fewer will be asked to share even a moment there with me.

If you are invited to my thinking spot, try to come.   The peace you will find will be well worth the effort.

The Dog

I have told you a bit about my hundred-pound lapdog, Rocco.  Part husky (or malamute) and part Shepard (just a guess), he is a hefty chunk of the purest love.

Rocco has his faults, to be sure.  He sheds for a few months of the year, mostly from March till the following  February.  His clumps of white undercoat cling to my black pants, turning them to tweed.  The stiff black hairs from his back stick to my white sweats.  There is a reason our carpeting is a black and white Berber.  Oh, yes, he drools when he sees a little white bag with donuts or McD's breakfast enter the house.  He adores pancakes and pastry.  And of course, his inner clock is set so he badgers to go out at 6:30 in the morning..EVERY morning.

We are convinced that Rocco is not just a dog.  We swear he is an angelic being with fur.  He came to us shortly after we lost our fifteen year old companion, Amica.  For six months we said we would never have another pet.  Then, through  a string of unbelievable circumstances, I met Rocco.  He raced around the home of his old family, stopping in front of me.  He licked my chin.  It was love at first sight.

My father had died shortly before Rocco came.  The emptiness could not be filled.  Rocco's rambunctious presence took the edge off the sorrow.

Outdoors, Rocco is a roughneck. It is great sport to charge my husband like a linebacker, knocking him to the ground, standing with a paw on Steve's chest, grinning from ear to ear.  Then it's off again, doing laps around the yard.  The  chase begins yet again.  He seems to relish the laughter he causes.

Indoors, he becomes the perfect gentleman.  Climbing on my lap for an ear rub, he makes a "singing" sound of contentment.  He was never a chewer  nor a toilet bowl fanatic, never a garbage hunter.  He will sit patiently for a morsel, preferring a piece of candy to a piece of steak.  He will watch for Steve to put on his work uniform.  When satisfied that Steve is really leaving, he will assume his rightful spot on Steve's chair.  He is not spoiled, not at all.

He likes to sit on the picnic table, surveying his dog-dom.  He will demand that every living thing who enters his space pay him homage with a biscuit or at least a pat on the head.  He, like me, does not accept rejection well.  He must be acknowledged.

Rocco turns nine this week.   He will get his favorite chews (Busy Rollhides, the short ones) and Nawsomes, the little ones.  I will move my feet to give him room at the foot of the bed.  If I don't, he will growl in disgust.

Yes, I love that big hairy mutt.  He makes me laugh when I feel like crying.  He listens without judging.  His love isn't about pounds or talents; it is unconditional.  When I say, "I love you!",  he licks my chin.


 He is not spoiled.  He is THE DOG.  Happy birthday, big boy.

Perspective

I went to my relaxation therapy class today.  I will tell all when I have the last one.   One of the meditation techniques we learned today was to visualize a place of peace.  Norma suggested a beach, the water lapping at the shore, the sun warming our faces, a gentle breeze blowing.   Somehow I couldn't get to the beach.  My place of peace is the cemetery where my parents reside, overlooking the  beautiful gorge, or on I-86 at the rest stop viewing Chautauqua Lake.

After the class a fellow said, "I'll bet you'd never guess my place of peace...Cleveland, Ohio."

CLEVELAND??  Of all the cities in all of the world, Cleveland wouldn't make my top fifty.  It has some pretty spots amongst the traffic, to be sure, and it has some entertainment value.  It has the Cavaliers for basketball fans and the Browns for football masochists. But peace?  Cleveland?

Well, as it turns out, he had received a new heart at Cleveland Clinic just over two years ago.  After four months in a hospital room hooked up to machines, the first time he was allowed outside it was in Cleveland.  His first smell was the sweetness of the exhaust from traffic,  and a hot dog from a street vendor.  He says it was the greatest thing he ever smelled.

Something else, too.  He had a near-death experience that showed him a bit of Heaven and a bit of Hell.  It has changed the way he lives.  A new heart gave him...well...a new heart.

I don't doubt a single word of his testimony.  He and his wife have a glow of inner peace around them.

I am trying to look at my life from a different perspective.   Today I learned what I had already suspected, that the YMCA is more than swimming and sweat.  The Bibles that lay on the benches are not props, but offered for inspiration.  A great many of the people I have met are there not only for pumping iron or the endless road of the treadmill.  They come for companionship, friendship and soul-searching.

