What's My Hurry?

For a little while there, I considered taking October off. The weather has been downright shitful, the Politics has been too, and I'm Over It All. But backing down means The Terrorists win, so here I am. I feel like I've been frightfully busy, flinging myself all over the place here in NEO (motto: Don't bother doing your hair; we specialize in heat, humidity, and rain--what Autumn?). How can I have so damn much to do when I'm Retired?

I hurry a lot. It's hard for me to do things in a measured, unhurried way. I think it has a lot to do with when I was teaching and always, always multitasking--doing a million things between classes, like giving kids makeup work before class started, trying to go to the bathroom and still be on time to class, running off a quiz or test at a copy machine that was not broken down, making a quick parent phone call, or grading a few papers so that I wasn't so inundated by all 120+ a day. Everything was rushed, and it became a way of life. It's hard to suddenly slow down after thirty years of hurrying.

And with children--I'm speaking of my own sons--doing things quickly was, at times, a saving grace. It stopped fussing and crying. It appeased hurt feelings. It forestalled toddler tantrums and sibling fights. And, as a Working Mom, hurrying kept kids on The Sacred Schedule. I'm sure so many of you understand that benefit.

Now, however, hurrying isn't really all that necessary, but I still find myself doing it. I start looking at blocks of time in my day and thinking about how I can shoehorn stuff in. How I can combine a bunch of errands and how early I can get them all done so that I can do a ton of other stuff so that I can...what? It's insane. It makes it really hard to unwind. And sleep.

Free time still feels like a sin to me--a selfish indulgence. Why? I worked hard and I earned it.

I have all day most days to vacuum, to plan and prep dinner, to do any number of the little Domestic Goddessing tasks that tuck into the nooks and crannies of my days. But old habits, as They say, are hardest to break.

So I am determined to form new ones: to take deeper breaths more often; to drive more slowly and with less gritty determination; to enjoy the lulls in my day rather than fret about them; and, to read some poetry every day.

And another jaunt North is in order. Getting Away is different than Running Away, don't you think? Things will definitely slow down then.




image

Way Back When Wednesday: How I Came To Love Shoes

I'm not entirely sure as to when--or even where--I first saw The Wizard of Oz in color, but it had a profound effect on me. Oh, sure, I was a little afraid of that scary closeup of Margaret Hamilton's wicked witch face, and I wanted to wear my own long, dark hair like Dorothy's, but what I really wanted was those Shoes.

Once I saw those beautiful red sparkling shoes, I could not watch anything else. Oh, what I would have given for a pair of red shoes, and if they sparkled, what heaven! And those ruby slippers did not have shoelaces, either. They were simply perfect. And so Unlike any shoes I ever owned (or would ever own, I knew).

A child of the Midwest, attending public elementary school in the early 60s, did not wear sparkling ruby slippers, especially the child of a steelworker and stay-at-home mom and one who had three siblings. No, my footwear consisted of an endless parade of black and white saddle shoes and tennis shoes from the 2 for 5$ rack at the Pic-Way Shoe Mart. And before the ruby slippers made their commanding appearance, I coveted a pair of black patent leather Mary Janes. A few girls at school had them, and I used to look at them with equal parts envy and despair. One day, the elderly neighbors across the street had their granddaughter over for a visit. Pam was my age, and we often played together for part of the day when she came. This time, she wanted to demonstrate what she'd been learning in her tap-dancing lessons, so she brought out her tap shoes. They were black patent Mary Janes shined to a mirrored lustre. After her brief dance, she asked me if I would like to try them on and perhaps tap a little. As I slid them on and fastened their buckles, I almost cried. They fit me perfectly! Pam showed me a few basic tap steps, but I barely performed them. All I wanted to do was to wear those shiny black Mary Jane shoes.

I steadily hated my shoes for most of my early school career, but I was not the kind of child to complain. I always assumed that whatever my parents gave me or did was what was correct and allowed and that was simply the way it was. If there were other options, I would have been presented with them. Since I wasn't, I accepted things the way they were and vowed that one day, I would buy beautiful shoes for myself.

Even during church, as I knelt in the pew after Communion, head bowed, I watched the aisleway as people returned to their seats. Instead of praying, I was looking at their shoes, picking out the best ones, choosing a favourite, and always looking for red ones and, of course, patent leather Mary Janes. Because I was In Church and because I was Catholic, I felt very guilty about Not Praying and Being Envious about other people's shoes, but I did it every single week.

