Category: laughing at myself

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An Ode to Costumes

Here’s to costumes – not just the ones we wear to celebrate Halloween.

From the pink costume someone puts us in to prove to the world that we are, indeed, a baby girl, to the “costume” put on us the day of our funeral, life is full of costume changes.

If we’re lucky, we have a trunk full of costumes when we are a kid.  Even eating a bowl of cereal warrants dressing the part.  A kid in a costume isn’t so much hiding from life, as he is tackling life.  He’s Superman or Spiderman.  She’s Princess Leia or a ballerina.  Life is celebrated, and what better way to do that than by wearing a costume?

The school years start and costumes are mostly relegated to October 31st.  One day out of the year we get to pretend to be someone outrageous.  The rest of the year, we pretend that we have life figured out.

We agonize over the different costumes needed to navigate adulthood.  We need a costume for every reinvention along the way because we are told we must,  “Fake it until we make it.”  A good costume helps with the faking.

Here’s to the costumes we wear to prove we are worthy of coupling.  For some that might be fishnet stockings or thigh-high boots.  (Years ago, the perfect mate wore an apron.)  Later, some of us wore a costume (that he most likely picked out) to prove we were a good enough wife.

Here’s to the costume we wear to show the world – and convince ourselves – that we are a good enough mom.

 

To the heels and business suit we never felt smarter in.

To the running shorts that never made running more enjoyable.

To the yoga pants that became the going-to-the-grocery-store pants.

Here’s to make-up that never makes us look younger, hair-color that never completely hides the gray, and perfume that never adequately disguises our own unique scent of fear.

 

Then, blessedly, we get to the point where we don’t give a damn.  Here’s to the bold costumes we wear to celebrate a certain age and to let everyone else know that we are done faking it in order to fit in.  Whether we proudly wear mom jeans, or leggings underneath billowy skirts, purple hats or black from head to toe, at this age, our costumes say we’ve arrived.  Almost.

These might be my favorite costumes, yet.  Although, I was a witch for Halloween 2 years in a row in junior high.  I wore that well.

 

 

 

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The Forest

The above is on my kitchen door, the door we use for leaving the peace of home and entering the rest of the world.  We go through this door heading to the office, taking Jen ice skating, or getting groceries, which is a whole different thing, now that Will doesn’t live here.  Often I’m in a hurry and don’t stop to read the quote.

I’m not evolved like Ram Dass.

I wish.

I let people irritate the hell out of me, which is clearly about me, not them.

 

When the guy at the office comes into my space, sighs heavily and tells me how much he hates working with women and all the reasons why, I don’t remember to think of him as a tree.  I think of him as a typical privileged Boomer male who doesn’t have the sense to realize that he’s complaining about women to a woman.  Evolved me might think of him as a Russian olive, that crowds out other trees and steals their nutrients.

(There’s a Russian olive in the park across the street.  It’s pretty from a distance.  All the dogs, that explore the park, stop for relief at the base of it.)

 

A driver honked at us the other evening, when Jen was practice-driving a steeply curved stretch along the river.  She freaked but maintained her speed.  I refrained from turning around to give him my classic stink eye.  It’s going to take a lot of practice to call a guy like that a cottonwood, instead of the impatient pain that he clearly is.

 

Evolved me knows the woman at the grocery, who barked at me for not using hand sanitizer before touching the shopping cart, is a thorny honey locust.  She most likely has good reasons for being a germophobe.  Unevolved me thinks she’s a loud busy body with too much time on her hands.

 

Jen is on a committee planning a fundraiser for an animal shelter, where she volunteers.  She’s getting a fine education in the dynamics of clashing personality types.  She sees the ones who say they do all the work and don’t, the ones who actually do the work and don’t seek credit,  the drama queens and the servants.  She sees folks who want to control, folks who are willing to be controlled, and folks who don’t even want to be there, but have to, for whatever reason.  When she gets home and vents about her meetings, we end the conversations by one of us saying, “Trees!  They are all a bunch of different trees.”  That, and we also marvel at how much could be handled with emails versus committee meetings.