Once one's perception of the Y, or of Cleveland, changes it opens up a different side of one's self. If I was wrong to perceive Cleveland as a dusty, crummy city and the Y as no more than torture chamber of sorts--what else have I been wrong about?  Could I be missing out on an important friendship, or a real adventure just because I insist that I know what to expect?

I saw the Y in a new way today; my class to de-stress, too.  I even elevated the status of good ol' Cleveland.  Imagine....to see beyond, to return...and to be grateful for Cleveland.

Welcome back.

Parking Lot Bluez

I'm going the wrong way in the parking lot.  Yes, I know the arrows are pointing toward the store and I am driving away from it.  It is only a few car lengths...there it is.  A behemoth of an SUV wants my vacated space, and he wants to enter it coming from the right direction.  Curses.  He won't back up, and I can't.  I hate to back up, which is why I pulled all the way through in the first place.

At last he gave in, reversing just enough that I could barely pass.  I nodded, my sweet expression accompanied by a royal wave.  He was not amused, in fact he gave me a Hawaiian peace sign.  I did not return the gesture.  I merely scratched my nose with a well-manicured finger, ever so slightly extended. I am, after all, a lady.

My job keeps me in parking lots all day, five days a week.  I drive a good-sized SUV.  Between my lack of depth perception and occasional bouts of bursitis I need plenty of room to maneuver. Please, if you see me, try to get out of my way.  My plate number is KU-GRR.

I do not drive off with drive-in movie speakers still attached like J,  nor straddle the barriers at Burger King and need a tow truck to get me off like P did.  I drive easily 2000 miles a month without hitting anything (although this winter I have come awfully close!).

I don't park in handicapped reserved or fire lanes.  I try to stay near the back of the lot unless it is raining, snowing, too hot, too cold, looks like hail or if the bees are out.  I do not snatch spots from blue-haired drivers.  I am polite.

The guy in the yellow Hummer is another matter.  That parking slot is mine, mister.

Making Up

No, it is not a sappy blog about relationships.  It is about cosmetics, sort of.  Please read on, men.  You might learn something.  Women friends, you know the words ring true.  I just have a blog to hide behind.

While looking in the mirror at six thirty in the a.m., I am always disappointed to see the face that is looking back.  Somehow I expect to see the one that matches my eighteen year old brain.  It isn't.

The eyes have  little black smudges from the mascara I was too lazy to remove, or maybe they are dark circles from a restless sleep.  There is a morning puffiness beneath.  The lines I see are not deep crevasses yet, but I see them anyway.  My skin is relatively smooth--until one looks at my chin(s), or the neck.  We won't discuss the neck.  Hence, the half-face photo on Facebook.

Slathering on my favorite glycerin soap in the shower, checking for rogue hairs on the lip and plucking strays from my eyebrows, I heave a sigh.  Moisturizers, toners, eye cream are part of the routine.  I say a silent prayer for Avon and Olay.  Vanity at its finest.  They tell me Preparation H is useful for a temporary face-lift.  Have you ever smelled that stuff? Shark oil!  Too gross to even consider.

I have always longed to be so beautiful that heads would turn when I pass by.  Alas, I settle for OK.  A drop-dead gorgeous figure would help.  Mine is more like drop-a-few-pounds.  At least a voice like Lauren Bacall...cripes.  Ain't me, babe.

Make-up helps.  A dab of concealer, a hint of blush, a ton of goo on my lashes--I am acceptable to go out for the day.  Not eighteen, not even close.  Chemistry and marketing have turned my aging self into someone I can live with, keeping the illusion of youth within reach.

Yes, vanity is one of my sins.  I save the sweats for the Y.  I don't leave the house without my make-up intact.  The earrings are often outlandish, as are the nails Sue repairs and Grace paints.  Yes, I am occasionally an attention hound.

All the make-up, all the earrings, not even the fanciest watches (another weakness I will admit to) will change one's true self.  These are only things.  They do not make me more lovable or compassionate.  They do not make me smile more or argue less.  They are not me.  I am learning to be content, not with outer beauty but with the people skills with which I am blessed.

I can fight the aging process, but I can't stop it.  After all, you either get older--or you don't.

In Love With Living

It is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of unarguably the most important season of the Christian calendar.  More important than even Christmas, it is the basis of our faith.   Christ died,  paid for our sins with His blood and was risen so that we may be given eternal life.

