How can I grow if I no longer remember who I once was? All I will be doing is repeating the same mistakes, like in "Groundhog Day". At least he learned along the way. Will I? Part of my journey is dealing with memories of the things I used to love. I will deal with the painful ones later.
I spent some time in meditation the other day. I wanted to find out if the things I used to love still made me smile. Some of them do. I question whether they are more a part of me now, or if they are only the past. The list, while by no means complete, was an eye opener for me. If you see yourself, chances are you and I are on the same road. Here goes:
*Dad holding my hand as we ran ahead of Mom and Grandma at Niagara Falls
*Those big swirly suckers that Mom always broke into pieces
*Chocolate Easter bunnies with no ears
*Music, from Clapton to Vivaldi, Jackson Browne to Zombies, Chicago to Santana and all between
*Popsicles from the corner market
*The smell of freshly turned dirt in Grandpa's garden
*Watching thunderstorms from the front porch, the forks of lightning streaking to Earth
*Carnivals, county fairs and church festivals
*Holding a baby, his tiny fingers grasping mine
*Parties with music and chip dip and dancing in a dark corner
* McDonald's french fries (Admit it. Even the smell makes you salivate!)
*The lake, rough with wind; the silky quiet of the lagoons
*Knock-knock and elephant jokes (Why did the elephant paint her toenails red? So she could hide in the cherry tree!)
*Old boyfriends, or even wanna-be's, especially ----. Yum. No, I am not telling. No, not even you.
*The water from a mountain spring
*Hearing the first peepers, or the cardinal's mating call in the spring
*Coloring books and Barbie dolls
Like the Beatles' song, "In My Life", there are places I remember...though some have gone on and some remain...all these places had their moments; with lovers and friends I still can recall...some are dead and some are living...in my life, I loved them all.
The sights and sounds, the smells and tastes and touches, spring forth like a geyser . I have a headache from so many mementos vying for a place in my frontal lobe. Remember me? Remember me!!
It will be a long time before I fall asleep tonight.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Do I Dare?
Within the next couple of weeks, I am going to swallow my considerable vanity and buy a bathing suit. I have not worn one in over twenty years. I want to go in the pool at the Y. I want to go into the hot tub. I need this.
The coaches keep telling me that no one watches, no one cares. I do.
Why do I care how I look in a swimsuit at the Y, for Pete's sake? I am there to lose pounds and to repair my health. I am not man-hunting. I want to be liked, not lusted after. At my age and indeterminate number of pounds, it isn't likely anyway, so why do I care how I look?
Because I do, that's all. One of my coaches is slim and graceful, with the body of a swimmer or a runner (which she is). At fifty, she is smart, a little shy, remarkably funny and has a mass of curly dark hair most of us would kill for. But get her in a swimsuit at the Y? Nope. Like me, she has body image issues.
Or that gal working with the weight straps. Tall and lean, maybe in her mid-twenties, she exercises mostly in the deserted gym. She will not swim. She hates her legs. Really?
I became serious about moving and exercising last October. I was self-conscious (still am), feeling fat and lazy, feeling unloved and just plain ugly. I had been working on my mind, but not on my physical body. All that changed in an instant, don't ask me why or how. I couldn't tell you.
I started with a walk, moved to the Y when it got cold and dark. Began the treadmill for a few minutes at a slow pace, eventually speeding up and adding machines and Pilates to my regimen. Thanks to encouragement from all around, I am finally getting reasonably fit. I have a long way to go, but at least I have started.
The swimsuit issue still exists. I know it is silly, my fears irrational. I will do this, and I will do it soon. It can't be any harder to conquer than the treadmill.
The coaches keep telling me that no one watches, no one cares. I do.
Why do I care how I look in a swimsuit at the Y, for Pete's sake? I am there to lose pounds and to repair my health. I am not man-hunting. I want to be liked, not lusted after. At my age and indeterminate number of pounds, it isn't likely anyway, so why do I care how I look?
Because I do, that's all. One of my coaches is slim and graceful, with the body of a swimmer or a runner (which she is). At fifty, she is smart, a little shy, remarkably funny and has a mass of curly dark hair most of us would kill for. But get her in a swimsuit at the Y? Nope. Like me, she has body image issues.
Or that gal working with the weight straps. Tall and lean, maybe in her mid-twenties, she exercises mostly in the deserted gym. She will not swim. She hates her legs. Really?
