Category: random

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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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A Mama Bear on the Strawberry Full Moon

Maybe I reacted the way I did because the kids and I spent a stress-filled Saturday trying to negotiate Father’s Day with you-know-who.

Could be I reacted the way I did because work is busy, life is crazy and I’d reached my breaking point.

I might have reacted the way I did because my yard is my sanctuary.  This place is our safe landing.

Whatever the reasons, I was justified!

 

When I get home from the office, I kick off my shoes, get treats for Pansy, check in to see what’s new with Jen, and figure out what we’re going to eat.  This day was no different, or so I thought.

Jen mentioned that she thought she heard someone on the front step.  I suggested that it may have been the mailman.

She said, “Nope.  The mailman was just here.  I heard the sound before.”

“Well maybe your brother stopped by for a cup of coffee, while you were in the shower.”  Except, the coffee corner wasn’t covered in coffee grounds, so that meant he wasn’t here.  I opened the front door to check the mail, and a flyer from a yard spraying company fell to the floor.  I said, “Honey, they must be spraying in the neighborhood, and they’re trying to drum up more business.”

She said, “Oh, I thought I smelled it.  I figured the neighbors were having their yard sprayed today.”

I said, “Let’s close the windows.  I hate that stuff.”

 

The next thing I do, after getting back from the office, and perhaps more importantly for my roommates, is step out into the backyard.  Barefooted.  On purpose.

That’s how I get grounded and shift gears to what is required next.

I might only be out there for 5 minutes, but that’s all it takes.

 

Today I smelled the spray the minute I exited the door.  The basil looked almost dead.  The grass (okay, maybe it’s mostly clover) felt crunchy.  I tried to figure out how things could look so dry, as I’d just watered the night before.  I set up a sprinkler and noticed the leaves on the strawberries were curling.  What the hell?

I walked to the side yard and noticed that my feet felt sticky.  The gate on the west side was wide open.  We keep it secured with a latch hook.  How did Will get that open from the outside?  I called him and he said he hadn’t been over.  I went inside and asked Jen if she’d forgotten to close the gate.  She hadn’t been out there.

Now I’m worried that someone had gone into our backyard.  (It wouldn’t have been the first time, hence the latch hooks.)  I better check to make sure the lawn mower and weed whacker are still in the shed.

I’m starting to feel slightly frantic.

Jen said, “Mom, do you still have the flyer from the spraying company?”  I dug it out of the trash.  It said, “We applied your 2nd treatment today!”  The flyer showed checked boxes that indicated what had been sprayed on our yard.

 

This Mama Bear was livid.

 

I have lived here 13 years.  I’ve been raising kids and cats without chemicals.  Our yard is visited regularly by birds and squirrels, earthworms and bunnies, dandelions and way too many ants, and the occasional gopher.  I have been known to sprinkle diatomaceous earth around the ant holes.  I’ve even resorted to putting a spider bomb in the crawl space.  Once.  (The kids, cat and I camped at the park for the day, to keep our distance from the fumes.)

I HATE ANY KIND OF SPRAY THAT KILLS WEEDS OR BUGS but, of course, spiders are a whole different story.

Now my strawberries, raspberries, basil, chives, tomatoes and everything else have been sprayed with Goddess-knows-what!

On top of that, Jen and I started a bee garden this year.

 

I called the company, which is saying a lot for an INFJ, who hates making phone calls and avoids confrontation.  Their response was, “Oops.  Wrong yard.”

I guess I should be thankful they didn’t charge me?

 

I looked at Jen and said, “Let’s walk up to grandma’s.  I feel the need to vent.”  I was seen stomping the six blocks to grandma’s house.  In case I haven’t mentioned it, I use my hands when I talk.  (I’m a quarter Italian, what can I say?)  Poor Jen had to walk next to me as I flailed my arms, stopped my feet and loudly ranted the entire six blocks.

Jen calmly said, “You know how we were talking about you being a Leo rising, and how they get emotional about things?  You said, ‘Well, that’s not me.'”  I said, I mean, yelled, “Did I say that?!”  She said, “Yes.”  I said, “Well, dammit!  Maybe it’s the full moon, or my Leo rising, or the fact that I feel violated by having someone access my sanctuary and spray poison all over the green and growing things.  Maybe it’s the stressors with your dad over the weekend.  Or it could be that I’m a Mama Bear and it’s my job to protect you and your brother and Pansy and our yard!  Whatever it is, it is What it is!”  Jen said, “You’re right.  It’s okay to get emotional about it.  But, my Aquarius rising makes it hard for me to know what to say to help.”  I said, “You don’t have to say anything, just keep a safe distance when I’m ranting and my arms are flailing about!”

We laughed.

I said, “I’m entitled to feel this way.”

She said, “You are.”