To a non-believer, it sounds like a fairy-tale at best, wishful thinking or an outright fabrication at worst.  To a believer like me, it is a promise of a better world after death, free from the trappings of modern life.  Salvation is a gift given.  We just need to accept it.

Those of you who read TO BE, my third or fourth blog, sent me email after email, questioning if I was indeed suicidal.  No, I assure you, I am not.  I don't know where those words came from.  Perhaps they were given to me to write so they could touch someone.  I am prepared for the after-life experience;  I am not yet ready for it. 

I am in love with living.  In the past few months, I am learning again to experience things as a child--with curiosity and simple faith.  Oh, yes, I want it all.  I want to make everyone around me a friend.  I want my faith to grow by leaps and bounds.  I want people to say, "Marilyn...Isn't she the one who is so kind to everyone she meets?"    Yes, I want to spread my faith and my joy to the fellow in the deli and to my acquaintances at the Y.  It is not a matter of preaching, it is a state of being.

There are days when I fail miserably.  I see everything wrong with my life and none of the good stuff.  My anthem is I want, I want.  What I really want is not the jewelry or the classic car (though I would not kick a T-bird out of the driveway) but to be at peace within.  Some days are harder than others.  I complain about the snow, yet I love its clean whiteness-- in December, anyhow. (Let us not get carried away.)  I complain about my job, but I love the freedom it gives me.  No, I am certainly not perfect in my faith.  I  am trying.

In this Lenten season, I will make a greater effort to see things through faithful eyes.  I will try to be gentler and quieter.  I will smile at a stranger every single day.  I will enjoy what I have, and try to not be envious of what others have been given.  However, I will not give up chocolate.

Lent is a time for introspection.  I have a lot to learn.

The Gifts

It has taken most of my adult life to recognize that I have certain gifts.  I take no credit for them.  They came to me unbidden.. Why I was chosen, I do not know.  It is one more thing for which I am grateful.

 I have re-discovered that I love to write.  The words flow effortlessly much of the time from mind to keyboard.  Hardly professional, they are the meanderings of an almost-senior consciousness.  Fact and fiction, funny or philosophic--they are what I am at the moment.  My notebook overflows with ideas and phrases I want to incorporate in my ramblings.  My goal is to touch someone with my words. Just one person, just once.

The other gift is being at ease with people, at least most of them, most of the time.  I like to draw them into my world and share some of theirs.  Whether it is a brief encounter in the deli line or a friendship that matures over coffee at Starbucks matters not.  It is the act of connecting with another human. Human touch, I'd call it.

There are some people I will never be able to reach.  Maybe it is God's way of letting me know I am not infallible.  I try to say the right thing, to make them understand that my words are as honest as my feelings.  I don't get it, and I have trouble accepting the fact that there will always be someone I am unable to touch or befriend.  There will always be someone who will forever stay at a distance, who won't even be a friend on Facebook.  I pray about it.   I have an insatiable need to be loved by all.

To paraphrase Jackson Browne, don't confront me with my failures; I have not forgotten them.

Maybe it is my emerging awareness of self. Maybe it is my state of becoming a part of my new church, or the camaraderie I have found at the Y.  Maybe it is the increased time of meditation and prayer, or the love of my family and friends. Whatever caused the gifts to come, I am glad I recognized them.

Maybe someday, when the stars are in alignment, I will be able to touch the heart of those who aren't interested now.  Until then, I won't rest.  I am not finished.

Rubbing It in

I am fortunate to have Facebook friends from all over the mainland U.S. of A. , China and Korea.  They are in Vermont, California, Miami and everywhere in between.  I am blessed to know them all.

However, this time of year I am better served by hearing from Utah, where he's digging out from another snowstorm, or Massachusetts where Val is shoveling snow off her roof, or Georgia with its hundred-year blizzard.  When I woke up, it was barely ten degrees.  It is little consolation to see pics of the green of Cocoa Beach, the sands of South Carolina or to hear of the warmth of San Francisco Bay or Austin.

I mean this in the kindest possible way...knock it off, guys.

As we speak, the pond formed in our backyard from last week's rain has receded.  The skin of ice isn't thick enough to promote skating or the weight of my brute of a dog.  The vestiges of snow still mean I have to don boots to leave the house.  The pink fur coat is losing its appeal.