Once I became a Career Woman, I finally indulged my desire for Beautiful Shoes. I bought high-heeled shoes for every outfit and shoes that I loved and knew I'd wear with something someday. I prowled sale racks and found terrific bargains. I have plaid shoes, polka dot shoes, sparkly shoes, silver shoes, gold shoes, purple shoes, orange shoes, cheetah print shoes, and yes, red shoes. And I do have a pair or two of Mary Janes.  I do not have a single pair of saddle shoes. Upstairs in a closet are all of my shoes, the only part of my work wardrobe that I did not donate. Sometimes I look at them like relics in a museum of my life. They make me happy and a little sad at the same time. They are all high-heels, and I don't have anyplace to wear them now. Once in a while there is a Special Occasion, though not too often.

But trust me: I still buy Beautiful Shoes and Boots for my Retired Life. Life is too short to drink mediocre wine, eat bad food, and wear ugly shoes.


image

The Contents Of Our Character

At first I didn't notice anything different as I pulled my car into a parking spot at the grocery store. The forecast was calling for rain, and the skies were already threatening. I wanted to get what I needed in pretty good time and get out--a daunting task at Marc's, which has a large closeouts section that bogs me down. In it, I can find anything from garden rakes to wall clocks, room-sized rugs to purses. But I was resolute as I grabbed my bags and started towards the door.

Suddenly, I saw the police car. It was pulled up parallel to the front of the store. Its lights weren't flashing or anything, so I figured they were probably grabbing a few things themselves. But as I came closer, I saw the back door open, and an officer had a young woman by the arm. Neither one looked particularly distressed, but it was clear that he was going to put her in the squad car. Another young woman, who looked nearly identical to the first one, was standing there calmly asking, "Do you want me to drop off the car? Do you want--?" and I stopped listening and looking.

That sort of thing bothers me, and I don't like to gawk. It's clearly None Of My Business, and no one needed my help, obviously. It wasn't Entertainment.

I'd like to say that everyone else had the same philosophy, but of course, you all know that's not the case. There was almost a traffic jam of people and their shopping carts trying to come out of the store, caused by the two or three Elderlies with full carts, standing stock-still, watching this unfortunate drama unfold. I had to almost thread myself through a few more just to get through the IN door.

Once I did, however, I was soon stopped in my tracks by a monologue spoken loudly enough for everyone at the front of the store to hear. A woman's voice, speaking conversationally but assertively, said, "Just cut their hand off, that's what I say. If they want to steal, cut off a hand. For a first offense, maybe a finger, but if they do it again, then cut off the whole hand. Maybe then they'd think twice."

Aghast, I turned around and was astonished to see that the speaker was one of my favourite cashiers, a woman about my age, maybe a little younger. She was always so pleasant and kind to me, making sure to pack my groceries so that the bags were light. She was unfailingly chipper and chatty, talking about weekend activities and even inquiring about my health when I hadn't come in for a while. To hear her speak so easily about such brutality was jarring.

This happened a week ago, and I'm still struggling with it. So much is so wrong about it.

With everything in me, I wanted to challenge that cashier. I wanted to ask her if that is truly what she believes, that maiming a young twenty-something woman for what may well be the one mistake of her life is really what she considers to be Justice. I wanted to ask her if she knew that she was advocating for Sharia Law when she invoked these penalties for theft. I wanted to know how she could find such bitterness and hatred in her heart for a stranger, and for someone who had done nothing to her personally. And I wanted to ask her if she had ever stolen anything--anything--in her life; and if not her, what about her kids? What about her friends or co-workers? Did she really want something ugly and primitive to be Justice In America?

But I didn't do that. I didn't confront her then and there. I decided to wait and go through her line, speak to her civilly and calmly, but then she wasn't there. And now I know my chance is gone; I won't go through her line anymore.

I feel lousy. I feel as if I didn't Stand Up For What's Right. Like I let her get away with a big load of crap and spread it around, unchecked.

These days, any little Inch becomes a Mile pretty damn fast. I hope that, by my silence, I didn't help start a superhighway.

image

Breaking Up And Stuff

http://www.johndelgiudice.com/

Forgive my absence. Winter is unrelentingly harsh; life grows a bit lumpier; the February Theme has become, for me, uninteresting and unwieldy. The thrumming under my skin has started, and I am feeling as if I might fly into a million tiny fragments if I don't escape to a place that is, if not warmer and less snowy, at least NOT THIS.

I know I am not alone, but that knowledge is unhelpful.

Pressing on.

I'm going to abandon this Theme. I'm just not Into It, Not Feelin' The Love, Not--all puns intended-- Enamored With It. Maybe it's not even the theme, you know? Hey, Theme. It's not you, it's me. Things just didn't Work Out. It's better we go our separate ways, and I hope we can still Be Friends.