 

We are trying to see people as trees.  Our hearts are in the right place, but trees aren’t nearly as annoying as people.

I’d broaden the approach to include plants:  poison ivy, bella donna and hemlock, to name a few.  Did I mention that I’m not as evolved as Dass?

 

When I’m in my own back yard, trimming raspberries, raking under the lilacs and watching for perennials to poke through, it’s easy to be kind, have my heart in the right place, and see people as trees.  There aren’t any Russian olives in my backyard.  We’ve no poison ivy or belladonna either, but we do have a lovely bed of lily of the valley on the shady side, which is proof that we can be around toxicity, but we’d be wise to keep our distance.

Like trees and plants, some people clearly didn’t get enough light when they were seedlings.  Some are still bent from ever-present high winds.  Some were pruned so much you can’t recognize their true nature.  It’s not their fault.  They’re just trees.

It’s good for me to remember that I’m a tree, too.   I can be prickly like a honey locust, especially when crowded by an impatient driver.  I know the areas of myself that could benefit from a little more light.

When I can’t see the forest for the trees, I head to the garden and admire the lily of the valley, from a distance.

 

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Random Thoughts In No Particular Order

I love being here.  I miss being here.  I’m too busy to be here.

I spend as many moments as I can with Jenny because, well …

I’m not going to type that.

 

Will, as some of you know, has moved out.  I don’t hear from him every day, but I do hear from him most days.  I’m trying hard not to intrude.  The other night, Jen and I were watching something on Netflix – most likely, Tidying Up – and he texted.  He asked how we were doing.  Of course I panicked.  “Something must be wrong.  It’s Friday night!  How come he’s texting?”  Turns out he’d just gotten home from a shift and realized he hadn’t heard from us in a couple days, so he texted – just to say hi.

Back when things were bumpier with Will, or I might say, back in 2018, I prayed for those kinds of texts.

And here they are.

Note to self:  This is a good thing.

 

Oh, and the three of us plan to ski together on Friday.  Yay, me!!

 

Where was I?

 

Oh.  So I’m not on this spot as much as I used to be, or as much as I would like to be.  Priorities, you know.

Priorities include spending every available moment with Jen; homeschool; the job; and the ritualistic chores necessary for survival.

And if you haven’t made some of your chores ritualistic, by now, you really ought to.  If we’re going to be spending these many hours folding laundry, doing dishes, sweeping and shoveling snow, we ought to be elevating these duties to the heights reserved for deities.

Say grateful words while hand-grinding coffee beans in the wee hours.  Breathe in the smell let off as you turn the crank.  Hope for all the good things that caffeine allows you to accomplish.

Pay respects to the deciduous trees while shoveling the snow that covers their roots.  Promise you’ll gladly greet their new leaves in the spring.  Think happy thoughts about how many winters you’ve survived, and how shoveling is the best gym membership you never have to pay for.

Acknowledge the washing machine and thank it for making your job easier.  You don’t have to run to the creek to scrape your clothes against a rock.  We’ve got it easy.  You don’t really need all those clothes, anyway.

Appreciate the stacks of clean plates and the many meals they’ve served and the many more to come.  Enjoy moments in the kitchen teaching your kids how to chop onion while laughing at the tears and saving the fingers.

Thank the fire in the wood stove for keeping your little family warm on these cold nights.  Be grateful for the warmth and the work that comes with keeping the fire stoked.

 

I digress.

Again.

 

I started to say something about how I’m not really so busy that I can’t be writing here more.  (I mean, if I’ve got time for Netflix.)

The scribbled notes of post ideas will keep me writing long after Jen has ventured off and (hopefully) circled back around.  Potential post titles include:  In Defense of Cat Ladies, When I Was Mad At The World, and Reflections From a Wallflower.

I’ll get to them.

There will be time to write all those ideas.  For that, I am grateful.