Come to the beach! says one.. Wish you were here!  says another.  Friends in Florida tell me how they had a "cold snap" (it was fifty). Come on, now.  Around here, we wear shorts at forty, tank tops at fifty and go swimming at sixty.  We have a Polar Bear Club, for Pete's sake.  They take the plunge into Lake Erie even if they have to auger a hole in the bay.

We do eventually get some summer. Pleasant sixties in May after the snow melts. Seventies in June. Eighties in July. A ninety thrown in on occasion.  Fruit has become genetically disposed to grow fast, although sometimes the blossoms get surprised by a frost. Our yards boast evergreens near the house to break the wind, and deciduous trees to let the sun shine on us in December and give us shade in July. We are a hardy bunch, us Yankees.  We cope.

As I leave for work, it is twenty-two.  It will inch its way up to forty. The brilliant white light of the sunshine bathes the mounds of snow that persist.  It looks deceivingly warm through the window.

I will come home to more of the same on Facebook--your heat waves and blue oceans, your balmy days and crystal-clear nights.  There are days I want to be there, basking in the fever of your climate.  It will be summer in Erie soon enough. Being blessed (or sometimes cursed!) with four seasons isn't so bad.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, Mr. Rogers.

Two Points

I adore my sons.  Even as rowdy teens, when I would have happily paid somebody to kidnap them until they grew to be men, I adored them.  They have become handsome, responsible professionals with families of their own.  I am so proud.

All that having been said, we have a stiff competition in the brains department.  I regularly get a text or email from one of them demanding an answer to a riddle or puzzle.  I hold my own.

One of said sons, who shall be nameless at his request, sent me a link for an IQ test online.   This young man was willing to challenge his Mom to a battle of wits.  Foolish boy.  Living this long has some perks.

Let me say that I LOVE IQ tests, especially ones that don't have word-math (you know the ones--if a train leaves Atlanta at 6...).  This one was right up my alley.  I zipped through it in record time. So easy! The results came quickly.  I waited for my son's smug answer. Then it came. 137.   I was surprised to see my score come in at 139. TWO POINTS!!  I whooped and hollered, laughing till my sides hurt.  Yes, you could call it childish celebration. 

Oh, I could not wait to rub it in.  I sent a text, then an email.  No response.

I called him live.   I think he may have been pouting.

In the end, he was proud of his Mom and said so.  I, meanwhile,  have been having a load of fun and bragging rights over that TWO POINTS.  Whenever a question comes up, I am quick to remind him that I am TWO POINTS smarter than he is.  I work TWO POINTS into general conversation, occasionally breaking into a fit of choking chuckles as I relate the story.  He is not amused, sometimes surreptitiously giving me the finger under the guise of scratching his nose.  Dang, I enjoyed that.

The other son, while every bit as smart, will not subject himself to this tomfoolery.  Neither will their father.  My gloating may have gotten out of hand.  I certainly won't subject myself to another test, bragging rights or not.

Still, TWO POINTS counts.  It will win a Scrabble game or a volleyball tournament.  It's the difference between freezing or not, simmer and boil.  It makes my boys realize that Mom is a heck of a lot smarter than she looks.

He is better educated than I am, with a job that pays more.  He is techno-savvy, I am a techno-moron.  He can build and repair almost anything.  I can barely tie a square knot.  His brother can fix things, too, even modern TVs.  He can sell ice to Eskimos, as the saying goes.  All in all, really good kids.

Imagine how it would be if  Mama didn't have that TWO POINT edge.

Scrabble Iz Not Just a Game!

My Scrabble buddy is back after a long drought.

I read his  blog, he subscribes to mine.  I comment on his posts, he follows suit.  He is a word-master.

For awhile I was on a winning streak, capturing several games in a row.  Man, that felt good.  Suddenly he started winning--a LOT, then he disappeared.  I began to wonder if I wasn't enough competition for his skills.

There are others with whom I play regularly, some several games at a time.  All of them challenge me.  Win one, lose one.  Each of us goes on a several-in-a-row spree,  You would have to be a Scrabble affectionado to understand the rush one gets from a seven-letter word or a two-point win.