Breaking up is always a shitful part of relationships, and I have to say that I did try to be a good Breaker-Upper. I did not have extensive Boyfriend Experience, however, so I cannot be too self-congratulatory. I did have a couple of young men who thought they were my boyfriend, only to find out that they were not. If passing on that information counts as Breaking Up, then maybe I had more experience than I originally thought.

But I digress.

Sometimes I wonder if Breaking Up is so lousy because of the Love part or because of the Fear part. What are some of the very first things you hear a person say after a breakup? "What will I do now?" "I don't understand." "I feel like my whole world has fallen apart." Every single one of those statements is completely understandable and appropriate, and every one expresses Fear. Aside from horror movies and maybe roller coasters, no one truly likes to be scared.

And so much baggage! People to tell, stuff to give back or throw away, explanations to go through while you relive the details over and over again. It's like a Death. No matter how you spin it, Break-Ups are awful. Part of me wishes it were customary to do it surgically, like a subpoena is served. Someone shows up with a document, hands it to the Break-Upee, and walks away. The End. I think I would feel better if on the receiving end of that. Maybe.

But we all know what a Sentimental Autistic I have become. I am thinking now of my wedding dress, still in its huge box, supposedly preserved, someplace in our crawlspace. I haven't looked at it since the day I took it to the cleaners about 34 years ago. I could drop it in a Salvation Army clothing bin tomorrow and not care a bit. What do I need it for? It seems a terrible waste of money now. (Why is it that men traditionally rent their wedding clothes, but women buy theirs, anyway? I wonder if brides-to-be are suffused with some sort of biochemical cocktail which makes them eschew the very idea of renting a gown, even if it could be a designer gown of their dreams.  A quick search tells me that this is now available; the comments on the story tell me that it is also not new for large cities.)

I've already tossed all of the other wedding tchotchkes I thought I'd save forever and forever. The handmade ring pillow (our rings fell off of it, prompting a mad search by the best man), the wedding "unity" candle, the dried-out remains of my bouquet... oh, all sorts of things which had nowhere to be. Why save them? We're married, we're together, we have kids for heaven's sake. I don't need any other mementos of our marriage.

I broke up with that Stuff.

It was, if you'll excuse the reference, Hard To Do. It made me feel guilty. It made me a little afraid. I knew it could be seen as if I didn't revere or respect the Past, like I was trashing the memory of our wedding.

It isn't that at all.

When I throw away or donate things that I no longer need, it's for that reason. I no longer need them. I don't need Things to remind me of how much I love my husband or our life together. I don't need baby shoes to remind me of my sons or how much I love them and the human beings they've become. I can't live a full, wonderful life of Now if I have it crammed full of Then. Our story is rich and ongoing. Every day I celebrate Us. I go on, making room for new chapters.

What Do Catholics, republicans, And Chicken Pot Pie All Have In Common?

Fountainhead by Seyed Alavi

It's been a perfectly ghastly week, and I need to write to Feel Human again. All I have been able to do since Friday night is whimper, take drugs, lie down, and wonder for the eleventy hundredth time Why It Is That I Live Here in this godforsaken weather corridor. And why it is that Weather People cannot tell me what is coming, when, and for how long with any sort of reliability whatsoever. It all conspires to be mighty enough to make me say The Eff Word, almost, and I have been trying So Hard To Quit.

In case you wanted to know what it is like to rise from a Days-Long Migraine Process and try to re-enter Real Life, I have found something that is a little bit similar. Here; try to read this:

“Things must change for our government. Look at it. It isn’t too big to fail. It’s too big to succeed! It’s too big to succeed, so we can afford no retreads or nothing will change with the same people and same policies that got us into the status quo. Another Latin word, status quo, and it stands for, ‘Man, the middle-class everyday Americans are really gettin’ taken for a ride.’ That’s status quo, and GOP leaders, by the way, y’know the man can only ride ya when your back is bent. So strengthen it. Then the man can’t ride ya, America won’t be taken for a ride, because so much is at stake and we can’t afford politicians playing games like nothing more is at stake than, oh, maybe just the next standing of theirs in the next election.”

I'd like to echo DNC Communications Director Mo Elleithee and simply say, "Thank you." But of course, I can't. This speech by 2008 Presidential candidate John McCain's selection for his Vice President is beyond bizarre, even for her. As she continues to struggle for relevance in any avenue of American life, let's hope that it's not only the Democrats who sympathetically shake their heads and back away, whispering sadly. (Can we talk about it later over cocktails and nibblies, having a guilty laugh or two? Heavens, yes.)  And no, I won't mention her name and dignify her.

