I drove down to the lake before I went home from work.
I love this spot where there is water as far as you can see. It makes me think of what it must be like to travel the ocean as a sailor or even as a guest on a cruise. One of these days I'll have to try it.
Today everything is grey, much like my mood. I'm not depressed or sad about anything. It's one of those days when I feel like I don't matter much in the scheme of things. I am neither black nor white. Like an old photograph, I am shades of grey.
The sky is grey, indifferent shades from the dusty, dirty grey in the east to the talcum white in the west. No blue breaks the monotony. The trees near the shoreline have lost their gold and red to the autumn wind. They, too, are grey and brown, not beautiful enough to be called taupe.
The sand is grey here. It stretches unbroken, smudged with the leavings of gulls, the slimy remains of seaweed and the occasional bones of a dead carp, picked clean by the gulls and crows. I know that amongst the grains of sand there is sparkling beach glass in many colors, like the coat of Joseph, and shells of tiny mollusks that glisten white. I can't see them today with the lack of sunshine. It's all the same. In the distance my eyes catch the startling white stripe of the lighthouse, its red light barely visible through the rain.
The saving grace of the greydom is the water. The lake is grey, too, a reflection of the sky. It is hardly distinguishable from the horizon. Look closely. You can see the easy movement of the ripples as they come toward shore with the north wind. Closer still. Whitecaps; rolls of waves breaking on the sandbars. At last they crash on the breakwaters spewing the foam high so it mixes with the rain....indistinguishable from it, like the horizon...like me.
I love this place. I love the lake, whether it is the cold grey of a rainy fall day or the sapphire blue of September. It's a great place to be with someone or alone. It's a thinking spot. It's a place that helps the grey in my soul today feel not so unimportant.
There are reasons why things are as they are. There are reasons--sometimes of our own making, sometimes not--why we love or hate, why we are dissatisfied or lonely, why we make the decisions we do. Circumstances dictate who we are and what we become all too often.We make good choices and bad ones. We win, we lose. Sometimes we aren't ready, sometimes we are.
I'm pondering who I am, what I am, where I am going. I feel like I am starting my journey all over again. That's a good thing. I am not ready to be finished. I feel something in this cold, grey air--something that will change me. I can't see the future, but I can feel it.
Is anything ever black and white? Or is it always shades of grey?
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Job #1
I know it's not my job to get personally involved with a client.
She's on Facebook. I know that eventually she will read my blog. If I get fired for that, oh well. I think I would rather have her as a friend than a client anyway, but I need that paycheck.
There is always Giant Eagle.
She has a cat. I don't hate cats, and this one is an especially friendly tiger cat, but I've never been a cat person. I'm wondering if I can encourage her to be more careful about using the litter box instead of the newspaper. Probably not. She is queen of her castle. She twitches her tail when she looks at me as though she is sizing me up. I wonder what she thinks of me.
The client (no names) is funny, smart and eerily like me in more ways than I have room to mention. She used to live in one of my favorite places. She likes ice cream and rides to the lake. We like butterflies. We are perfectionists in some ways. We like music. We are artists--she with a paintbrush, I with my words.
I still don't know if I am cut out for this job. I do things for her that Hubby does for me. Maybe God is trying to teach me to do those things again for a reason. She has become part of my life for a reason, too; I just don't know what it is yet.
I have to remind myself that it is a job. That's hard for me because of who I am and who she is. Can I do this? Maybe if I can get more hours at job #2. I don't work for pleasure, I work for money. I may have to change jobs again for strictly financial reasons. If I have to do that, I'll miss her. It isn't just a job, that's the problem.
My reasons for being a caregiver are many. Some of it is "giving back", some of it is a need to help, some of it was simply because it was available to me at the moment. After my first day, I was scared. After the second day I felt overwhelmed. By the third day, I have found a friend. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Can I do this? That remains the question. Maybe I can.
She's on Facebook. I know that eventually she will read my blog. If I get fired for that, oh well. I think I would rather have her as a friend than a client anyway, but I need that paycheck.
There is always Giant Eagle.
She has a cat. I don't hate cats, and this one is an especially friendly tiger cat, but I've never been a cat person. I'm wondering if I can encourage her to be more careful about using the litter box instead of the newspaper. Probably not. She is queen of her castle. She twitches her tail when she looks at me as though she is sizing me up. I wonder what she thinks of me.
The client (no names) is funny, smart and eerily like me in more ways than I have room to mention. She used to live in one of my favorite places. She likes ice cream and rides to the lake. We like butterflies. We are perfectionists in some ways. We like music. We are artists--she with a paintbrush, I with my words.
I still don't know if I am cut out for this job. I do things for her that Hubby does for me. Maybe God is trying to teach me to do those things again for a reason. She has become part of my life for a reason, too; I just don't know what it is yet.
I have to remind myself that it is a job. That's hard for me because of who I am and who she is. Can I do this? Maybe if I can get more hours at job #2. I don't work for pleasure, I work for money. I may have to change jobs again for strictly financial reasons. If I have to do that, I'll miss her. It isn't just a job, that's the problem.
My reasons for being a caregiver are many. Some of it is "giving back", some of it is a need to help, some of it was simply because it was available to me at the moment. After my first day, I was scared. After the second day I felt overwhelmed. By the third day, I have found a friend. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Can I do this? That remains the question. Maybe I can.
Hungry
I can't get enough of lots of things.
Hugs. No such thing as too many.
Jewelry, like chokers, watches and earrings. Overflowing, and designers still find something new to tempt me. I really need to take care of that.
Chocolate. I admit to being a junkie.
Coffee. Dancing. Sunsets. Autumn leaves. The lake.
But the last week or so I'm just plain hungry. It's like I am trying to fill an empty place inside with bologna sandwiches, those awful little cups with indistinguishable fruits, Cortland apples and ice cream suckers. Oh, and bananas. Plus my usual peanut butter, Hawaiian punch single-serve-tubes-that-you-put-in-a-bottle-of-water and fat-free Pringles. I am insatiable.
I don't know exactly what the trigger was. I've traced this bad habit back maybe a week. Suddenly I am craving everything in sight. The Dog even gets full from the tidbits I toss him. Last night he walked away from the last of the pretzels and went to bed when I searched through the fridge for leftover roast beef. He snorted in disgust at the fudge-striped shortbread cookie I offered.
Hubby just sighs and goes off to work. I think he's afraid to see what concoction I will eat next. He watched in amazement as I ate the bacon. I rarely eat bacon, but I felt like a vacuum cleaner when I saw that plateful of BLTs. I have to stop at Target on Friday. I want chocolate-covered espresso beans.
I haven't been on a binge like this since. .well. . .I can't remember when. My job(s) saves me somewhat. I'm at work over the regular lunch hour, and I take only a drink to the client's home. I work most evenings and I try to avoid the pizza-breadstick habit of the break room. Last night I took everything but the gum and bottled water from my car. I will have to chain myself to the bedpost to keep me from the midnight raids on the Kenmore. My black pants are going to be too tight to zip. I will have to trade them in for skirts with elastic.
I admit to having an addictive personality. If I am not binging on bananas, I will find something else--jewelry (a new friend works at my fave jewelry store), lingerie (trying to justify the new white and black lace I found), slot machines (only on the 'puter, not the casino), caffeine from Starbucks or some other bad habit. I may need Valium. Or a bigger income. Or duct tape over my mouth. Or elastic waistbands...oh, wait...the scrubs have elastic. . .
I can't put my finger on whatever triggered this binge. I'm a bit leery of stepping on the scale. I haven't had time for the Y, but I need to find time to walk before dark on the days I don't work, maybe at the cemetery or the park, maybe in the morning. I need to get back into the habit somewhere away from food (except coffee, of course).
