Tag: random observations

Posted on

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.”

 

 

 

Posted on

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.

 

Posted on

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted on

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!

 

Posted on

The Courageous Bartender

Except for one lone stool, the bar was full, most likely due to the fact that Hank was working.  She grabbed the stool and looked around to see if she recognized any faces.

“Jesse!  Welcome!  How are things?”

“Good, Hank!  How are you?  Nice and busy in here!”

“What brings you out on this snowy night?”

“I came for some of your legendary advice.”  Hank laughed as the guy seated next to Jesse said, “That’s why I’m here!”

“Wine or beer tonight, Jesse?”

“Surprise me with something hot, Hank.  My bones are getting too old for this climate.”

Hank slid a mug across the bar and said, “Cider and Fireball – the only thing that’ll do the trick.  As far as advice, I dunno about that, but what’s on your mind?”

Jesse sighed and said, “Of course this is about my kids, particularly the 20 year old.  I want to encourage, not discourage.  I’d like to motivate without pissing him off.  I wrote a little bit about courage, but before I send it to him, I wanted your take.”

“Sure.  Let me see what you’ve got.”

 

Hank held her phone as he read:

I am no expert, but I think one of THE important aspects of a good life is courage.  Have courage to try new things, meet new people, go new places.

That’s what keeps a person moving along their path.

You have courage in spades!!!

I think the saddest lives are lived by folks who are stuck because they don’t have the courage to try something new.

With courage you might try something and hate it, or try something else and mess up.  That’s not failure, that’s experience!  The real important thing is that you have tried, and that you keep trying.  It’s so much better to have a long list of things tried, places seen, foods eaten, people met ….   than a short, boring list of STUCK.

I love you.

 

“What would you add, Hank?  What do you think I should take out?”

“Well, let’s put it up to the group!”  Hank looked to the other end of the bar.  “Sam, how do you define courage?”

A woman at the end of the bar put down her wine glass, looked Hank in the eye and said, “Courage is deciding to be single and staying that way!”

The guy next to Jesse slowly shook his head.

Hank looked at the guy next to Sam and said, “How about you, Ron.  What’s your take on courage?”

Ron didn’t hesitate before saying, “Giving up the great paying job for the job that doesn’t crush my soul!”  He raised his beer glass in salute.  The others clapped in agreement.

Hank looked at the couple seated next to Ron.  “What’s courage to you two?”  She looked at Hank and said, “Ignoring what my dad said about who to date.”  The couple looked at each other and laughed.  He said, “Meeting her dad,” and they all laughed.

Hank said, “It’s your turn, John.  How do you define courage?”

John paused a moment before responding.  He looked at his glass and said, “Getting the diagnosis that changed my life, undergoing chemo and beating cancer.”  Everyone at the bar raised a glass in honor of John.

Hank turned to Tom.  “Good luck beating that one, Tom.”  Tom looked a little nervous before he said, “Making my wife and kids a priority over my job.”  Ron raised his glass in Tom’s direction.

There were two folks left at the bar, Jesse and the guy to her left, who had appeared downtrodden when Sam declared her status.

Hank skipped over Jesse, smiled and said to Jim, “So now that you aren’t going to approach Sam, tell us how you define courage.”  The group laughed.  Jim cleared his throat and looked at Jesse.  “Courage is parenting a 20 year old.”  They all raised their glasses to Jesse.

 

Jim said, “Wait a darn minute!  What about you, Hank?  It’s your turn.  How do you define courage?”

“Well, it was one thing when I was 20.  Skiing the cliff.  Skiing out of bounds.  Any risk I could take on skis.  As I got older, it was having the courage to end one relationship and start another.  Now that I’m in my 50s, well, courage is knowing when to keep my mouth shut, and doing just that.”  He grinned and winked at Jesse.  “Now what do you think about courage, Jesse?”

“It’s pretty clear that courage is different to everyone.  I ‘spose I need the courage to let him figure it out himself.”  The group nodded their heads in agreement and Jim said, “Great idea, Jesse.”  Jesse stood up from her stool.  “I’ll still send the message, but then I need to have the courage to leave him alone while he figures things out.”

Hank smiled at Jesse, “Good plan, Jesse, and you think I’m the one with good advice!”

 

As Jesse put her coat on she saw Jim gulp the last of his beer.  He shouted, “Here’s to liquid courage!”  Then he got off his stool and walked over to approach Sam.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted on

Cat Wisdom

We were only gone four nights.  We got home earlier than expected, driving a little too fast, because we missed Pansy.   We raced in the door, leaving suitcases in the car.  “Pansy!  Pansy!  We’re home!!” This time we didn’t get the silent treatment.  She wasn’t mad at us, like she was the last time we were gone.

(The perfect number of days to be gone is five, both for Pansy and for us.  Is it possible to visit NYC and be home after four nights?  Asking for Jen.)

The next morning, it was back to scrambling:

“Where did we leave off in history?”

“Can you make an appointment with the orthodontist?”

“I’ve got two appointments on Wednesday.  If Will gets you there, I could pick you up.”

“I gotta get the leaves raked before the snow flies.”

“Can you help me a little with my Halloween costume?”

“Let’s do that right before dinner.”

During this exchange, Pansy was hanging out by the cabinet that stores her treats.  She was meowing at us, trying to get our attention.  I wrote something on a list, and walked over to get her a couple treats.  She didn’t want any.  She just wanted our attention.  I went back to my list saying something about having to get to the office.  Jen was going over her school list and finding where we had left off in the history book.

“Meow, meow, meooooow.”

“I know, Pansy, but I gave you a couple treats.”

“Meooooooow.”

Just then Pansy jumped up on the counter.  Above this spot, I have a mishmash of Post-its.  Some remind me to have Jen check into Red Bubble; start her portfolio; or make a list of her commissions.  There’s also a recipe for window cleaner, and a couple motivating quotes.  There are at least nine Post-its attached to the shelves above the counter.  They are losing their stick, and sometimes I bump one when I go to put an essential oil back on the shelf, or reach for a glass.  It floats to the floor, and I pick it up and place it next to the others, hoping for one more day of stick.

Pansy was reaching up to get at the notes.  She sniffed a couple, but targeted one in particular.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the note flutter to the floor.  Pansy jumped down and walked by her treats, on her way to the living room.

The note said, “Pace yourself.”

 

 

Posted on

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?

 

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.”

 

 

Posted on

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.