You know, here's another shitful thing about Migraineus Interruptus. I was being Such A Good Girl about my exercise regimen, plodding away on my Dreadmill of Punishment and even switching it up by shovelling the driveway (I know!), and then, Migraine. Down for the count. Thank goodness I don't have one of those Jawbone or FitBit thingies that would beep or vibrate or nag at me to Get Up. Like I need that. I bet you anything a Catholic invented those damn things. "Don't you feel guilty for not getting up and getting moving? Did you do your 10K steps today? CHRIST DIED ON THE CROSS FOR YOU AND YOU CAN'T EVEN MANAGE TEN THOUSAND STEPS?!?!?!" I'm getting a Monday 5PM Headache just thinking about it.

I think we all Want To Do Better. I really do. Okay, well, maybe not a Certain Bob Evans Restaurant. My friends Leanne and Jim, who live in Southern Maryland, each got sick with a terrible cold. They merely wanted some nice comfort food and were too tired and ill to cook for themselves. They went to a nearby Bob Evans restaurant--slogan, "Down On The Farm"--and ordered right off the menu, nothing fancy. Leanne ordered the Chicken Pot Pie, described as "Slow-roasted chicken, carrots, peas, celery and onions in a rich cream sauce covered with a flaky crust." Here is the teensy picture from the menu:

www.bobevans.com

Doesn't that look good, even though it's pixellated?  I can see why she ordered it.  Sadly, that is not what she got.  Here is what she got:

www.tf?

I think that, after this, they are Down On The Farm all right.

It's snowing here again, despite the odds being 40%.  The forecast changes hourly.  I'm tired of hearing all the new terms for Winter Weather--Snowmageddon, Polar Vortex, Bombogenesis.  I'm starting to think that, here in NEO anyway, if it weren't for Sports or Weather, there would be no "News."

What a lot of Effing Bullshit.  (Strangely, that did not make me feel better.)  Do let's chat in Comments.

Rally For Thanksgiving: The Dept. Of Nance Thanksgiving FAQ

Whether you like it or not, turkey is synonymous with Thanksgiving, and so much so that Butterball, Foremost Turkey Purveyor, has had a Turkey Hotline for more than thirty years. They have even taken to the Interwebs with this service, and in addition to calling their team of Turkey Experts at 1-800-BUTTERBALL, you can now live chat with them or email them via their website, here.

Not to be outdone, The Washington Post, journalistic bastion of all Beltway News and winner of forty-seven Pulitzer Prizes, has announced that, from now until Thanksgiving, it will be answering "some of the most commonly asked holiday meal questions." You can "E-mail [them]or join [their] weekly live Web chat on Wednesdays from noon to 1 p.m. For complete Turkey Day coverage, visit [their] Thanksgiving Central page."

Well, hell. I feel as if I have a ton of Thanksgiving Expertise to offer, but I don't have an 800 number or a newspaper. I do have this website; however, I don't want to wait around for people to submit questions or possibly ask things I don't want to talk about. So, I'm going to do it the Nance Way. Here, then, is

The Dept. Of Nanceswers, Thanksgiving Edition

Question: Must I serve an organic turkey at my Thanksgiving meal?
Nanceswer: Of course not. If you have a guest who insists upon a free-range, organic, fresh, or bilingual turkey, then politely request that he or she bring it so that it is correctly purchased, stored, and prepared. The same goes for any other special dietary request. Cheerily offer to provide the necessary serving pieces, and say that you look forward to tasting such a wonderful treat.

Q: Is it okay not to include kale, quinoa, or chia seeds in my Thanksgiving menu?
N: Absolutely. These trendy foods will welcome the respite, and butter will be glad for the work.

Q: How long do we have to wait for late guests? Is there a fifteen-minute rule, like for professors?
N: Just as no Fifteen Minute Rule For A Full Professor actually exists, no hard and fast rule for tardy dinner guests does either. But perpetually late guests are always Rude, and this behaviour should not be rewarded year after year. Call their bluff and sit down to a hot dinner. They will catch up and, hopefully, catch on. After all, microwaves were invented so that we could warm plates of food quickly and efficiently. Late guests can do this when they arrive. Greet them warmly, but without fanfare and judgment.

Q: How do you feel about The Kids' Table?
N: I am largely against it. Children should sit at the table with adults and learn about conversation; they should try new foods, observe and practice table manners, and be supervised by their parents. Thanksgiving is a great time for kids to sit down and learn how to eat a full meal in a relaxed setting and enjoy company.