I became serious about moving and exercising last October. I was self-conscious (still am), feeling fat and lazy, feeling unloved and just plain ugly. I had been working on my mind, but not on my physical body. All that changed in an instant, don't ask me why or how. I couldn't tell you.
I started with a walk, moved to the Y when it got cold and dark. Began the treadmill for a few minutes at a slow pace, eventually speeding up and adding machines and Pilates to my regimen. Thanks to encouragement from all around, I am finally getting reasonably fit. I have a long way to go, but at least I have started.
The swimsuit issue still exists. I know it is silly, my fears irrational. I will do this, and I will do it soon. It can't be any harder to conquer than the treadmill.
Do I Do That?
I might be in trouble...Silence greeted me at the nail salon. I distinctly heard somebody say, watch out or we'll end up in her blog! Do I do that?
Well, of course we ended up in fits of laughter. Of course they will end up in my blog! When one is confronted with four new friends who are funny, beautiful and smart--well, let's face it, they are copy worthy. Even Sue's husband is copy worthy. He popped in just for a moment to bring her flowers for their anniversary. (Congratulations on forty years, my friends!) Love is in the air.
Everyone I meet might end up in a blog, because everyone I meet has become a part of my life. To some, I am integrally connected; others may be on the periphery. Every single one of them helps to influence who I am becoming. I am deeply ashamed that I have ignored so many in the past for whatever reason.
If I had ignored Sue and Grace, I would still be hiding my hands. I would not know about the Asian Market, or that Sue knows ballroom dancing, or that Grace has artistic talent. I would not know that Cindy's daughter skates, or that Joanie speaks fluent Spanish. I wouldn't know that other women have many of the same problems I do, no matter what their race, religion or culture. Oh, I suppose I knew it intellectually, at least. Talking about it makes it more real and less formidable. If one of us can manage, all of us can.
Today I had two friends tell me that I had helped them to look at their lives from a new perspective. That is what keeps me going and growing. Touching one person, just once. Heavens, I don't want everyone to be like me! How boring the world would be if we were all the same! No, my wish for everyone is that they find themselves, hopefully at a much younger age than sixty. I wish for them that they have love, peace of mind and lasting friendships. I ask from them only that they honor me by calling me "friend".
Yes, girls, if you know me you might end up on my blog. That's because you have touched me in a way that made me sit up and take notice.
Now if you can talk me into buying a bathing suit so I can go in the hot tub at the Y, we'll be all set.
Well, of course we ended up in fits of laughter. Of course they will end up in my blog! When one is confronted with four new friends who are funny, beautiful and smart--well, let's face it, they are copy worthy. Even Sue's husband is copy worthy. He popped in just for a moment to bring her flowers for their anniversary. (Congratulations on forty years, my friends!) Love is in the air.
Everyone I meet might end up in a blog, because everyone I meet has become a part of my life. To some, I am integrally connected; others may be on the periphery. Every single one of them helps to influence who I am becoming. I am deeply ashamed that I have ignored so many in the past for whatever reason.
If I had ignored Sue and Grace, I would still be hiding my hands. I would not know about the Asian Market, or that Sue knows ballroom dancing, or that Grace has artistic talent. I would not know that Cindy's daughter skates, or that Joanie speaks fluent Spanish. I wouldn't know that other women have many of the same problems I do, no matter what their race, religion or culture. Oh, I suppose I knew it intellectually, at least. Talking about it makes it more real and less formidable. If one of us can manage, all of us can.
Today I had two friends tell me that I had helped them to look at their lives from a new perspective. That is what keeps me going and growing. Touching one person, just once. Heavens, I don't want everyone to be like me! How boring the world would be if we were all the same! No, my wish for everyone is that they find themselves, hopefully at a much younger age than sixty. I wish for them that they have love, peace of mind and lasting friendships. I ask from them only that they honor me by calling me "friend".
Yes, girls, if you know me you might end up on my blog. That's because you have touched me in a way that made me sit up and take notice.
Now if you can talk me into buying a bathing suit so I can go in the hot tub at the Y, we'll be all set.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
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?)
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?)
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, March 28, 2011
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" .
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" .
Sunday, March 27, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, March 25, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, March 21, 2011
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 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.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Friday, March 18, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
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 counteleven 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 am amazed as I check my email and notifications on Facebook. It has been just a couple of days, but at last count
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.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
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.
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.
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