I'm sure the cravings will end. Sooner or later I'll go back to where I was, or maybe I will finally luck into the one thing that will satisfy this outrageous hunger. It's a matter of perspective and breaking a habit, or maybe trading it in on a healthier one. I'll see if the coffee beans work. Or Kahlua.
Meanwhile, I'm glad I hung on to those elastic waist pants.
Hugs. No such thing as too many.
Jewelry, like chokers, watches and earrings. Overflowing, and designers still find something new to tempt me. I really need to take care of that.
Chocolate. I admit to being a junkie.
Coffee. Dancing. Sunsets. Autumn leaves. The lake.
But the last week or so I'm just plain hungry. It's like I am trying to fill an empty place inside with bologna sandwiches, those awful little cups with indistinguishable fruits, Cortland apples and ice cream suckers. Oh, and bananas. Plus my usual peanut butter, Hawaiian punch single-serve-tubes-that-you-put-in-a-bottle-of-water and fat-free Pringles. I am insatiable.
I don't know exactly what the trigger was. I've traced this bad habit back maybe a week. Suddenly I am craving everything in sight. The Dog even gets full from the tidbits I toss him. Last night he walked away from the last of the pretzels and went to bed when I searched through the fridge for leftover roast beef. He snorted in disgust at the fudge-striped shortbread cookie I offered.
Hubby just sighs and goes off to work. I think he's afraid to see what concoction I will eat next. He watched in amazement as I ate the bacon. I rarely eat bacon, but I felt like a vacuum cleaner when I saw that plateful of BLTs. I have to stop at Target on Friday. I want chocolate-covered espresso beans.
I haven't been on a binge like this since. .well. . .I can't remember when. My job(s) saves me somewhat. I'm at work over the regular lunch hour, and I take only a drink to the client's home. I work most evenings and I try to avoid the pizza-breadstick habit of the break room. Last night I took everything but the gum and bottled water from my car. I will have to chain myself to the bedpost to keep me from the midnight raids on the Kenmore. My black pants are going to be too tight to zip. I will have to trade them in for skirts with elastic.
I admit to having an addictive personality. If I am not binging on bananas, I will find something else--jewelry (a new friend works at my fave jewelry store), lingerie (trying to justify the new white and black lace I found), slot machines (only on the 'puter, not the casino), caffeine from Starbucks or some other bad habit. I may need Valium. Or a bigger income. Or duct tape over my mouth. Or elastic waistbands...oh, wait...the scrubs have elastic. . .
I can't put my finger on whatever triggered this binge. I'm a bit leery of stepping on the scale. I haven't had time for the Y, but I need to find time to walk before dark on the days I don't work, maybe at the cemetery or the park, maybe in the morning. I need to get back into the habit somewhere away from food (except coffee, of course).
I'm sure the cravings will end. Sooner or later I'll go back to where I was, or maybe I will finally luck into the one thing that will satisfy this outrageous hunger. It's a matter of perspective and breaking a habit, or maybe trading it in on a healthier one. I'll see if the coffee beans work. Or Kahlua.
Meanwhile, I'm glad I hung on to those elastic waist pants.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Machines Rule!
He says that one day he will turn on his computer or cell and the message will be "WE HAVE TAKEN OVER. WAIT FOR INSTRUCTIONS."
Now, I am one who sorta believes that machines are sentient. Call me crazy; you wouldn't be the first.
Ever notice that bitty green light on your cable box? Or the way the light in the fridge comes on every time you open the door? How do they know how to do that? Of course, I could be paranoid, but I'm just sayin'. . . ..
Think about this. Your refrigerator breaks down. The freezer starts baking the ice cream. You kick it and curse it and finally come to your senses and replace it. No point in repairing it; the service call alone pays for the new one. You discuss the fridge woes in front of the microwave....suddenly, the nuke goes into meltdown. You sneak off to the basement to complain, but the washer hears you and starts spraying water over the piles of clean clothes and the dryer follows suit with cold air.
Be careful what you say in front of the hot water tank....
So you go outside, but the lawn mower is listening....
Before long, it's a second mortgage to replace everything and you still have learned nada.
I swear they THINK. They COMMISERATE. They PLOT. It could be the radio that Hubby left on, but I think I hear my circa 1990 television conversing with the food processor.
The Amish have a good idea--live simply. I am applauding their hard work ethic. They manage without electricity and automobiles. They hang their clothes that they made by hand. They are mostly self-sufficient. I am admiring their lifestyle.
I am doing it while using my cell to access e-mail, playing Slotmania on the computer, having the TV on for noise, enjoying an iced coffee (brewed in an electric drip coffeemaker) with plenty of ice from my freshly cleaned out freezer. I nuked a potato for supper, drove my car one mile to the store where I could have walked to buy a mass-produced loaf of bread that probably has rodent hair in it. I read the paper by a 150 watt bulb, showered in hot water from a tank that is quick-recovery and used an electric hair dryer. I was cold and flipped the furnace switch. So much for simple.
Am I willing to give up my machines? Heck, no! In spite of the fact that I don't trust them, I find that If I say nice things around them they make my life easier. I'll purr at them and tell them how wonderful they are. I will curse them only when I am shopping for their successor, and then only at a distance from anything that may blab.
If the machines take over the world, it's because we let them!
Now, I am one who sorta believes that machines are sentient. Call me crazy; you wouldn't be the first.
Ever notice that bitty green light on your cable box? Or the way the light in the fridge comes on every time you open the door? How do they know how to do that? Of course, I could be paranoid, but I'm just sayin'. . . ..
Think about this. Your refrigerator breaks down. The freezer starts baking the ice cream. You kick it and curse it and finally come to your senses and replace it. No point in repairing it; the service call alone pays for the new one. You discuss the fridge woes in front of the microwave....suddenly, the nuke goes into meltdown. You sneak off to the basement to complain, but the washer hears you and starts spraying water over the piles of clean clothes and the dryer follows suit with cold air.
Be careful what you say in front of the hot water tank....
So you go outside, but the lawn mower is listening....
Before long, it's a second mortgage to replace everything and you still have learned nada.
I swear they THINK. They COMMISERATE. They PLOT. It could be the radio that Hubby left on, but I think I hear my circa 1990 television conversing with the food processor.
The Amish have a good idea--live simply. I am applauding their hard work ethic. They manage without electricity and automobiles. They hang their clothes that they made by hand. They are mostly self-sufficient. I am admiring their lifestyle.
I am doing it while using my cell to access e-mail, playing Slotmania on the computer, having the TV on for noise, enjoying an iced coffee (brewed in an electric drip coffeemaker) with plenty of ice from my freshly cleaned out freezer. I nuked a potato for supper, drove my car one mile to the store where I could have walked to buy a mass-produced loaf of bread that probably has rodent hair in it. I read the paper by a 150 watt bulb, showered in hot water from a tank that is quick-recovery and used an electric hair dryer. I was cold and flipped the furnace switch. So much for simple.
Am I willing to give up my machines? Heck, no! In spite of the fact that I don't trust them, I find that If I say nice things around them they make my life easier. I'll purr at them and tell them how wonderful they are. I will curse them only when I am shopping for their successor, and then only at a distance from anything that may blab.
If the machines take over the world, it's because we let them!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
First Day
First day, first client.
She's a lovely lady, if a bit antsy. She wants OUT, but I can't take her. She likes to play games and talks about her family. Her son takes care of her basic needs and does a really good job of it.
I feel like a fraud, showing up in scrubs. I am not a medical person. I know nothing about it. I don't WANT to learn it. Some people can, some people can't. I can't. I can give help. I can be sociable and understanding. I can dust and run errands. I can fix meals and paint nails. I can listen to her talk. I am uncomfortable taking care of showers, and when her son mentioned Depends, I almost freaked out. I can't do that.