 

In the meantime, Jen and I painted the back bedroom.  It was originally mine when we first moved here.  Then, after the Debacle, Will took it over.  He’s bigger than I am and he needed more space.  I waited to make sure he was really not coming back, before reclaiming it.  I even offered it to Jen.  She’s happy with her cozy room, so we textured and painted my old room, together.  (That reminds me of another blog post I came up with while spreading joint compound on the walls:  How to Texture Walls or How to Love Your Life, which is less about texturing walls and more about loving your life with all its weird, beautiful texture including the occasional debacle.)

 

On another note:  I don’t know how many folks even stop by here anymore.

(Hi, Lynn! Love you!)

I used to check blog stats all the time – to see if anyone was reading.  I think I believed there was no point in writing, if no one was reading.  I remember thinking that I had to write to help others in order to justify the blog.  Now I can’t even remember the password to the site for checking the stats.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t care if others find comfort in these words.

(Thank you for writing to tell me that you’ve found comfort!)

The real issue is that I learned to help myself.

That’s what I want for my kids.  That’s what this journey is all about.  (Gawd, is there another word besides that poor, over-used word?  If I had a dollar for every time I said the word journey, I could have paid to have the bedroom painted!  But I wouldn’t have, because Jen and I have so much fun working on those projects together.)

Anyway, when we help ourselves, we start the ripple effect.  We make the world a better place in our own back yard, and it definitely, without a doubt, positively impacts others, as well.

So, I’m “staying in my lane, bro!” as that annoying but funny tattoo artist in the commercial says.  I’m staying in my lane, working on my own stuff, improving the texture in my tiny corner, and hoping that some of that improves your little corner, too.

Thank you for stopping by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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When It’s About Food

Here we are again.  It’s the holidays and we are preoccupied with food – what to eat, what NOT to eat, how much to eat, and the anticipation of how much we won’t be able to eat after the first of the year, because of how much we will most likely be eating between now and then.

It’s times like these when I hear the voice in my head saying, “It’s not about the food.”  I couldn’t agree more, but I don’t have the nerve to utter that to anyone else I know.

Yes, food brings us together.  Nothing accomplishes that quite like food.  Okay, wine and all of wine’s tasty cohorts bring people together, too.  But would we not come together if we learned someone was too busy to produce the epic holiday spread and barely managed to hit the drive-thru at KFC after finding the last gift, and picking the kids up from daycare?  Would we turn up our noses at the chance of seeing her kids in their Christmas sweaters just because she has the nerve to serve Domino’s instead of some impossible smorgasbord that only those who live on Pinterest could pretend they prepare?

Yes, there are times when it’s about food.

It’s about food when I haven’t seen the 20 year old in a couple days.  I send Will a text that says, “Chicken and Broc,” and I am guaranteed that he will cancel plans and show up for dinner, even if he’s in the house for only 20 minutes.  He’ll be here long enough to eat two full bowls of my chicken and broccoli fettuccine, and give me a hug.  Add 15 minutes if he uses the bathroom and takes his phone with him.

It’s about food when Jen and I look at each other after a crazy day and simultaneously say, “Comfort food tonight?”  Then I pull out a can of seasoned black beans, make a pot of rice, and grab tortilla chips.  If I’m really lucky, I’ll find a bag of limp, but not-yet-brown cilantro in the veggie drawer.  (Confession: The only things in my veggie drawer are usually broccoli, almost-brown cilantro, bees wax and a carton of milk because there’s room to store the extra milk in there due to the obvious lack of vegetables.)  Jen sprinkles feta cheese on her pile of chips and nukes ’em for 35 seconds.  Then we grab our plates and settle on the couch to watch another episode of NCIS, and breathe a sigh of relief that we made it through the day.

It’s about food when deciding on Christmas baking.  This year we dug out the caramels recipe I hadn’t made since before the kids were born.  (He never liked my caramels.)  Jen and I stood at the stove drizzling the heavy cream and stirring until our arms gave out.  We laughed about the lawyer we read about in Magnolia who gave up his career to start a candy business.  We agreed he was smart for giving up practicing law, but decided he must have arms like Popeye by now.  (The caramels are velvety and extraordinary.  The only thing I’d do differently is leave some unwrapped to facilitate Jen’s consumption.)