Q: What wine do you suggest for Thanksgiving?
N: I've had lots of different wines with turkey, from a dry rose to Beaujolais Nouveau to a rich, oaky Chardonnay. All of them have been lovely. I think you should open a couple of wines that you truly enjoy and do just that, enjoy them. I would stay away from any sweet wine, like a riesling or the simply terrible white zinfandel or the dessert-y moscato. On principle, I'd stay away from those last two entirely, forever. But that's just me.

Q: Should I brine, deep fry, or otherwise do something worky to my turkey?
N: Only if you have nothing else to keep you busy and active. Have you tried crossword puzzles, knitting, or building low-cost housing for feral cats in your area? How about reformatting your laptop? Did you ever put all of your old super8 movies into a digital format? Just checking.

Q: How have you decorated your home for Thanksgiving?
N: I have two bags of cranberries in my freezer.

Q: Can you suggest some creative alternatives for pumpkin pie?
N: Listen. If you don't want pumpkin flavour, then make anything else you want. Make a chocolate cake. Make a pecan pie. Make a huge trifle with raspberries and hunks of pound cake. But if you like pumpkin spice flavour, stick with the pumpkin pie. Why mess with it? Let's face it: pumpkin roll, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin bread, pumpkin muffins--all that stuff tastes like pumpkin pie and that's why people love it. So, either do the pie or do a 180 and make something else.

Q: Are you a Brussels Sprout Person?
N: Oh, my, yes. I am crazy about them. One of the finest drinks nibblies ever is an appetizer made by the chef at Nemo's restaurant in Avon, a little town near me here in NEO. It's sliced, fried Brussels sprouts with a little bit of bacon, balsamic reduction, and toasted pistachios. Those with a dirty vodka martini...perfection. But I'll take them straight up, steamed with a little butter and salt and pepper, too, and have them fresh on Thanksgiving.

Q: Is it acceptable to have plain vegetables rather than candied, casseroled, au gratined, escalloped or the like?
N: Yes, and I always do. With the abundance of food and gravy and starch like dressing, mashed potatoes, and rolls, I like to have plain vegetables with real butter, seasoned with salt and pepper only.

Q: What should be done regarding cell phones at the Thanksgiving table?
N: Unless someone is a medical doctor, has an aged parent in a Home or hospital, or will be Skyping in a distant relative (such as a member of the armed services overseas or a married child who is giving the in-laws their turn), the cell phones should be put away and silenced. This may be akin to Social Suicide for some tweens and stunted adults, but they will get over it. Slapping offenders is, of course, forbidden; instead, fix them with a stern yet sad look and say, "Why don't you go ahead and take care of your very important business in the other room? We'll make sure that a nice plate is left for you in the fridge." It does no good to force anyone to be someplace he does not want to be. But the rest of the table should not have to be subjected to someone's bowed head attending to an absent third party all during dinner.

Q: What about the crushing guilt if I don't use real whipped cream?
N: Get over it. I know that Cool Whip is a whole bunch of chemicals and grease. I also know that I use it only about twice a year and that it's way easier than making and storing real whipped cream. If your guilt is so strong, buy ReddiWip. It's made with real cream. Wow. Are you Catholic?

Q: What do you suggest regarding the attire for Thanksgiving?
N: Some families like to dress in their Sunday Best for this holiday and make it a very festive, special event. It makes for a lovely scene and, if you are This Type Of Family, some pretty photos. For the Dept., we dress quite casually, and I often consider having Jammies Thanksgiving. For us, it is a holiday of extreme relaxation and togetherness and joy. I think it's a matter of family style and preference. Ideally, generous and stretchy waistbands would be a given.

Q: Do you have any suggestions for all the leftover turkey?
N: Is this really a problem, honestly? Do people A) not know how to figure out how big of a turkey to buy; B) not have a love of turkey sandwiches; C) not have the Interwebs? I rarely have any leftover turkey, and it's a little irritating. When I have a little leftover turkey (or chicken), I like to make a big pot pie, which also uses up any other leftovers like potatoes, veg, and even dressing, which can be cubed up or sliced up and put on the bottom. It all gets mixed up with the leftover gravy, which can be supplemented with some good jarred or canned gravy. I use the turkey carcass and wings for soup, or at least stock.