I don't know what made me think I could be a caregiver.
I'm not giving up. I'll get to know somebody else this week, and perhaps I will find that I do have a niche in this profession. The scrubs are an excuse, I know.
I am blaming pink and black scrubs for my insecurity. They are just a uniform that someone somewhere decided was an easy-care, comfortable alternative to street clothes. I am uncomfortable with being responsible for another person, not really the clothes. If I had to wear a silly hat it would be the same thing.
See, I am a person whose confidence comes from the way I am dressed. I don't feel talented. I feel inadequate. I listened to all the gals at training with all of their knowledge and experience. I have none of that. I feel like once again I am stupid, or at the least woefully unprepared. I may be in over my head. I am letting perma-press, shapeless clothes dictate who I am instead of letting what I am doing be the focus.
You know, I like people, especially older people. The ladies at the nursing home liked me. I did little things that gave them a spark of life. I listened to their ramblings, met their families. I could have been a recreational director if I could have received a degree locally. I can do that kind of thing. This frightens me.
I'm meandering, aren't I?
I'm a little bit discombobulated. I want to help somebody. I want to give. I want to do the fun, fulfilling stuff. I will give it a month, maybe two. Then I will look back at these words and I will have a better idea if this is what I am meant to do for another year and five months, two days and sixteen hours.
First day, first client, first impressions. I need a change of attitude, not a change of clothes.
She's a lovely lady, if a bit antsy. She wants OUT, but I can't take her. She likes to play games and talks about her family. Her son takes care of her basic needs and does a really good job of it.
I feel like a fraud, showing up in scrubs. I am not a medical person. I know nothing about it. I don't WANT to learn it. Some people can, some people can't. I can't. I can give help. I can be sociable and understanding. I can dust and run errands. I can fix meals and paint nails. I can listen to her talk. I am uncomfortable taking care of showers, and when her son mentioned Depends, I almost freaked out. I can't do that.
I don't know what made me think I could be a caregiver.
I'm not giving up. I'll get to know somebody else this week, and perhaps I will find that I do have a niche in this profession. The scrubs are an excuse, I know.
I am blaming pink and black scrubs for my insecurity. They are just a uniform that someone somewhere decided was an easy-care, comfortable alternative to street clothes. I am uncomfortable with being responsible for another person, not really the clothes. If I had to wear a silly hat it would be the same thing.
See, I am a person whose confidence comes from the way I am dressed. I don't feel talented. I feel inadequate. I listened to all the gals at training with all of their knowledge and experience. I have none of that. I feel like once again I am stupid, or at the least woefully unprepared. I may be in over my head. I am letting perma-press, shapeless clothes dictate who I am instead of letting what I am doing be the focus.
You know, I like people, especially older people. The ladies at the nursing home liked me. I did little things that gave them a spark of life. I listened to their ramblings, met their families. I could have been a recreational director if I could have received a degree locally. I can do that kind of thing. This frightens me.
I'm meandering, aren't I?
I'm a little bit discombobulated. I want to help somebody. I want to give. I want to do the fun, fulfilling stuff. I will give it a month, maybe two. Then I will look back at these words and I will have a better idea if this is what I am meant to do for another year and five months, two days and sixteen hours.
First day, first client, first impressions. I need a change of attitude, not a change of clothes.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Rain, The Park. . .Other Things
I've told you a little about the Park. It is one of a few places that let me dream and give me peace.
It's a tiny place with gravel to crunch, a trash can, a few picnic tables and lots of trees. Traffic whizzes by, but if I roll up the passenger window I can't hear it. Everybody is in a hurry, everybody but me, it seems. The Park is all mine, just for awhile, today.
When I worked in that part of town I often had my lunch in the Park. Yogurt, an apple, my water bottle or can of Monster all tasted better in the Park than the parking lot. The sky is bluer there, the rain softer. I'm never cold there, never too warm. There is always the shade of the trees, always protection in the arms of the wind. The Park feels like my best friend sometimes. I can loosen my jacket, kick off my shoes. I am safe.
Nobody bothers me there. No one knows I am there. It is one of a handful of places where I can stop for a few minutes and enjoy my inner self. I'm afraid someone will discover my secret hiding place. I know the Park isn't mine alone, but on those days as I eat my pudding cup and savor my Cortland, it might be.
With my new job there won't be time to go to the Park for lunch except on a rare day off. It feels like I am walking away from an old friend. . I will have to find a new best friend, I guess, but it won't be the same. There's a saying that familiarity breeds contempt. I'll challenge that. Familiarity breeds comfort.
Will I ever again have time to sit by the lake? Or cruise the cemetery? Am I ever going to stroll through the woods on the beach? Did I make a mistake committing to a job that will keep me from my favorite places? I don't know, I just don't know.
The sacrifices we make for a paycheck!
We lose the rain spattering on the windshield while we sip our morning coffee at the water's edge. We lose the sunshine, warm on our faces, because we are cooped up in a building sans windows. We are so tired that we can't have a moment to share a drink or a walk, only a bed that calls us for a nap. Our kids end up in daycare when we would rather they be with us; our friends end up distant because we are so darned busy. We no longer have time for even a quick lunch in the Park.
When I retire, or semi-retire, I am going to go to that park or one like it as often as possible. It's been but a few days since I was last at the Park. I miss it already. My quick stop at the marina, no matter how much I love it, wasn't enough. I want the caress of the leaves and the wind in my hair. I want the peace that the smell of wildflowers gives me. I want time for my Park.
I want to be able to choose where I go and how to spend the however-many days I have left. Chasing a paycheck is a necessity, I know that. Please don't be condescending by patting my shoulder and telling me that it is something we all have to do.
If I could choose right now, I'd choose my time in the Park.
It's a tiny place with gravel to crunch, a trash can, a few picnic tables and lots of trees. Traffic whizzes by, but if I roll up the passenger window I can't hear it. Everybody is in a hurry, everybody but me, it seems. The Park is all mine, just for awhile, today.
When I worked in that part of town I often had my lunch in the Park. Yogurt, an apple, my water bottle or can of Monster all tasted better in the Park than the parking lot. The sky is bluer there, the rain softer. I'm never cold there, never too warm. There is always the shade of the trees, always protection in the arms of the wind. The Park feels like my best friend sometimes. I can loosen my jacket, kick off my shoes. I am safe.
Nobody bothers me there. No one knows I am there. It is one of a handful of places where I can stop for a few minutes and enjoy my inner self. I'm afraid someone will discover my secret hiding place. I know the Park isn't mine alone, but on those days as I eat my pudding cup and savor my Cortland, it might be.
With my new job there won't be time to go to the Park for lunch except on a rare day off. It feels like I am walking away from an old friend. . I will have to find a new best friend, I guess, but it won't be the same. There's a saying that familiarity breeds contempt. I'll challenge that. Familiarity breeds comfort.
Will I ever again have time to sit by the lake? Or cruise the cemetery? Am I ever going to stroll through the woods on the beach? Did I make a mistake committing to a job that will keep me from my favorite places? I don't know, I just don't know.
The sacrifices we make for a paycheck!
We lose the rain spattering on the windshield while we sip our morning coffee at the water's edge. We lose the sunshine, warm on our faces, because we are cooped up in a building sans windows. We are so tired that we can't have a moment to share a drink or a walk, only a bed that calls us for a nap. Our kids end up in daycare when we would rather they be with us; our friends end up distant because we are so darned busy. We no longer have time for even a quick lunch in the Park.
When I retire, or semi-retire, I am going to go to that park or one like it as often as possible. It's been but a few days since I was last at the Park. I miss it already. My quick stop at the marina, no matter how much I love it, wasn't enough. I want the caress of the leaves and the wind in my hair. I want the peace that the smell of wildflowers gives me. I want time for my Park.