 

 

 

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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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A Dream of Men

We were on a bus.  The bus was full of males of all ages – men and boys I’ve been acquainted with throughout my life.  There were four women facilitating – myself and three others.  Oddly, while I did know the males in the dream, I did not know the females.

It was a fall afternoon, and the bus was cruising around my hometown.  We weren’t going anywhere in particular.  The men talked of football, bonfires, hunting, leaf-raking, and how glad they were to not be at the office.  The boys talked of the girls at school, football, the apps on their phones and pizza.

The mood on the bus was jovial.  The women were there to serve, and they didn’t seem to mind.   We walked the aisle of the bus filling snack bowls and fetching drinks.

We arrived at a hall with a large grassy area.  Everyone got off the bus and the women made their way to the restroom, while the men and boys staked out their territories.  Some grabbed footballs and headed for the grass.  Some went inside to turn on the TV to catch the game.  The boys looked at the two groups of men, and picked whichever group they felt most comfortable in, depending on what they experienced at home.

Everyone appeared to be having a good time.  Laughing and yelling filled the air.  Someone started a bonfire in the designated fire pit, and several men set up lawn chairs.  Some boys who had been in the hall came out to sit by the fire.  The fire brought them closer together.  Phones were tucked in pockets.  Even the noise level quieted a bit as they all focused on the fire and relished the good mood that comes with having fun.

At one point, I approached the fire to fill bowls with popcorn, and I noticed two 9 year old boys quietly crying.  A man stood in front of them to ask what was wrong.  He spoke in a gentle voice so as not to call attention to them.  When they didn’t answer the man, I knelt down in front of them and asked, “What happened?  I’ve seen you two hanging together all afternoon.  You’ve been having a great time!  Are you okay?”  Through tears, one of the boys said, “I can’t sit by him any more.”  When I asked why not, he said, “Because he’s pro-life and I’m pro-choice.”  I asked, “Do either of you know what that means?”  Each sat staring at his hands folded in his lap, tears rolling down his face. They both shook their heads.  They didn’t know what it meant, but they knew they were supposed to think one way, and not the other. Just then the man standing in front of them said, “Well I’m pro-life, too.  Does that mean I can’t stand here?”  The first boy cried even harder and said, “I don’t know.  I just know what I’ve been told.  How come I like him, but now I can’t sit by him because of something I don’t even understand?”

The man looked down at me and said, “What should I say to them?”

I handed both boys a Kleenex, and I asked the first boy, “Would you still want to sit by him if he liked pepperoni on pizza, and you only love sausage pizza?”  He looked at me dumbfounded.  “That’s stupid.  It doesn’t matter.  He can have whatever pizza he wants.  I don’t care.”   The second boy said, “Who cares about pizza?  We like to hang together!  That’s all that matters!”  The boys wadded up their Kleenexes and threw them in the fire, the way boys often do.

As I stood, the man whispered, “That’s not the same.  Folks don’t get hurt over pizza.  They get hurt over issues like pro-life and pro-choice.”  I said, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I know we have to make room for everyone to accept that others think differently.  We have to get okay with that.  There are many different versions of normal.  Maybe once we get okay with that, we can come to a point where people stop getting hurt.”

 

And then I woke up.

 

I know the same happens with girls and women.  I also know that many times the roles are reversed, and a woman is standing there wondering how to help, and a man addresses the girls with a question that they can relate to. 

This is not about men being inferior. 

This is not about me believing that women are supposed to serve. 

This is about patterns, status quo, versions of normal and how we often don’t see that our version of normal may not be healthy.

This is about looking at our “normal” and educating ourselves about what healthy is.  Are we holding so tightly to our version of normal that we can’t see that there might be other versions of normal?

 

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Where’d She Go?

As he turned the key in the lock he said, “Anyone want to go across the street for a drink?”

One said, “What a day!  I’m game.”

Another said, “I’ve got time for one.”

Two more said, “I’ll meet you,” and “I’ve gotta text my husband first.”

She said, “Sure.  Why not?”

 

After the drinks were sorted between them, they started in about the clients they had, and any progress they were making with those clients.

He took a sip of his beer, looked across the table at a male coworker, laughed and said, “If she didn’t have such great legs, I’d have passed this client off to you.”

She saw the two women at the table look down, cringe, and sip their drinks.

She thought of saying something snarky about clients and legs, but she wasn’t quick enough.

The male coworker said, “I’ll be happy to trade.  The gal I’m working with isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.  I’m having to explain everything to her.”

She exchanged glances with the women at the table and considered introducing the concept of mansplaining, but she didn’t get the chance.

 

One of the female coworkers was able to get a word in and said, “I got a call from a potential client who asked me to refer him to one of the guys in the office.  When I told him I’d be happy to help him, he said, ‘I appreciate your gumption, honey, but I need to talk to someone with experience.'”