It’s NOT about food when I pick my uncle up for our weekly breakfast.  We always go to the same place, and try to park in the same spot.  As we drive to the end of town, he asks where I’d like to go, and we laugh because we know we are always going to the same place.   The owners are kind and friendly and always remember his order.  Even if my toast is cold and the eggs are never medium, it’s about getting together and sipping the endless hot coffee and discussing the news or his girls or the weather.  We finish our last sip as he gets up to pay the bill.  He will say, “Did you know there’s a picture of your Aunt Pat up by the cash register?”  Of course I remember, but he loves to tell me every week.

It’s NOT about the food when family drives seven hours to get here to spend the holiday.  It’s about quickly throwing together a pot of spaghetti sauce and opening the wine and having another friend text to say she’ll pick up bags of caeser salad, which saves me another trip to the store.

Which, naturally, brings me to life.

Sometimes it’s about the food, like when you are trying to fill a void that only food can fill.  It’s about food when nothing else will do.  But a lot of times, most times, it’s about the people – friends and family.  And if food brings them together, that’s a good thing.  Most likely, tho, they were gonna come together anyway.  Except with 20 year olds, but that won’t stay that way forever, I hope.  I can always make chicken and broc.

 

Merry Christmas!

 

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Behind the Eyes

A little more than 40 years ago, my grandfather gave me a painting he’d created from my 7th grade school picture.  I had no idea I’d be receiving such a gift.  I knew he painted.  I’d seen plenty of his paintings – always landscapes with a boat or a cabin or a lone figure fishing.  I wasn’t aware he painted portraits.

Anyone, other than a 13 year old girl, would have been thankful, maybe even pleased, with such a gift.  I, like most 13 year old girls, was self-conscious.  The painting was large (12″ x 16″) and bright and, well …  it was me.  I hated it.

I didn’t hate it because of his painting style, I hated it because of the subject matter.  There, in a frame, were all the things I felt ugly about: the pointy chin, the unruly eyebrows, and the awkward smile.  My too-big eyes were even larger on the canvas.

(You might not remember the long pointy collars of a button-up blouse from the 70s – a fashion statement I still don’t understand.  I wore that blouse under a light-blue sweater vest on picture day.  I have another picture of my 70s self wearing a thin leather strip as a headband.  It matched a fringe vest.  As I write this, I realize that she was every bit as full of contradiction as I am, now.  She was self-conscious, yet had the confidence to wear a headband, and a swingy fringed vest.  I see that in my kids, too.  They are self-conscious, yet they try on different “costumes” in an attempt to discover who they are.  Some of us do this all our lives.)

I still have that painting.  It’s made every move I’ve made.  It’s currently standing between an end table and one wall of my bedroom.  I have never hung it on the wall.  (Sorry, grandpa.)  I can’t imagine ever getting to a point where I want a large painting of my face on a wall.

 

It’s happened twice in the last month.

I’ll be backing the car out of the garage, heading to an appointment, and look up to see if I have something in my teeth.  I see my eyes – those 7th grade eyes – in the rear view mirror.

(If you aren’t yet in your 50s, you can’t know how often you will be checking a mirror, once you get here.  Not for mascara smudges or smeared lipstick or bad hair, but to see if the seeds from the morning’s toast are lodged between your teeth.  They almost always are.)

The eyes I see are the eyes in grandpa’s painting.

The first time this happened, I was racing to the office.  I remember thinking, “Slow down.  You must be anxious.  That’s just weird to see those eyes.”

The second time, I wasn’t in a hurry.  I’m slightly embarrassed to admit this, but I liked seeing those eyes.