I want to be able to choose where I go and how to spend the however-many days I have left. Chasing a paycheck is a necessity, I know that. Please don't be condescending by patting my shoulder and telling me that it is something we all have to do.
If I could choose right now, I'd choose my time in the Park.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Fill Me
I had a discussion with a friend about life. Why do we do what we do? What sustains us? Why do we make people, things, places--even jobs--into what we want them to be instead of what they are?
We don't like feeling empty, that's why. We look for the parts that are missing instead of the parts that give us joy and fill us with satisfaction.
It might be that our job is not satisfying. We get up, get dressed, go to work and repeat the same carpel-tunnel-causing movements day after day without realizing we hate it until one Thursday in October we have had enough.
It could be a person who irritates us beyond endurance, but we continue to endure. There is an obligation, perhaps, or a sense of duty, or a matter of respect. We keep smiling. We look for the positive, the things that make us feel good and make them grow in the garden of our minds. We don't throw out people like so much trash. We try to accept them and love them no matter where they have gone.
Maybe it is just ourselves. We are fat or too skinny, have wrinkles or something else that makes us uncomfortable. We've done things of which we aren't proud. We are looking for acceptance as we are. So we take a person who seems kind, or who we remember with fondness, and we build a picture of who we want that person to be. We see what we want to see.
We are like a giant empty vase. When we are young, we fill it with rocks--those being the experiences we have, the job or the education of the moment, the house or the people that we think fill the emptiness inside. Something is still missing. Eventually we fall in love, buy a house, get married or find an SO. These are the pebbles that slide between the rocks. We are busy. We have kids or cats or dogs, lots of meetings and hobbies, money to spend. We hardly notice that some of the rocks are broken or the pebbles have fallen out.
So we add sand and think "THIS IS IT!". I am filled! Now we have church or a social life. We know everything we need to know. We are successful or not. We have settled into a comfort zone. We get an itch. It has to be scratched. We look for a way to soothe it. In my case it was a job I could no longer do, though I had once loved it. It became who I was instead of how I earned a living. What is your itch?
In a few months, or maybe a few years, the nagging starts again. We have everything we could possibly need, don't we? We have everything we want, don't we? Do we? If we are a puzzle, there is a piece missing. If we are a vase, we are not full.
We are tired of being structured. We are tired of doing what we have to do and ignoring what we want to do. We want to be wanted because we are ourselves. We look for that certain something that has been missing. Something that fills us to the brim.
Add water....you see, the vase wasn't full until the water seeped between the grains of sand, washed the rocks and surrounded the pebbles. At long last, you are full. What was it? Was it an object, a person, a tender touch, a job, a dance lesson? An undiscovered talent/ Something old made new again?
I urge you, my friends, to find your life-giving water. I found mine in my writing, my new job-to-be and my special friends. Yours may be your faith, a friend, travel--who knows? As long as it is what you want it to be, you will be filled.
We don't like feeling empty, that's why. We look for the parts that are missing instead of the parts that give us joy and fill us with satisfaction.
It might be that our job is not satisfying. We get up, get dressed, go to work and repeat the same carpel-tunnel-causing movements day after day without realizing we hate it until one Thursday in October we have had enough.
It could be a person who irritates us beyond endurance, but we continue to endure. There is an obligation, perhaps, or a sense of duty, or a matter of respect. We keep smiling. We look for the positive, the things that make us feel good and make them grow in the garden of our minds. We don't throw out people like so much trash. We try to accept them and love them no matter where they have gone.
Maybe it is just ourselves. We are fat or too skinny, have wrinkles or something else that makes us uncomfortable. We've done things of which we aren't proud. We are looking for acceptance as we are. So we take a person who seems kind, or who we remember with fondness, and we build a picture of who we want that person to be. We see what we want to see.
We are like a giant empty vase. When we are young, we fill it with rocks--those being the experiences we have, the job or the education of the moment, the house or the people that we think fill the emptiness inside. Something is still missing. Eventually we fall in love, buy a house, get married or find an SO. These are the pebbles that slide between the rocks. We are busy. We have kids or cats or dogs, lots of meetings and hobbies, money to spend. We hardly notice that some of the rocks are broken or the pebbles have fallen out.
So we add sand and think "THIS IS IT!". I am filled! Now we have church or a social life. We know everything we need to know. We are successful or not. We have settled into a comfort zone. We get an itch. It has to be scratched. We look for a way to soothe it. In my case it was a job I could no longer do, though I had once loved it. It became who I was instead of how I earned a living. What is your itch?
In a few months, or maybe a few years, the nagging starts again. We have everything we could possibly need, don't we? We have everything we want, don't we? Do we? If we are a puzzle, there is a piece missing. If we are a vase, we are not full.
We are tired of being structured. We are tired of doing what we have to do and ignoring what we want to do. We want to be wanted because we are ourselves. We look for that certain something that has been missing. Something that fills us to the brim.
Add water....you see, the vase wasn't full until the water seeped between the grains of sand, washed the rocks and surrounded the pebbles. At long last, you are full. What was it? Was it an object, a person, a tender touch, a job, a dance lesson? An undiscovered talent/ Something old made new again?
I urge you, my friends, to find your life-giving water. I found mine in my writing, my new job-to-be and my special friends. Yours may be your faith, a friend, travel--who knows? As long as it is what you want it to be, you will be filled.
It Might Be "YES"
I've been doing a lot of asking.
I say prayers, light candles. I ask for love and jobs, friends and money, peace in my soul, excitement in my life. Everybody (well, almost everybody) gives me answers, support and so much love and respect that I almost feel selfish accepting it. The private notes alone seem to elevate me to sainthood! Ah, but I am not a saint. Any number of folks can attest to that.
The new job will go a long way in proving my worthiness or lack of it. Several have mentioned the likelihood of ending up in a bad neighborhood. I have no fear of that. If I am afraid, or if my stomach flutters at the mention of the address, I will refuse. Another job lies around the corner. If the client is crabby, I can soothe her. If she is antsy, I will calm her. If she is just plain mean, I will quit when I have had enough. I know I am capable of that now. But my first inclination is to say "YES".
I apply my mother's words, paraphrasing, of course. Always ask. You'll never get anything if you don't, and sometimes the answer will surprise you and be a "yes".
I've met people (most of them men, it seems, no offense meant) whose lives revolve around "NO". They are afraid that a "YES" might be a committment, when "YES" is only an action. Want coffee? No, it might mean more than coffee. Change jobs? No, even if I hate what I do. Learn to laugh harder or cry longer? That's for sissies. No, no, no....and you wonder why you are so darned unhappy. Try "YES" occasionally.
If I have learned anything in my year plus of growth, it is to think hard before saying "NO" and to not be afraid to say "YES". Too many times in my life I was stuck in the "NO" mode. Where did that get me?
I don't regret saying "YES" to the love of my life. I do regret saying "NO" to a college degree. I don't regret saying "YES" to my sons; I do regret saying "NO" to learning to ski, watching a live game of MLB, running for political office and kissing Hubby good-bye when I am really miffed.
Asking for things we need isn't wrong or selfish if we have no means to get them by ourselves. As long as we try, there is no shame in asking. This has been a hard lesson to learn. I, like most of us, prefer to be self-sufficient. Some carry this too far--some to the extent that they would rather starve themselves of food, assistance, fun or a loving relationship when all it would take is to ask.
That's part of the reason I wanted this job. Someone has asked for a little help. I am able to give it.
Would it make a difference to them if I had said "NO"? Maybe....maybe they would find someone else to satisfy their need, but maybe I would be better at it. Maybe I am not right for the person or the job. Well, we'll never find out by saying "NO".