She said, “So what did you do?”

“I passed him off.  I’m too busy to scale that mountain.  Who needs that kind of crap?”

One of the guys said, “So who did you pass him off to?” because he clearly didn’t get the point.

 

She threaded her hand through the glasses to grab a handful of peanuts and noticed one of the male coworkers staring at the waitress’s ass.  She kept her eyes on him long enough for him to realize he’d been caught staring.  She said, “So how does that compare to what you have at home?”  He threw up his hands in that way guys do when they’ve been caught in the act, “What?  I’m a guy.”  He grinned, “I can’t help it.”  Then he looked at the other guys at the table, “Right, guys?  We’re wired to look.  It’s what we do.”  Then the three males laughed the kind of laugh that comes with confidence, security and place – a laugh that the three females at the table had only rarely expressed.  A laugh had with your best girlfriend, while driving away from a party you didn’t want to go to, to begin with.

 

She said she had to use the restroom, excusing herself from the table, and leaving a full beer and a pile of peanuts in her wake.

She laughed in the privacy of her car, as she pulled out of the parking lot, saying to no one and everyone, “I don’t have time to scale that mountain.”

 

 

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I Used to Hate Cleaning the Bathroom

The list for the weekend included baking, writing, bill-paying, getting out to work in the yard if the rain quits, and cleaning the bathroom.

I used to hate cleaning the bathroom, but my mom would tell you no one does that job better than I do.  (Freud would probably have something to say about that.)

This morning it occurred to me that I don’t hate it anymore.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not like I jumped out of bed excited about the prospect of grabbing the white vinegar, paper towels and scrubby, but there are worse chores.

It takes me about 25 minutes to do it right.  That’s 25 minutes without interruption or phone or email.  I play music loud or enjoy the silence, depending on my mood.  Once the tools are gathered, I start scrubbing.

Those 25 minutes lead to a quick sense of accomplishment.  How many chores result in that kind of success rate?

 

I have a system for getting it done.  With years of practice, my mind is free to wander as I clean.  I can sing along to the music, or solve a nagging problem.

By the time I’m done, I’m breathing a little harder.  (The excessive scrubbing is clearly an attempt at scrubbing other “stuff” out of my life.)

Niggling thoughts of situations people, compel me to grab an old toothbrush and attack the lime deposits at the base of the faucet.  The situation hasn’t changed in that 25 minutes, but I have managed to make a little corner of the world nicer.

While working through the plot line of a novel, I’ve virtually written a page and a half, and look down to see that the tub is free of soap scum.

The end result shines, smells better and looks pretty.  It makes me feel like I can have a positive impact, even if it only lasts until next week.

 

Added bonus:  No one is going to tell me how to do it better, or that I’m doing it wrong.

 

Many moons ago, my grandmother had gone to the doctor to try to figure out why she’d been so blue.  (This was back before the word depression was applied to every conceivable ailment.)   I picture the doctor tapping her knee with that little rubber-headed hammer to check her reflexes.  Next he would listen to her heart and then check her pulse.  He probably looked down her throat and peeked into her ears.  After confirming that her physical self was fine, he prescribed something for her mental health.

His prescription:  Go home and scrub your kitchen floor.

 

 

*This post is dedicated to my aunt.

She was a well-read, articulate, quietly funny, compassionate INTJ.  We used to get together on priceless afternoons when chores were done, kids were occupied, and our lists allowed for a couple hours of coffee and conversation.

I would simply send her a text, and she could sense whether this would be a “Let’s catch up” chat, or an “Oh, No! I messed up!” chat.

We talked of crochet patterns, raising kids, teaching (she was a teacher and a principal), family dynamics, marriage and relationships, writing, genealogy, and most recently, the marvel of purchasing books “for only 99 cents on BookBub!”

I remember one particular afternoon when we talked about the years she and my uncle had been married.  She spoke of magic mixed with frustration.  She honestly shared difficulties, but she would be quick to say that difficulties were always framed by the sweetness of knowing someone for so many years.  She understood yin and yang before it was cool.  She told me that until she met my uncle, she’d never known what it was like to have a cheerleader.  He supported her, stood by her, encouraged her and believed in her.  Together they encouraged and believed in their family and friends.  He was her cheerleader until the very end.

Many years ago, she introduced me to the heavenly combination of peanut butter and honey.  (Did you know that peanut butter and honey sandwiches are even better when followed by butterscotch pudding?)  Sporting pigtails, shorts and Popsicle-stained cheeks, summers felt safe and endless with their three daughters, in their backyard.

She also taught me that a family could never be too big, and that there was always enough love to go around.

Thank you, Aunt Pat, for being my cheerleader.