I have begun to think of my Scrabble partners as friends.  Even if I never meet them in person, even if we share only a facsimile of a wooden tile and a complaint over too many vowels or the YES!! of a Bingo, it is enough.  By looking at their Facebook profiles, I can see their families, go along on a vacation (wave to me when you fly over Lake Erie!) and share the trauma of a car accident or the joy of a new baby.  They know me through my blog, or a chat during a game.

Word-play in its many forms is my forte.  I never minded writing essays. I was a copywriter for my yearbook and worked in advertising.  For many years the writing bug was squashed by life.  Now it, like me, is being reinvented. The Thesaurus is my companion, the dictionary my closest pal.   I am hooked.

Scrabble is only a game to some. For me it is practicing my vocabulary, competing against others' abilities, learning to win or lose with grace (although sometimes I feel a need to privately gloat!). Besides, it's fun.

Scrabble friends, I look forward to spending time with you each evening, even on Friday night (guess we have no life!).  I will never throw a match to let you win. I trust you to be the same.  Win or lose, I love the game and the friends, old and new.

So, play with me!  I am always looking for another worthy opponent.

OK, John, it's your turn.

Politics, Schmalitics

I hate politics.

There was a time, growing up in a politically active family, that I embraced it.  My dad worked for the city for many years, his job linked to whoever was mayor at the time.  Mom and I often went to the fund-raisers when I was a teen.  Grandma D was a judge of elections.  Grandpa D knew everyone.  Relatives and friends ran for office. It was exhilarating.

Dad's family were Kennedy Democrats, and I followed suit. When Mrs. Shallop told our 7th grade geography class that JFK had been shot, I cried with everyone else.  When George McGovern lost his presidential bid, I wore black to work the next day.  I even considered running for office myself, but family opinion halted that idea.

Things have changed. 

I am so sick of CNN and FOX that I could scream.  I'm sick of political rhetoric.   Talking heads bore me to tears.  Dogmatic proclamations from either side anger me.  I'm tired of conservatives versus liberals.  Sick, sick, sick of it all.

I believe in the American system; I am not an anarchist.  I have voted in every primary, on every November ballot since I was twenty-one.  I respect the concept of a representational republic, even if I don't agree with the platform of the candidate.  This year I applied to work at the polls in my district.  I work with politics, I live with it.  I still hate it.

My biggest problem with politics is how divisive it is.  I fail to comprehend how supposed adults can let elephants and donkeys determine their friendships.  Elephants, if tethered to a post as a youngster, will still believe they are tied even when the rope is removed; we all know that "donkey" is just a nicer name for "jackass".  Why can't we enjoy the same music, share common interests, eat Chinese food or go fishing and forget for a moment which party is in power?

It makes little sense.

I am Caucasian and Christian.  I am closest to being a Libertarian--let the government stay out of my business, decriminalize the pot, take care of yourself or starve.  My friends are white, black and Oriental.  Some are Christian, some are Jewish, Buddhists or atheists.  Some are conservatives, some progressive liberals.  Some even like cats.  It is their choice.  We accept each other for the insides and the commonality, not the trappings.  Each person fills a different void, a different pigeon-hole in my roll-top.  Politics?  File it under "W" for "waste".

Right wing, left wing, who cares?  After all, it takes two wings to make a bird fly.

One of Many Names

Shortly after my mother died last May, I began to re-evaluate my life.  A few chance remarks and a sense of emptiness led to what I choose to call "reinvention".  I had always been Joe's daughter, Steve's wife, Nick's and Paul's mother, then on to be someone's Grandma.  Even my husband's boss calls me "Mrs".  No wonder so many of us women lose ourselves!  We have so many names, most of them not our birth names. 

I like to remember the past, much of it with fondness.  The people still have familiar names and faces, the music still makes me want to dance.  The embarrassment over my less-than-stellar moments has become merely a memory with a lesson attached.  The choices I made, poor or fair, I have learned to live with.

I am changing.   I've grown more in the last nine months (is that significant?) than in many years before. I'm no longer afraid of my feelings.  I can cry again.  Errors in judgement are just that--mistakes.  Some can be rectified, some can't.  That's OK.  I welcome people from my past back into my life now.  Some will come, some won't.  That's OK, too.  Those who only know me as "Mrs" or "his Mom" might be surprised to hear I have a name of my own.

I have become more aggressive, much to the chagrin of some; more outspoken, much to the dismay of others.  More creative, too.  Delightful.