When you ask me for anything, be assured that my "YES" is as well thought out as my "NO". I've come too far to not be willing to at least try. Thanks for giving me your "YES" when I asked.
I say prayers, light candles. I ask for love and jobs, friends and money, peace in my soul, excitement in my life. Everybody (well, almost everybody) gives me answers, support and so much love and respect that I almost feel selfish accepting it. The private notes alone seem to elevate me to sainthood! Ah, but I am not a saint. Any number of folks can attest to that.
The new job will go a long way in proving my worthiness or lack of it. Several have mentioned the likelihood of ending up in a bad neighborhood. I have no fear of that. If I am afraid, or if my stomach flutters at the mention of the address, I will refuse. Another job lies around the corner. If the client is crabby, I can soothe her. If she is antsy, I will calm her. If she is just plain mean, I will quit when I have had enough. I know I am capable of that now. But my first inclination is to say "YES".
I apply my mother's words, paraphrasing, of course. Always ask. You'll never get anything if you don't, and sometimes the answer will surprise you and be a "yes".
I've met people (most of them men, it seems, no offense meant) whose lives revolve around "NO". They are afraid that a "YES" might be a committment, when "YES" is only an action. Want coffee? No, it might mean more than coffee. Change jobs? No, even if I hate what I do. Learn to laugh harder or cry longer? That's for sissies. No, no, no....and you wonder why you are so darned unhappy. Try "YES" occasionally.
If I have learned anything in my year plus of growth, it is to think hard before saying "NO" and to not be afraid to say "YES". Too many times in my life I was stuck in the "NO" mode. Where did that get me?
I don't regret saying "YES" to the love of my life. I do regret saying "NO" to a college degree. I don't regret saying "YES" to my sons; I do regret saying "NO" to learning to ski, watching a live game of MLB, running for political office and kissing Hubby good-bye when I am really miffed.
Asking for things we need isn't wrong or selfish if we have no means to get them by ourselves. As long as we try, there is no shame in asking. This has been a hard lesson to learn. I, like most of us, prefer to be self-sufficient. Some carry this too far--some to the extent that they would rather starve themselves of food, assistance, fun or a loving relationship when all it would take is to ask.
That's part of the reason I wanted this job. Someone has asked for a little help. I am able to give it.
Would it make a difference to them if I had said "NO"? Maybe....maybe they would find someone else to satisfy their need, but maybe I would be better at it. Maybe I am not right for the person or the job. Well, we'll never find out by saying "NO".
When you ask me for anything, be assured that my "YES" is as well thought out as my "NO". I've come too far to not be willing to at least try. Thanks for giving me your "YES" when I asked.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Cousin Zelda
I have this cousin I didn't know I had. Well, I knew she existed at one point in time, but I had forgotten. She was a snotty-nosed brat when I last saw her and I was a grown-up seventeen. I knew her brothers (well, two of them anyhow). Who paid attention to the kid? Not me, I had one just like it at home. So Zelda disappeared into the woodwork. Or maybe it was into the kennel. Her Mom raised dogs. Boxers. Cockers. Old English sheepdogs. I digress.
Facebook happened. Some chick by the name of Zelda wanted to be my friend. Well, OK, but who the hell are you? I spied on her profile. Hmmmm, that fella looks suspiciously like my lost cousin Zeke, and his name is Zeke, too. Hmmmm again. "That's my brother, you nitwit" said Zelda. Zelda? You're the snotty-nosed brat sister of Zeke? Well, ain't that a fine how-de-do!
Turns out Zelda is all grown-up, too. She surpassed me in age--I stayed at about sixteen brain-wise; she must be at least eighteen, maybe even twenty.
When Lin said, "you really must be related" , we weren't sure if it was a compliment.
The conversation started out simple enough. The company for whom I interviewed said something about a background check. Zelda said she hoped they didn't find the bodies. I told her I thought she took care of the cement. It got crazier from there (much, much crazier). I soon forgot it was a public conversation...today was almost as bad, what with the cousin in the Chippendales and the insurance from the arson to give to Hora, uncle somebody's sluttish girlfriend...don't ask. Please, please don't ask.
I don't know where it all came from, only that the writer's block that has been plaguing me suddenly dissipated. I felt like laughing out loud, and, in fact, I did. I've been under a teensy bit of stress, and not the good kind. Worry has been my constant companion along with anxiety, rejection, sciatica and a host of ghosts that haunt me and cousin Filbert. He's such a nut.
Anyway, the bantering with my Socialist buddy, the one-on-one with other friends, the prayers I have received and sent have all worked wonders for my psyche. But the humor I have found with Zelda has added something new--a fall-off-the-chair belly laugh, a crazy moment to say anything and hear it bounce back. We are Abbott and Costello. We are Laurel and Hardy. We are Zager and Evans...no, maybe not, unless this is year 2525. How fast time goes...I digress again...
I can breathe tonight. The tightness in my head is gone. Zelda likes me and I like her. We have found each other. We share a silly sense of humor. If our grandmas could see us now, how proud they would be! Our mothers (first cousins) might be a bit embarrassed at first, but they would play along, too. Child-like behavior runs in the family. Our children might, however, be mortified.
So what next? When we are bored I'm sure we will meet up again on Facebook along with Rodney and Jolly, Aunt Flo and twice-removed sisters who were singers in a rock-and-roll band but gave it up because the public didn't appreciate the talents of the Siamese twins and after all, it takes two to tango, but they couldn't do it with their backs to each other so it took four to tango and that never made sense so they boogied instead...oh, never mind.
It isn't as much fun without cousin Zelda.
Facebook happened. Some chick by the name of Zelda wanted to be my friend. Well, OK, but who the hell are you? I spied on her profile. Hmmmm, that fella looks suspiciously like my lost cousin Zeke, and his name is Zeke, too. Hmmmm again. "That's my brother, you nitwit" said Zelda. Zelda? You're the snotty-nosed brat sister of Zeke? Well, ain't that a fine how-de-do!
Turns out Zelda is all grown-up, too. She surpassed me in age--I stayed at about sixteen brain-wise; she must be at least eighteen, maybe even twenty.
When Lin said, "you really must be related" , we weren't sure if it was a compliment.
The conversation started out simple enough. The company for whom I interviewed said something about a background check. Zelda said she hoped they didn't find the bodies. I told her I thought she took care of the cement. It got crazier from there (much, much crazier). I soon forgot it was a public conversation...today was almost as bad, what with the cousin in the Chippendales and the insurance from the arson to give to Hora, uncle somebody's sluttish girlfriend...don't ask. Please, please don't ask.
I don't know where it all came from, only that the writer's block that has been plaguing me suddenly dissipated. I felt like laughing out loud, and, in fact, I did. I've been under a teensy bit of stress, and not the good kind. Worry has been my constant companion along with anxiety, rejection, sciatica and a host of ghosts that haunt me and cousin Filbert. He's such a nut.
Anyway, the bantering with my Socialist buddy, the one-on-one with other friends, the prayers I have received and sent have all worked wonders for my psyche. But the humor I have found with Zelda has added something new--a fall-off-the-chair belly laugh, a crazy moment to say anything and hear it bounce back. We are Abbott and Costello. We are Laurel and Hardy. We are Zager and Evans...no, maybe not, unless this is year 2525. How fast time goes...I digress again...
I can breathe tonight. The tightness in my head is gone. Zelda likes me and I like her. We have found each other. We share a silly sense of humor. If our grandmas could see us now, how proud they would be! Our mothers (first cousins) might be a bit embarrassed at first, but they would play along, too. Child-like behavior runs in the family. Our children might, however, be mortified.