Q: What about leftover cranberry sauce?
N: Why don't we make this terrific condiment more often? It's delicious with roasted pork, and it's wonderful on buttered toast or a bagel. You can use it with apples in a crisp. Warm it and spoon it over brie, then serve it with baguette or apple and pear slices. If you want to get terrifically worky, buy those little phyllo cups and spoon a little bit of the cranberry sauce in the bottom of each one; add a chunk of brie or a white farmer's cheese, then a walnut half; bake in a 350 oven for about 8 minutes, til the cup is golden, and the cheese is melty. Lovely!

Q: What should we do if we have any more questions?
N: Ask them in Comments.

image

Bus Stop

For the past few weeks, I've been watching the same sad drama unfold outside my living room window every morning at about 8:30 AM. It's not that I sit and wait for it; I'm already in my big armchair, reading the newspaper and having my second cup of coffee. Or, if Piper has decided it's Time, I'm having a Snuggle with a huge orange marmalade cat, rendering any movement at all completely impossible. (More than once, I've mistakenly played an Unintentional Word in Words With Friends; it doesn't always work out advantageously.)

But I digress.

At 8:30 in the morning on Mondays through Fridays, a school bus pulls up to the house two doors down, and the sound of a child crying and wailing begins. Soon, a little boy of about six appears, backpack on his back. Sometimes his mother carries him; other times he slowly walks, rubbing his eyes or his head with one hand while holding his mom's hand with the other. It's crying only--no words, no complaints--just a steady bawling which reaches a higher pitch as soon as the doors whoosh open. Each day, the little boy and his mom have been greeted by a cheery, merry bus aide. She calls out his name--it sounds like it might be Charlie? Marty? Barney?--and asks how he's doing. Is he ready for school today? She carefully takes his hand and helps him to walk up the steps to the bus. She won't carry him; he has to walk himself. The doors close, and the bus lumbers away.

The first time this drama unfolded, I initially focused on the little one, naturally. My heart broke for him. He clutched at his mother; he looked so tiny and his backpack looked so large. He's so afraid! I thought. And he has to go on that big huge bus! That poor baby. What if he cries the whole way there? What if someone is mean to him? Then I looked at his mother, who lingered at the end of the driveway, watching and waving, then standing there, hands clasped at her chest. How awful for her! To know that her baby is so sad and so upset, and to be unable to do anything but watch. I remembered my own guilt: I couldn't take my own kids to school on their first day because it was always the first day of school for me, too. I would always spend odd moments of the day wondering. So much of raising children is Heartbreak!

In the ensuing days, the tears have not subsided when the bus comes. Each day, the mother brings the little boy to the bus, still crying. The bubbly aide tries her hardest to jolly him up, but nothing has worked thus far. "He's a little crabby today," said the mother yesterday through the wailing. I wondered why she bothered to say anything. Maybe, though, he does stop crying on the bus at some point. Certainly he would at school. I'm not entirely certain, however; today as I was gathering my mail, the bus dropped him off. He was crying.

All of this is in stark contrast to the other little boy three doors down from me the other way who used to get picked up by a van for his school. A happy-go-lucky sort of kid, he was very hyperactive and didn't seem to have any sort of concerns about going off to school at all. As a matter of fact, one morning as he was leaving, he yelled loudly, "So long, suckas!"

A performance that was never, at least to my knowledge, repeated.

image

Having A Reverend Dimmesdale Moment. Back To Poetry Soon. But, Did You Know Miss Indiana Was The New Normal For America's Women?

It's a terrible thing to get up a Good Head Of Steam--and Self-Righteous Steam at that--and run smack up against a Huge Wall Of Startling Self-Realization. It's a humbling thing, too. But because it helps to illustrate my point all that much more, I'm going to Embrace it and lay it all out there, my own cracked armour on display for all to see.

For some reason, in this Day And Age, we still have women who agree to participate in so-called beauty pageants. I am not going to present nor argue their reasons, nor am I going to entertain the discussions regarding whether or not it is Feminist to be the one deciding to put your own body on display for whatever purpose or reward. None of that is my point, and I can end most of the discussions by asking where the Male Counterpart for these beauty pageants is.

My purpose for raising the topic is due to the uproar on social media following the appearance of Miss Indiana in a bikini during the Miss USA pageant televised 8 June 2014.  Here she is.

To quote one news outlet: "Nia Sanchez, aka Miss Nevada, may have won Miss USA this week, but it was Mekayla Diehl, 25-year-old Miss Indiana, that grabbed Twitter's attention. Why?...Diehl, who is also the first registered Native American to represent Indiana in the pageant, stood out during the bikini portion of the two-hour-long competition for the fact that she had 'womanly curves'."