Many years have been, while not exactly wasted, misused.  Many of my generation were caught between Donna Reed and Betty Friedan.   We lost ourselves trying to be all things to all people. We are someone's daughter, someone's wife, someone's mother.  There's nothing wrong with that, unless we forget that we were given names of our own at birth.

Sometimes we forget that "Mrs" or "Grandma" is just one of the many names we are called in a lifetime.  It is not necessarily who we really are inside.

Please call me Marilyn.

The Pink Fur Coat

For most of this never-ending winter I have worn a pink fur coat,  It was at Fashion Bug where I saw it,  It looked soft and warm, fuzzy like bunny fur, and too young for me and my 50-something body,  I went back three times. Finally, I bought it.  I have never regretted it.

That pink fur coat (no rabbits died or were dyed for this coat) has brought me unimaginable pleasure.  Wherever I am, be it work play or the nursing home where Mom lived, everybody wants to touch my coat. While stroking its fuzziness they will tell me something about themselves and their lives and their problems. Total strangers will compliment the pink fur coat or say, "I know you! I remember the coat!"

While I would much rather be remembered for my loving nature and gentle ways, I guess the pink fur coat will do. I am invisible without it, invincible with it on.

Who would have thought a coat could cause confidence to grow, make friendships happen, soothe a crying child or even just begin a conversation at Walmart's deli?  Somehow, the pink sweatshirt I bought for spring doesn't have the same kick.

If the weather warms (it better warm up soon, Punxy Phil, you miserable rodent), I will take my much-loved pink fur coat to the cleaners and pack it away until the fall. I hope it keeps its magic.

Beth and Deb, BFF

I knew Beth and Debbie long ago.  They influenced me in ways neither ever knew, until today.

Deb first.  Boy, could she sing. I wanted to ask her to sing at my wedding, but Pastor wouldn't allow it. Deb was popular with EVERYONE, boys and the girls, in the clique or out of it.  Her parents must have been bursting with pride at the kudos she easily collected. They were well-deserved.  I remember going to a sign-in party where Deb was gathering signatures for some kind of "best-school" contest; I don't remember the details.  She was so nice! not a snob bone in her.  Even thirty years later, after her illnesses had taken their toll, I ran into Debbie at a craft show. Still the same grin, the same hello. When Deb passed away, I joined the hundreds who mourned.

Then there's Beth.  Little did Beth know back then, or until now, how much I looked up to her.  I listened to every word when Miss Kaminsky had Beth give a "fashion talk" each Friday in homeroom 114. ("Red-heads should always wear pink. Pink and red are sensational together!" I was an auburn-haired miss off and on for years after that.)  I bought a burgundy skirt and tennis sweater, and we wore them because Beth and Deb did.  I wanted their short skirts and bright smiles, too!

One day after gym class we were changing in the locker room, other girls laughing and chatting, me hiding as best I could in case the rumor was true that the boys had a hole in the wall where they peeked at us.   The secret was out--panty hose! They called them "opera hose";  one of them had a cousin or aunt or whoever who wore them to dance!  I went right out looking for panty hose, but at $3.00 a pair they were too steep for my piddly allowance. I begged until I got them.  Funny thing, today I am looking for old-fashioned stockings and garters!

Beth could sing, too, and still does.  Not the lilting coloratura, but a soulful, gutsy sound.  School dances weren't the same unless Beth, Deb and the boys (Kevin and Bob were two, I think) were belting out "White Rabbit".

A few months ago, I joined Facebook and "friended" Beth.  She's become a help with my blog, with sound advice and a general feeling of not being totally forgotten.  I look at her friend list, see people I remember well, and wonder if they remember me. There are very few Beths around.  Right now, she's giving me ideas to make my blog a little more exciting to look at.  I will try, Beth, I will try.  Her blog, SingingirlCooks! has provided some much-need menu changes, with a little taste of life in Florida, too. (Nice plug, huh, Beth?) 
I've had some successes of my own these many years since high school.  There are more people I want as "friends", including the whole class of '68, '69 and '70.  I haven't approached them because I, after all, am not as memorable as Beth and Deb. The reunion is in 2014.  I hope by then I will have the confidence to say, "Hi, remember me?"

SingingGirl, keep cookin'.  Keep in touch. You go, girl.

Geez, I love Facebook!