So what next? When we are bored I'm sure we will meet up again on Facebook along with Rodney and Jolly, Aunt Flo and twice-removed sisters who were singers in a rock-and-roll band but gave it up because the public didn't appreciate the talents of the Siamese twins and after all, it takes two to tango, but they couldn't do it with their backs to each other so it took four to tango and that never made sense so they boogied instead...oh, never mind.
It isn't as much fun without cousin Zelda.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Grief
I was talking to a friend about death after her mother's passing. It wasn't morbid, just matter-of-fact.
We nattered a bit about life after death (which I believe in and she doesn't) and the possibility of reincarnation ( which she believes in and I don't). We agreed to disagree. At least we both believe in something. How sad that some folks see death only as an ending.
Both of us want to be remembered for something--I, for my words; she for her cinnamon rolls. We both believe in a Supreme Being--mine is God, hers is Mother Earth. I am a wish-I'd been-a-hippie; she is an aging one.
Our light friendship is probably not sustainable. We came together when I lost my mother to Alzheimer's and hers was showing early signs. We bonded a bit over discovering our fathers had passed about the same time, the commonality of our jobs and our love of coffee and chocolate. We talk about many things but have yet to find anything that will keep us together.
When we began to speak of death there was no weeping or thrashing. At a certain age, one begins to accept death and separation of loved ones as a part of life. It happens. We grieve. We move on. We are not afraid to die because we both know we will live again--I at the resurrection, she in a new person. We are more afraid of not living.
We watched our fathers pass suddenly into the Great Beyond. It was as if they said, "OK, I'm done here" and left. The pain was swift in coming, but at last we can talk bout them, flaws and all, and laugh. The pain doesn't go away--it has been nine years--but it does subside.
But our mothers...we watched them go from beautiful, vibrant women with laughter that makes Heaven sing to frail, sad and forgetful. They who gave so much in their younger days had an illness that robbed them of their essence. Her mother, like Mom, was gone long before her body gave up.
There is a thread between us, tenuous though it may be. We see ourselves in our mothers. We still aren't afraid of death, it worries us a bit how we will get there.
So I shared my blog, right from the beginning, when I began my journey to become whole. Every time I thought I had achieved that...well, things changed.
As we spoke of death I realized there are many kinds of dying inside each of us. Physical death is one thing. But the losing of a job, separation or divorce from a loved one, moving out of one's home, watching a child grow away from you, the emotional loss of a friend--all of these can generate the stages of grief. It's the way we humans are.
So once again I look at my life--the pros and cons of it all. The list of "cons" was very short. I thought hard but could add none.
The "Pro" list, however, keeps growing. I can add to it every second without even trying.
Death can come quickly, like it did with my Dad, mercifully taking us in mid-stride. Or after a long illness, like with Mom. So now I have decided that everything that wastes those precious minutes will have to go--the clutter from my closet, the stress from the job, the people who drag me down--anything that robs me of my essential comfort.
I am ready to live every second I have left.
We nattered a bit about life after death (which I believe in and she doesn't) and the possibility of reincarnation ( which she believes in and I don't). We agreed to disagree. At least we both believe in something. How sad that some folks see death only as an ending.
Both of us want to be remembered for something--I, for my words; she for her cinnamon rolls. We both believe in a Supreme Being--mine is God, hers is Mother Earth. I am a wish-I'd been-a-hippie; she is an aging one.
Our light friendship is probably not sustainable. We came together when I lost my mother to Alzheimer's and hers was showing early signs. We bonded a bit over discovering our fathers had passed about the same time, the commonality of our jobs and our love of coffee and chocolate. We talk about many things but have yet to find anything that will keep us together.
When we began to speak of death there was no weeping or thrashing. At a certain age, one begins to accept death and separation of loved ones as a part of life. It happens. We grieve. We move on. We are not afraid to die because we both know we will live again--I at the resurrection, she in a new person. We are more afraid of not living.
We watched our fathers pass suddenly into the Great Beyond. It was as if they said, "OK, I'm done here" and left. The pain was swift in coming, but at last we can talk bout them, flaws and all, and laugh. The pain doesn't go away--it has been nine years--but it does subside.
But our mothers...we watched them go from beautiful, vibrant women with laughter that makes Heaven sing to frail, sad and forgetful. They who gave so much in their younger days had an illness that robbed them of their essence. Her mother, like Mom, was gone long before her body gave up.
There is a thread between us, tenuous though it may be. We see ourselves in our mothers. We still aren't afraid of death, it worries us a bit how we will get there.
So I shared my blog, right from the beginning, when I began my journey to become whole. Every time I thought I had achieved that...well, things changed.
As we spoke of death I realized there are many kinds of dying inside each of us. Physical death is one thing. But the losing of a job, separation or divorce from a loved one, moving out of one's home, watching a child grow away from you, the emotional loss of a friend--all of these can generate the stages of grief. It's the way we humans are.
So once again I look at my life--the pros and cons of it all. The list of "cons" was very short. I thought hard but could add none.
The "Pro" list, however, keeps growing. I can add to it every second without even trying.
Death can come quickly, like it did with my Dad, mercifully taking us in mid-stride. Or after a long illness, like with Mom. So now I have decided that everything that wastes those precious minutes will have to go--the clutter from my closet, the stress from the job, the people who drag me down--anything that robs me of my essential comfort.
I am ready to live every second I have left.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Swan?
I met a woman recently at the store where I work a couple of days a week. Faded would be the word to describe her.
Her waist-length. sort-of-blond, curly hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and the mass was topped with a faded Yankees' baseball cap. Her almost-blue eyes were washed away by rimless glasses that perched at the end of her small, well-shaped nose. She was a bit taller than I am, but it was hard to tell because she walked with a three-pronged cane.
She wasn't wearing any foundation garments, or they were ill-fitting. Her top was a t-shirt, sizes too big, that had once been navy or perhaps purple. Th sweatpants she wore were old, almost-black and faded, too. White (again, sort-of)tennis shoes graced (I use the term loosely) her feet. She could have lost a few pounds (can't most of us?), but she wasn't really a large woman.
I wanted to cry.
When she said she needed new clothes to go to a dinner with her dad, I felt hope. No such luck. She had been ill, she said, and had to wear the sneakers. Flat shoes? I suggested, maybe a comfortable ballet slipper? Nope. She would wear the sweatpants, but with a new shirt. She wore no makeup, and wouldn't bother.
She said there was no point, that she was ugly and fat, her husband said so. I wanted to hire a hitman.
She eventually settled on a shapeless top to wear with newish black sweats, and a necklace and earrings. She looked cleaner, but no better. How very sad that her self-esteem was that low.
How different was the 20-something who came in next! A very large girl with a bright smile, she was going to a party with her boyfriend. Her colors were as brilliant as her smile; the dress she chose was feminine, the lacy cammie added just enough sex appeal. She was a pleasure to be around. She knew she was pretty, her boyfriend thought so, too. She had wings.
People DO look at the way we dress. It affects our self-image. If we see ourselves as dowdy, we are. The old faded things show us as old and faded. Use them for car rags.
She pulled out her drivers' license at the desk. Her photo was the typical one, generally unflattering. Then she told us she carries her first license with her, and showed us a beautiful young girl....I nearly fell off my heels, She was at least fifteen years younger than me. My first drivers' license didn't even have a photo on it, and it was paper, not a hologrammed plastic card. So young to be so sad.
I thought back to myself a few months ago, when depression and poor self-image had taken its toll on me. This woman could be me, except that I had enough strength and support to change. She does not.
I longed to hug her, to tell her she wasn't the ugly woman her husband had seen, that she was still the attractive woman in the picture. I tried to tell her that she was still "her" on the inside, and could be on the outside, but to no avail. The pounds don't matter as much as your brain does! I wanted to shout.