Here also is Miss Indiana's Facebook page, where it is revealed that she is 5' 8", 137 pounds, and a size 4. She has also inspired a teeshirt that reads I'm The New Normal. People from all over the country have posted positive messages, thanking her for being a role model for normal women everywhere. One woman enthused, "God picked YOU to travel this road and speak for others! You are so poised and a true inspiration."

I have no problem with Miss Indiana, aside from the fact that she makes the egregious lose/loose error in spelling.  She is lovely and seems to be sincere about her Platform for her pageant issue.  (Her shoes in this photo are absolutely unforgivable, but maybe they were not her choice.)

No, Miss Indiana is fine.  But can someone, anyone out there, please tell me how a Size 4 is curvy and The New Normal?  Are American Women so incredibly brainwashed by airbrushed magazine advertisements and anorexic fashion models and wispy, starving film actresses that a Size 4 looks chubbily robust to us?  Was there really someone out there--or several Someones--watching that night saying, "Whoa!  Get a load of Miss Indiana!  Bet her car knows the way to all the buffets in Muncie!"?

That was the gist of my Rant to my husband after I read a few blurbs about the Voluptuously Curvaceous And Womanly Miss Indiana.  I had just gotten into my Zone, using a ton of SAT Words and Emphatic Gestures (for lack of Pretentious Capitalization), when suddenly, I stopped and fell silent.  Shocked, I looked up at Rick.

"Oh my god.  Oh. My. God," I said, as the realization struck.  "I'm no better than any of them. What have I been crabbing about for weeks now?  Why have I been so down lately?  Because I have gained weight. Because I'm not a Size 2 anymore like when I was working.  Because now, thanks to my new migraine meds and menopause and a lack of killer stress, I'm never seeing a Size 2 again. And Size 4 is looking iffy. Because I'm Huge.  Holy Effing Crap.  Do you know how, even when I was twenty, I would have killed to be this size?  What is wrong with me?  I am so much smarter than that, but...apparently not.  Even I have fallen for the years and years of marketing and airbrushing and false representation of the Ideal Woman.  I'm fifty-five years old, educated, well-read, a Feminist, and the most pressing issue on my mind right now is that I hate my body because I can't fit into certain clothes like I used to and that they aren't labeled with a certain number which I find desirable or acceptable."

And at that moment, what made me really, really sick and disgusted was that I knew, deep down inside, if my neurologist told me that I could either be a Size 2 again or have no migraines ever again, at that precise moment, I would have chosen being a Size 2.

Something is terribly wrong.  With me, yes.  I'm admitting that, owning it, and without delving any further into my personal trove of the wherefores behind it, putting it here for the Interwebs to see.  Beyond my faults, however, are those of the Others.

It's Terribly Wrong that, despite the public health campaigns regarding eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia, the bulk of advertising continues to promote only one body type, a sylph-like, slender, and angular female with jutting hipbones and no discernible padding underneath her skin unless it is zeppelin-like breasts for a bra manufacturer.

It's Terribly Wrong that, when Mattel redesigned Barbie's body, it was not so that it was a more realistic reflection of what a young woman's body really looked like. It was in order "for her to have more of a teenage physique," says Mattel spokesperson Lisa McKendall. "In order for [the new doll's debut outfit] to look right, Barbie needs to be more like a teen's body. The fashions teens wear now don't fit properly on our current sculpting."  It's also Terribly Wrong that this occurred in 1997, and almost twenty years ago, the writer of the article observed, "Barbie may not be the cause of eating disorders and body hatred, but her universally recognizable profile makes her a flashpoint, an image of female perfection, a symbol of the drawbacks of any such images, and a convenient scapegoat for our cultural troubles with them."

Pageants are part of the problem.  Miss Indiana is being lauded by many for things like "starting the discussion" and "raising awareness" and "being a role model."  I have to disagree.  Until there is an identical pageant for men in which they are walked in front of a judging panel in various outfits, asked questions, required to showcase their talent, and perform some hokey song and dance in a state costume along with a host of other inane activities, I can't see a true and meaningful purpose for any pageant.  For anyone.  Hasn't anyone--any woman--ever asked herself why there hasn't been a male pageant like the Miss USA, Miss Universe, or Miss America pageant?

What sponsors would pay for time on that?  What network would want that ratings dog?  Who would watch it (besides Mumsy and Popsy of each contestant)?  And let me tell you why it is a ratings dog.  This.  The summary is all you need to read.

But there I go, preaching again.  There's nothing worse than the sinful preacher preaching against Sin.  (Ask Hester Prynne.)