(Even if I had the resources, I wouldn’t invest a lot in anti-aging concoctions.  I have no faith in them.  The last time I tried one, it scorched my face.  Because I hate waste, I applied it to my cracked heals.  It worked so well, I’m now on my second bottle of the stuff that promised to take 18 years off my face.)

The eyes in the rear view mirror are creased with lines from lots of choices, mistakes and successes.  Lines from life frame those eyes now.  The lashes are naked and the brows are thinning, but they are the eyes I saw in the mirror when I was in 7th grade.  The same warmth and intensity are there.

My soul is in there – the soul that has been guiding me since long before 7th grade.  Recently, for some reason I don’t understand, I’m recognizing my soul.

Finally.

Hell, maybe one day I will put that painting up on the wall – probably in the bedroom, tho’.

 

I hope you look in the mirror, not to pluck or conceal or wince, but to recognize and acknowledge.  I hope you see that spark behind your eyes.

It’s there.

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The Hovering Ex

You’ll know them by their charm.  The hovering ex oozes an excessively sweet charm reminiscent of the tooth ache you’d get from the bottle of Coke and theTwinkie that passed for lunch in high school.

He’ll feign interest in the “new” couch you purchased six months ago; the one that he sat on the last three times he came to see the kids.

He’ll gush over your daughter’s art, while not-so-subtly taking credit for her talent.

He’ll be too excited about mundane stuff – the end of the school year, the amount of rain in the last spring storm, or the tread on the tires he bought two seasons ago.  This is done to keep the conversation going.  This is about trying to stay in your house as long as possible.

He’ll buy you petunias for the window boxes even though the boxes are on the shaded side of the house.  You’ll be confused by this, but you won’t want to be in his presence long enough to ask why he brought you flowers.  He’s not even sure why he brought you flowers.  Call it instinct or desperation.  Call it a Hail Mary.  He’s grasping at straws and you’re the last straw on his horizon.

 

You are not impressed.  It’s been a long time since you were impressed.  At this point in your life, you can’t even remember why you were ever impressed.

Not only are you not impressed, you are repulsed.  All the petunias in the world won’t be enough to make you interested again.  A bigger house with window boxes on the sunny side would not be enough to make you interested.

And still he hovers …

 

Not all exes hover.

Many of the divorced are too busy running in the other direction to stop and look back at who they are running from.  Those who do glimpse in the rear view mirror run faster than the wind blows from the eastern slope of the Rockies.

But the older, unattached, male ex is going to hover.

He can’t help it.  His clock is ticking, much like the clock of a 38 year old childless female.

He’s getting on in years – way on.  He’s run out of time to attract a new source.  He needs someone to remind him to take his prescriptions, do his cooking and cleaning, and warm his bed.  He wants someone to listen to the 437th telling of the same worn out story.  His clock ticks to remind him that he may soon be in need of a caretaker, a listener and a maid.

 

As his car pulls away from the curb in front of your house, you laugh when remembering how he hated the way you cooked his eggs, and go back to planting impatiens in the shaded window boxes.

 

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The Prom

She was staring at the camera, lips pouting, hand on her hip, showing enough cleavage to make me certain that her dad did not approve of her dress.

Her lipstick was darker in the next photo.  She had to have wrenched her neck when throwing her head back the way she did.  Her hair was so lacquered, it couldn’t have moved if it wanted to.

She’s not engaged with her date in any of the pics.  He looks like a prop for her display.  Does he want to be there?  Does he know he’s a tool?  Will they even text each other after tonight?

One comment said the dress was $500.  Another comment talked about where to get the best spray-on tan in town.  Others talked about where to find the time to do eyebrows, nails, hair and tanning, all in time for the big night.

 

It’s prom night on Facebook.

 

As I scroll through the photos, I can feel my blood beginning to boil.  I sense a serious case of judging coming on.

Under her breath, Jen says, “Who wants to spend that kind of money to awkwardly dance for 45 minutes in a gym that smells like feet?”

Of course, that’s coming from an introverted homeschool kid.  Prom isn’t even on her radar.

Hasn’t prom outlived it’s usefulness by now?  Was prom ever useful?