As I write, I feel my tears running down my face. She is unhappy. I pray for her. No one should be treated this way. No one should be so unhappy that they can't get out of the black where they find themselves.
She will be back again, when another function comes up, likely with her dad. We will try again to bring out the pretty woman she can afford to be.
Please, God, heal her mind as well as her body.
This ugly duckling could become a swan.
Her waist-length. sort-of-blond, curly hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and the mass was topped with a faded Yankees' baseball cap. Her almost-blue eyes were washed away by rimless glasses that perched at the end of her small, well-shaped nose. She was a bit taller than I am, but it was hard to tell because she walked with a three-pronged cane.
She wasn't wearing any foundation garments, or they were ill-fitting. Her top was a t-shirt, sizes too big, that had once been navy or perhaps purple. Th sweatpants she wore were old, almost-black and faded, too. White (again, sort-of)tennis shoes graced (I use the term loosely) her feet. She could have lost a few pounds (can't most of us?), but she wasn't really a large woman.
I wanted to cry.
When she said she needed new clothes to go to a dinner with her dad, I felt hope. No such luck. She had been ill, she said, and had to wear the sneakers. Flat shoes? I suggested, maybe a comfortable ballet slipper? Nope. She would wear the sweatpants, but with a new shirt. She wore no makeup, and wouldn't bother.
She said there was no point, that she was ugly and fat, her husband said so. I wanted to hire a hitman.
She eventually settled on a shapeless top to wear with newish black sweats, and a necklace and earrings. She looked cleaner, but no better. How very sad that her self-esteem was that low.
How different was the 20-something who came in next! A very large girl with a bright smile, she was going to a party with her boyfriend. Her colors were as brilliant as her smile; the dress she chose was feminine, the lacy cammie added just enough sex appeal. She was a pleasure to be around. She knew she was pretty, her boyfriend thought so, too. She had wings.
People DO look at the way we dress. It affects our self-image. If we see ourselves as dowdy, we are. The old faded things show us as old and faded. Use them for car rags.
She pulled out her drivers' license at the desk. Her photo was the typical one, generally unflattering. Then she told us she carries her first license with her, and showed us a beautiful young girl....I nearly fell off my heels, She was at least fifteen years younger than me. My first drivers' license didn't even have a photo on it, and it was paper, not a hologrammed plastic card. So young to be so sad.
I thought back to myself a few months ago, when depression and poor self-image had taken its toll on me. This woman could be me, except that I had enough strength and support to change. She does not.
I longed to hug her, to tell her she wasn't the ugly woman her husband had seen, that she was still the attractive woman in the picture. I tried to tell her that she was still "her" on the inside, and could be on the outside, but to no avail. The pounds don't matter as much as your brain does! I wanted to shout.
As I write, I feel my tears running down my face. She is unhappy. I pray for her. No one should be treated this way. No one should be so unhappy that they can't get out of the black where they find themselves.
She will be back again, when another function comes up, likely with her dad. We will try again to bring out the pretty woman she can afford to be.
Please, God, heal her mind as well as her body.
This ugly duckling could become a swan.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Fait Accompli
I can't believe I did this. I quit my job. I really did it. I quit.
I sent a letter of resignation to a boss I barely know. I have been on his team almost two weeks; he has yet to say hello.
In a long laundry list of last straws, this is near the top. Enough is enough.
Define "enough". Plenty. Satisfied. Fulfilled a need. Enough.
This week, I have driven enough miles, spent enough time lost. I have smiled at one too many people, sold one too many cases, nearly run off I-80 one too many times. I have been alone when I needed a hug and listened to hundreds of songs and talking heads. Enough.
My paycheck should be taking us out to dinner occasionally; instead, it is back into the gas tank. I notice the attendant drives a Cadillac. I drive a Chevy. Enough.
So, I wrote the still-unacknowledged letter of resignation--and I quit.
No, I don't have another job; well, I do, but it's only a few hours a week. I'll get one.
I had to weigh it all. I am tired, sleepy-eyed, snappy and drunk on caffeine much of the time. I get impatient with spouse, dog and grandkids. My sons have escaped most of the torture because I hardly see them. Their girls text me instead of calling, I'm sure to avoid my railing them about something. My friends? They talk to me on Facebook or in church where I am safe to be around. One went to Florida to avoid my scathing commentary (no, really, she went to see her kids...at least she said so....) and another is so distant we might live in separate worlds. It might be my imagination...but by the time I get home, I am so needy. It's driving them away.
The Y is no longer my refuge...I am usually too tired to go.
I thought I could do anything for another one year, seven months and 25 days. I was wrong. I can't. I quit.
The story of my life; I begin and don't finish. Well, you're wrong. I AM FINISHED. Done. Fini. Kaput.
I am going to find a nice little job as a cashier, or stock clerk, or maybe driving little old ladies around town. I will get lost occasionally to amuse them. I will drop things when they do, to show it happens to everybody. The gas man will forget my name. I will go quietly into retirement where I will be relaxed and stress-less.
There are enough things in my life that I can never expect to happen. Quitting the job was one of them, but if I have the courage to do this, well, maybe I can find the courage for those other "never will happens".
Meanwhile, we will manage. We won't starve. We will get behind, perhaps, then we will catch up.
And thanks, Carolyn S. for this:
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud became more painful than the risk it took to blossom."--Annais Nin
I AM READY TO BLOSSOM!
I sent a letter of resignation to a boss I barely know. I have been on his team almost two weeks; he has yet to say hello.
In a long laundry list of last straws, this is near the top. Enough is enough.
Define "enough". Plenty. Satisfied. Fulfilled a need. Enough.
This week, I have driven enough miles, spent enough time lost. I have smiled at one too many people, sold one too many cases, nearly run off I-80 one too many times. I have been alone when I needed a hug and listened to hundreds of songs and talking heads. Enough.
My paycheck should be taking us out to dinner occasionally; instead, it is back into the gas tank. I notice the attendant drives a Cadillac. I drive a Chevy. Enough.
So, I wrote the still-unacknowledged letter of resignation--and I quit.
No, I don't have another job; well, I do, but it's only a few hours a week. I'll get one.
I had to weigh it all. I am tired, sleepy-eyed, snappy and drunk on caffeine much of the time. I get impatient with spouse, dog and grandkids. My sons have escaped most of the torture because I hardly see them. Their girls text me instead of calling, I'm sure to avoid my railing them about something. My friends? They talk to me on Facebook or in church where I am safe to be around. One went to Florida to avoid my scathing commentary (no, really, she went to see her kids...at least she said so....) and another is so distant we might live in separate worlds. It might be my imagination...but by the time I get home, I am so needy. It's driving them away.
The Y is no longer my refuge...I am usually too tired to go.
I thought I could do anything for another one year, seven months and 25 days. I was wrong. I can't. I quit.
The story of my life; I begin and don't finish. Well, you're wrong. I AM FINISHED. Done. Fini. Kaput.
I am going to find a nice little job as a cashier, or stock clerk, or maybe driving little old ladies around town. I will get lost occasionally to amuse them. I will drop things when they do, to show it happens to everybody. The gas man will forget my name. I will go quietly into retirement where I will be relaxed and stress-less.
There are enough things in my life that I can never expect to happen. Quitting the job was one of them, but if I have the courage to do this, well, maybe I can find the courage for those other "never will happens".
Meanwhile, we will manage. We won't starve. We will get behind, perhaps, then we will catch up.
And thanks, Carolyn S. for this:
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud became more painful than the risk it took to blossom."--Annais Nin
I AM READY TO BLOSSOM!
Enough, Already
TomTom used to be my friend. Together we navigated through Pittsburgh with few mishaps. We made in in and out of the Allegheny National Forest, only getting lost twice. I loved my TomTom.
That love/hate thing? I understand completely.