Interstate 86

Interstate 86, also known as I-17 and the Southern Tier Expressway, begins a few miles from my home and continues to the East Coast.  I-86 is part of my regular routine, taking me to Jamestown and Falconer, NY, occasionally Olean, NY and Warren, PA.

After miles of rolling hills, one comes to the bridge that crosses Chautauqua Lake, a natural spring fed glacial lake. The water there is clear and blue, perfect for sportsmen, vacationers and lovers.  It is home in winter to hundreds of ice fisherman on its thick ice. The Winter Festival in Mayville on the other shore takes hefty slabs to build an ice castle almost every year.  In summer, boats race, the ferry chugs as thousands converge to take advantage of the water and Chautauqua Institute, a cultural hub in these parts.

For all the beauty of the lake, it gets even better when you get to the rest stop. Yes, the rest stop, just a mile or two past the bridge.  On top of a bluff overlooking the lake is a neo-modern, neat building that houses the usual vending machines, maps and restrooms.  But outside....ahhh...outside there is unexpected pleasure for the senses. 

In the morning, just before the inevitable fog lifts, everything is varied shades of grey.  As the sun breaks the fog, the mist sparkles where it clings to each blade of grass. The diamond analogy sounds trite, I know, but that is just what it looks like.  In the fall, the sun shining on the water looks like liquid gold, the multi-colored leaves like gems from the treasure of Solomon.

There is a well-kept lawn, a winding sidewalk for travelers to stretch their legs.  Flowers bloom from the first crocus of spring to the last marigold.  Whoever designed this place knew exactly the meanings of rest and renewal.

I stop there whenever my route takes me to that section of New York.  Inspiration is too soft a word. When summer comes, I will take my family or a friend to share the peace and the view, maybe for a picnic, or a bird-watching expedition.


Every state, every city, has a place of wonder like I-86. Take time to find it.

Someone, Somehow

I'm not going to tell Hubby about it, not yet anyway. He worries about me on the road so much.  I don't expect you to tell him, either.  I came so close to dying that my life flashed before my eyes.  Not all of it, just the sins.

I-79 was perfectly dry. There was no snowstorm like there was last time, no fog like the time before.  Traffic was light.  There was no reason whatsoever for the double trailer to be stopped in front of me.  It wasn't over far enough on the berm, the second trailer hanging out on the right lane.  A quick scan showed a pick-up bearing down on the left. WHERE DO I GO??!!  Of course, I hit the brakes...and a patch of ice.

Someone, somehow took over the steering wheel.  Someone, somehow made me miss that truck and the too-fast pick-up.  Somehow, someone spun me out of harm's way and landed me on the berm instead of the median...

Those seven terrifying seconds jolted me into reality. I was OK, the car was OK, the stuff on the front seat thrown to the floor.  While an angel steered, I was bombarded with visions of every lie I had ever told, every lustful thought I had ever had, even the caramel I stole from Woolworth's when I was five.

Part of my renewal is opening myself up spiritually.  I pray and pray, yet the answers seem not to come, or to tiptoe in so quietly that I don't hear them. This time, I felt like God was shouting, "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW??"

I am human. I need to make amends for some of those sins. Others are long past, and would do no one any good to rehash.

Seeing one's life go by this way isn't pleasant, especially with the car careening down the road at 65 mph, spinning around and landing as though placed there. Especially when one knows that someone else, somehow was doing the driving.

Whew.

Trevor Takes the Cake

Trevor is my grandson, the stepson of my younger, Paul.  Trevor is all 8 year old boy, sometimes funny, sometimes a trial.   He is a bundle of energy who sits still only for a movie he really likes.

Imagine my surprise when his Mom, Gina, informed me that said grandson and Paul were baking a cake for the Wolf pack Blue and Gold banquet. They were to design and bake the cake all by themselves. Last year they took a ribbon. Two in a row?

The theme was "pirates" and the man and a half rose to the challenge, putting together a treasure chest. Chocolate cake, with candy rings and necklaces, Hershey nuggets and gummy worms. Don't ask about the worms. I didn't.

"You could beat it by hand," said Gina.
"Hey, Trev, wanna do it by hand or use power tools?" queried Paul.
"POWER TOOLS!!!" cried Trevor.  Big surprise.  They dug out the mixer and they were off.

Yes, I did get to taste the cake. Delicious. And  yes, they  took another ribbon for best design.

Whooda thunk it?

Me and Gina. We knew you could do it, fellas!