 

(My feminist side types faster and gets snarkier.)

 

My mind races with a million objections.  What about the kids who can’t afford the prom?  What about the kids who can afford it and never get asked?  What about this whole #metoo thing and not wanting to be treated like objects?  Isn’t this just the kind of thing that puts a bigger divide between the haves and the have nots?

I feel the need to yell.

 

Then …

I scroll further and see a set of photos that make me grin.

The gal and the guy are hamming it up for the camera – together.  They take turns being the center.  They engage with each other.  They are laughing and teasing and comfortable with each other.  They both want to be there.  I know that they will text each other long after this silly night – a night that was a tradition for their folks, and will be a tradition for their kids, too.

 

The dust I kicked up about the prom (really, Jesse?) begins to settle.

 

I start to see that my issues with the prom have less to do with young women dressing inappropriately, and more to do with distraction and forgetting which battles need picking.

 

The prom is a metaphor for life, with much nicer clothes.

There are the ones who make it all about them.  There will always be the excesses.  There will be the ones who are happy not participating, and thriving in the shadows.  There will be the ones who have fun, enjoy each other, and don’t take it too seriously.  And there will always be those who try to make a mountain out of a molehill.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Sultans of Swing

We were driving up the mountain road, heading to the ski hill.  The mounds of snow on either side were as tall as I’d seen them in awhile.  I reached over to turn on the radio and heard Stealers Wheel singing, “Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right …”  How can anyone hear that song and not immediately picture the clowns and jokers that populate their own life?

I’m grateful my kids will listen to the Oldies station with me, and even more grateful that they’ll still ski with me.

As we climbed the mountain, the snow got deeper and the temp got colder.  Dire Straits came on next.  The “Sultans of Swing” brought me back to binge-watching MTV in the early 80s.  (Let it be known that some of us binge-watched long before Netflix.)  In between classes, or during skipped classes, I’d be “studying” and watching and listening.

In this flashback, I was going through some Psych notes, still in my pajamas, sipping from a huge mug of strong coffee.  In those days I wore men’s boxers and baggy t-shirts.  That was long before this phase of always being cold.  I remember her long hair, long arms and legs, and that endless cup of coffee.  Some things never change – the coffee is a constant.

 

A friend believes that our lives are concurrent – no past or future.  All we experience happens in the same time continuum.  If that reality exists, then my 20-year old self and my 55-year old self are journeying at the same time.

 

If she was along for the ride today, skiing with Will and Jen and 55-me, what would we talk about?

 

20-me is surprised I’m still listening to the music from the 80s, and she’s slightly disgusted that it gets the “Oldies” label.   55-me tells her it’s hard to give up on the really good stuff from that time.  She reminds me to keep my mind open to the new good stuff, too.

I acknowledge her trepidation about the future – finishing school, the what-ifs of relationships, the decisions about career and work.  I remind her that the apprehension and nervousness is all part of the process.  “I don’t have it so bad.  Re-invention is possible, all along the way.  Don’t be afraid to try something.  Don’t be afraid to change your mind.”  I down-shift as we approach a small town of snow-covered cabins, some decorated with old wooden skis.  “The same advice applies to relationships.  Don’t be afraid to change your mind.  There will be clowns and jokers.  Be mindful of who you get stuck in the middle with.”

20-me laughs and says, “It’s good you are skiing today.  I’m glad you still see the value in having fun.”  I turn down the music so I can hear her better.  55-me laughs and says, “My hearing isn’t what it used to be.  Too often I forget to include fun in the mix.  About the time I can’t stand to be in the same room with myself, I realize I’ve let fun go by the wayside.”

20-me reminds me to turn on some music when I get to that point.  “That’s a quick way to shift the mood.  Your Pandora is awesome for that!”  55 says, “I know!  Right?”