Route 422, get off the right ramp, Walmart is RIGHT THERE. Except that TomTom didn't know it was closed. Route 422, not Walmart. I tried a different way. TomTom kept directing me back to 422. "Turn around when you can do so safely..." it kept repeating...."TURN AROUND,YOU IDIOT!" , at least that's what I think the girly-voice said. Maybe it swore, I'm not sure about that.
I pulled into a gas station and threw myself at the attendant, practically sobbing in her arms. Gratefully, she was a native New Castlonian and a Walmart enthusiast as well.
"Oh, it's easy, Honey," she said in a voice remarkably like TomTom's.....spooky. I understood her directions perfectly--two lights, turn right; three lights, turn right; two lights, turn right...huh? Back on the same drag, right in the face of a detour...I heard TomTom snicker.
By this time, 104 miles, TomTom's estimate, was 128. I growled at my emptying gas tank, snarled at the poor flagman...and nearly drove right past Walmart! At last!
A parking spot right near the entrance. I clocked in with my little computer and checked into the store,,,it was supposed to be a two-hour call...I looked to see what had to be done here....one item...wait...ONE ITEM? That can't be right....ONE ITEM?
I filled the shelves, straightened the display. One hour, forty-five minutes left. I looked for a manager. Off today. Gall bladder. Inventory coming. No order. Left one anyway. One hour, thirty-five left.I got bread and dog biscuits. Phooey on this, my language not at all ladylike and far more colorful.
TomTom, mercifully, was kinder getting me home. He with the she-voice didn't yell once!
So you see, Boss, I like the work in general. I am used to getting lost once in awhile. It's just that I used to enjoy driving. I don't anymore. I'm beginning to imagine that an inanimate object yells at me. I'm so tired when I get home after a 200 mile day, then have to go back to work, or do computer stuff not for pleasure. I'm tired of being on a first-name basis with the gas station attendant.
The list of last straws lengthens.
Enough, already. Good night, TomTom.
That love/hate thing? I understand completely.
Route 422, get off the right ramp, Walmart is RIGHT THERE. Except that TomTom didn't know it was closed. Route 422, not Walmart. I tried a different way. TomTom kept directing me back to 422. "Turn around when you can do so safely..." it kept repeating...."TURN AROUND,YOU IDIOT!" , at least that's what I think the girly-voice said. Maybe it swore, I'm not sure about that.
I pulled into a gas station and threw myself at the attendant, practically sobbing in her arms. Gratefully, she was a native New Castlonian and a Walmart enthusiast as well.
"Oh, it's easy, Honey," she said in a voice remarkably like TomTom's.....spooky. I understood her directions perfectly--two lights, turn right; three lights, turn right; two lights, turn right...huh? Back on the same drag, right in the face of a detour...I heard TomTom snicker.
By this time, 104 miles, TomTom's estimate, was 128. I growled at my emptying gas tank, snarled at the poor flagman...and nearly drove right past Walmart! At last!
A parking spot right near the entrance. I clocked in with my little computer and checked into the store,,,it was supposed to be a two-hour call...I looked to see what had to be done here....one item...wait...ONE ITEM? That can't be right....ONE ITEM?
I filled the shelves, straightened the display. One hour, forty-five minutes left. I looked for a manager. Off today. Gall bladder. Inventory coming. No order. Left one anyway. One hour, thirty-five left.I got bread and dog biscuits. Phooey on this, my language not at all ladylike and far more colorful.
TomTom, mercifully, was kinder getting me home. He with the she-voice didn't yell once!
So you see, Boss, I like the work in general. I am used to getting lost once in awhile. It's just that I used to enjoy driving. I don't anymore. I'm beginning to imagine that an inanimate object yells at me. I'm so tired when I get home after a 200 mile day, then have to go back to work, or do computer stuff not for pleasure. I'm tired of being on a first-name basis with the gas station attendant.
The list of last straws lengthens.
Enough, already. Good night, TomTom.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
To My Favorite Son
You were there to witness the birth of your child. The mother's pain was all too real. Let's face it--childbirth hurts! There's something about that kind of pain. It doesn't linger.
When it was over, and the baby was given to you, all her pain disappeared. As you patted her hand, assuring yourself that she was, indeed, OK, your thoughts turned to that tiny baby, and all the love that was in you poured into that little child.
That's how it was when you were born. There was no more pain. You were whisked away to take care of the problems you had when you were born. Then they brought you back, and laid you in my arms. It was so hard to believe that I could love anyone instantly like I loved you.
We had our moments, didn't we? When I would get so mad that you covered your ears to drown out my screaming. When I would have to separate you and your brother because you were fighting until I would say, "come out of your rooms when I feel better." When I divided every car and horse equally so you had nothing to argue about, and in minutes you had them all together again.
I loved it when your friends were around. I loved it when they called me "Mom". None of them were my blood, but you know what? They made me feel like they were. Even those who didn't call me "Ma" were respectful. No, I didn't give them life. They added to mine.
Ah, yes, you were a trial at times. But I loved you no matter what, and I hope you know that. Today you are no longer a boy, but a man with a family of your own, a career to be proud of, a woman who loves you. And, just so you know, a Mom and Dad who couldn't be more proud.
It sounds mushy, I know, and I don't want you to be embarrassed. But I remember taking you to the Mall or out to dinner when you were a teen. You didn't make me walk behind or pretend you didn't know me. You didn't push me away when I put my arm around your shoulder, even when your friends were around. You held me when my parents died. You are there when I need you. That pleases me more than you know.
I cried on the day you moved out. I wondered if we would ever be close again, or if it was going to be one of those 'I'll call you when I want something' relationships. But no, you call to say hello, you text me with news or queries, sometimes to just say "I love you". You trust me. I'm so happy!
You are a wonderful young man. I like to think I played some small part in helping you become who you are. You've always been my favorite, and I thought you should know.
Which one? How could I choose? You both give me a reason for being. I love you.
When it was over, and the baby was given to you, all her pain disappeared. As you patted her hand, assuring yourself that she was, indeed, OK, your thoughts turned to that tiny baby, and all the love that was in you poured into that little child.
That's how it was when you were born. There was no more pain. You were whisked away to take care of the problems you had when you were born. Then they brought you back, and laid you in my arms. It was so hard to believe that I could love anyone instantly like I loved you.
We had our moments, didn't we? When I would get so mad that you covered your ears to drown out my screaming. When I would have to separate you and your brother because you were fighting until I would say, "come out of your rooms when I feel better." When I divided every car and horse equally so you had nothing to argue about, and in minutes you had them all together again.
I loved it when your friends were around. I loved it when they called me "Mom". None of them were my blood, but you know what? They made me feel like they were. Even those who didn't call me "Ma" were respectful. No, I didn't give them life. They added to mine.
Ah, yes, you were a trial at times. But I loved you no matter what, and I hope you know that. Today you are no longer a boy, but a man with a family of your own, a career to be proud of, a woman who loves you. And, just so you know, a Mom and Dad who couldn't be more proud.
It sounds mushy, I know, and I don't want you to be embarrassed. But I remember taking you to the Mall or out to dinner when you were a teen. You didn't make me walk behind or pretend you didn't know me. You didn't push me away when I put my arm around your shoulder, even when your friends were around. You held me when my parents died. You are there when I need you. That pleases me more than you know.
I cried on the day you moved out. I wondered if we would ever be close again, or if it was going to be one of those 'I'll call you when I want something' relationships. But no, you call to say hello, you text me with news or queries, sometimes to just say "I love you". You trust me. I'm so happy!
You are a wonderful young man. I like to think I played some small part in helping you become who you are. You've always been my favorite, and I thought you should know.
Which one? How could I choose? You both give me a reason for being. I love you.
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