20 points at Jen and Will, “They have our long legs, should you be thinking about getting a bigger car?”  55-me says, “I thought about it, but Will has his truck now, and I like not having a car payment.  Besides, this car will be great for Jen when she wants to start driving.  Maybe I’ll get something then.”  20 nods her head, “So, we pretty much live on this college budget forever, then, right?”  55 says, “It could be worse.  This way we can afford to ski.”

55 says, “Quit worrying so much about your choices.”  20 says, “I could say the same to you.”  55 says, “Damn, I was hoping to make more progress on that front.”  20 says, “I guess that’s why we still like the skiing so much.  It clears the mind and helps us recalibrate.”  55 laughs, “Which gets us back to the value in fun.”

55 says, “And the taking things so seriously.  That’s a waste of time, too.”  20 says, “So then it’s okay to while away the hours watching MTV and pretending to study?”  55 says, “You’ll miss those days.”

20 says, “Yeah, but look who we get to journey with,” and she looks at Jen and Will.  “At least we get to be stuck in the middle with these two.”

 

I’ve been mulling over this post for a week, waiting to have the time to sit down and write.  I made a coffee, set up the laptop, sat down to write and checked my phone.  I’d received two messages that included song references.  One was a text with “Here Comes the Sun” by *duh* The Beatles.  The other was an email introducing me to “Third Day In A Row” by The Stray Birds. 

I’m not making this up.

Serendipity.

 

 

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The Yam Incident or Inside an INFJ Brain

Sometime during the holidays I’d returned from my eighth trip to the grocery store.  I put water on to boil, and unpacked the groceries.

I needed coffee.

As I put away the pasta, bottled marinara (don’t judge) and the sugary cereal, I discovered a bag of …

I wasn’t sure, but I thought they were yams or sweet potatoes or something in that category.

My initial reaction – based on years of tightly pinching** pennies – was, “Gasp, I hope I didn’t get charged for those root vegies!”  I grabbed the receipt and verified that there wasn’t a charge, which was a bit unfortunate because, had there been a charge, I’d have been able to more accurately identify the tubers.

Next thought was, “How did those get in my cart?  What kind of sicko wanders the produce section looking for unsuspecting victims and then launches a tuber attack?”

I made sure the kids knew I was incensed.  I wondered aloud.  A lot.  “What am I supposed to do with these?  Do I take them back?  Like I don’t have enough to do?!  I still have to finish the baking!  This isn’t fair!”

I looked over at the kids to see if they were as worked up as I was.  They’d moved to the other room by then.

 

I sat down with coffee and iPad to search – “yam vs sweet potato.”  What do I even do with these things?  I’m not gonna go to a whole lot of fuss if my kids aren’t gonna eat them.

The voice in my head said, “Throw them away!  You don’t have time for this.”  But that prompted the other voice to say, “You can’t waste perfectly good root vegies.  They might be chock-full of vitamins and minerals!”

I got lost down the rabbit hole of tubers; recipes; holiday prep; best holiday cocktail and How to Simplify Christmas.

 

Undecided, I put the three in a bowl.  It occurred to me that perhaps they belonged to the folks that had been ahead of me in the check out line.

The voices in my head had a hay day with this new line of thinking.  “Oh no!  They got home without their tubers!  Now they can’t make grandma’s favorite recipe.  Christmas will be ruined!”

I even considered how I might track them down and get their vegies back to them, you know, in the spirit of Christmas.

 

The tubers sat in the bowl, untouched, until after the holiday, all the way into the New Year.  I’d occasionally glance at them and consider Googling more recipes, but walk away in disgust.  Incidentally, yams have an exceedingly long shelf life, making it virtually impossible for them to grow moldy so that I could throw them away without guilt.

One day, I found myself without kids.

I was alone.

In the kitchen.

With the yams.

Inspiration struck in the form of Sweet Potato Soup.  Even if I was the only one who liked it, I deserved it, dammit.  Besides, the pictures on the internet made it look so tasty.  Thanks to the multiple trips to the store, driven by the mania of the holidays, all the ingredients were found in the pantry.

This would be fun!

As I gathered the ingredients and found the seldom-used potato peeler, I thought back on the couple from the grocery store.  I wondered how they were doing.  How was their holiday?  Did they ever end up making grandma’s recipe?

With sweet potato in hand, I dragged the peeler across the rough skin to discover that this vegie – one of three that had been waiting in a bowl in my kitchen for going on four weeks – was not the kind needed to make Sweet Potato Soup.

I gathered up the other two roots, ceremoniously walked them out to the dumpster, and came in to put some water on to boil.

 

* I’d considered buying three more so that I might include a photo with this post, but I’m not going there.

**You may be thinking that I don’t really pinch pennies if I buy bottled sauce and sugared cereal.  The fact that I thought about what you might be thinking, about my lack of pinching pennies, is another example of the varied thoughts running through my over-active INFJ brain.   

 

*sigh*

 

 

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Letting Go and Hanging On

Did I tell you my back quit hurting?  (Not to make it all about me.  ; )

I talked about chronic back pain on the other blog, where I also wrote about listening to the body when it screams at us (pain!) in an effort to get our attention.

I distinctly remember when the pain started – three months into the last relationship.  (Hello, RED flag!)  The pain ebbed/flowed/annoyed me through that relationship, the breakup, living at mom’s (sorry, mom, but you know what I mean), and through starting a new job at an office that was not a good fit.

I knew the back pain was about stress.  I thought I could push through with yoga, valerian root, whiskey and walking.  Sometimes those things helped, but the pain was still there, waiting to get my attention when I refused to see the stress for what it was.

I started at a new office the beginning of December.  Two weeks ago, I noticed my back had quit hurting.  I didn’t say anything to the kids because I didn’t want to jinx it.  I kept doing the yoga.  The holidays gave me an excuse to drink whiskey.  (In case you’re wondering, I have never combined whiskey and valerian root, though I’ve been tempted.)

Recently, I lifted a heavy object, as a test.  I anticipated a stab.  I thought for sure my back would scream at me.  And, nothing.  No spasm.  No twinge.  Nothing.  I was able to put away the artificial tree without so much as a wince, except I did feel a little guilty about putting Christmas away so early.

I figured I was safe in telling the kids that my back pain was gone.  I did, and didn’t jinx anything.

 

All of this makes me think about resolutions and, conveniently, it’s the time of year when we might take stock in where we are and if we are happy – or at least not miserable – with where we are.

In 55 years, my success rate is abysmal when it comes to resolutions, partly because I rarely make any.

I’m not perfect.  I haven’t got it all figured out.  But I do a fine job of making myself feel bad without adding failed New Years’ resolutions to the mix.

I prefer to look back over the year and decide which things I will let go of and which things I will hang on to.

 

I will hang on to noticing when something does not feel right.  Whether it’s a conditioner or a brand of coffee, a book that seems too violent in the first 40 pages, an acquaintance that drains more than enriches, or a crappy pair of jeans that I never feel good wearing – I will let go of what isn’t good.

It’s in the noticing that something doesn’t feel right, that I learn to let go.

I will hang on to paying attention to my intuition, and let go of the stuff that does not feel good.

 

For Will:  I plan on letting go of worrying.  The worrying feels bad.  I’m tired of communicating those worries to the Universe, and to Will.  I know he is tired of hearing about it, too. (This one will be difficult, and all you seasoned parents are laughing at me because you’ve told me that, as parents, we are never done worrying.)  But, I will stop voicing my worries to him, and I will hang on to letting him know how much I care.

 

For Jen:  I will most definitely hang on to this connection we have, but I will let go when she strives for more independence.  Is that even possible?  I guess we’ll find out.

 

For me:  I will hang on to trusting myself.  I will trust myself to say, “No, thank you,” when something doesn’t feel right.  I will trust myself to let go of those things that do not make me wholeheartedly say, “YES!”

Oh, and I will let go of guilt (stop laughing!) and hang on to letting it be about me, once in awhile.

 

It’s going to be a good year!

 

Happy New Year!