I'm currently on a jaunt in Maryland.  While I'm here, I plan on doing a great deal of deep breathing and re-centering.  It's obvious that I need some Redemption.  And a helluva lot of New Normal.

image

Sorry, Walgreens--More Like The Corner Of Confused And Crabby

Sometimes, when a bunch of people gather, I can't help but listen for Blog Fodder. It's not that I'm looking for something to criticize or poke fun at so much as I am--in a Seinfeldian manner--observing things that I can comment upon from a "did you ever notice" perspective. It's like looking at an ordinary drop of rainwater under a highpowered microscope. So much more there than the first look affords.

I belong to two retiree lunch bunches because I taught at two schools in my district. Even though I taught at a junior high only one year, they are gracious enough to include me in their monthly group, and I like their company. Of course, I also attend my high school's monthly lunches. At both, I generally order a bloody mary and settle in for some chatting. In addition to gossip about colleagues or district business, the conversation always comes down to two familiar topics: travel and what everyone is doing to promote health and longevity. If there was such a thing as a Dr. Oz Cruise, these groups would book immediately. I know who is taking flaxseed and chia seed every day, who is using only gluten free products, who is swearing by glucosamine, and who orders everything online from Puritan's Pride. I know that Dr. Bragg's Raw Apple Cider Vinegar With The Mother is the only apple cider vinegar with true health benefits. Oh, and do you want to take a river cruise? Well, forget it. They book so far out now, that it's impossible to plan one any earlier than 2015, and you had better forget the "Downton Abbey" one. That one is sold out for the foreseeable future. Carnival Cruises are just so noisy--too many kids and young people--but you can book a quieter one on Princess or Holland America. But--sigh--it's just sad how some lines treat their employees, who are all foreign nationals. Try to tip them well, if you can. There are horror stories out there that are just awful.

Listening to travel stories is one of my joys. If I can't go, then I want to hear about when you went, and if you have some pictures, even better. My colleagues are generous with their travel stories, and they give good recommendations regarding cruise lines, travel agents, places to see, and places that aren't really worth a stop. They will even give you their guides, books, or anything else that they have that might be of help. The problem is, they never sound very impressed or happy about where they went. I always get the idea that they went in order to have gone, to simply cross it off their list or something.

They get far more exercised when talking about their use of wellness products. I understand. Ten years ago, I didn't think twice about any of that. Now, however, my hair keeps getting greyer. My hands and knees truly hurt with arthritis. My vision prescription changed for the worse, and I have a hard time driving at night. It all seems very unfair to me. That stuff is for Old People. I'm not Old. Then I think about the Simple Arithmetic of it. I have far more years behind me than I am likely to have ahead of me. It's natural to want to tip the scales more in the other direction.

The whole thing makes me feel confused and guilty. Should I be taking supplements, chia, flax, wheat germ, green tea, fiber powder, and shots of vinegar (With The Mother)? How do I know? Every time I watch a little of Dr. Oz, he tells me to eat something else to lose weight. If I ate all of that stuff, I'd weigh 200 pounds. Should I get a Neti pot, or will I collapse and die from a brain-eating fungus? Rick and I eat very little meat now compared with how much we used to eat, and at least three days a week, we eat vegetarian. I start my day with Greek yogurt or a spinach and strawberry smoothie. I use olive oil only. Should I start oil pulling?

Let me say this: I liked it so much better when I was young and talked about makeup and boys. Or when I was a mom and talked about sleep habits and spit-up. Or even when I was in my thirties and talked about work, teenage attitude, and my shoes. And let me also say this: I am deep-bone tired of this winter. It has made me old. Older. Elderly. Aged. Aged and in need of Spring.

header image
image

What Happens When You Tell Jiminy Cricket To Shut Up? I Have Fewer Pans To Wash!

Now that I'm Old and a Recovering Catholic, I've pretty much given up Guilt.  It's kind of my permanent Lent offering, except that I'm not sacrificing anything, I'm still eating meat on Fridays, and hey, if a Pope can just up and quit his job, doesn't that kind of render Lent a moot proposition anyway?

I remember the first day I began to part ways with Guilt, and I've documented it here.  As I aged, Guilt got quieter and more reticent.  Instead of lurking in every corner of my conscience, ready to tsk with disapproval, it simply sat there, silent and weary.  Years of middle child syndrome, battles with weight and body image, motherhood, and teaching had made Guilt an impotent shadow.  At fifty-four, retired, and at long last relaxed, I find that it's been relatively easy to let go of Guilt.  Most of its origins are gone, anyway.

There are times, however, that I feel A Little Bit Bad when I do something.  Not so much Guilty, just kind of like a kid does when he sneaks a cooky or like a teenager does when he exploits a loophole in a rule.  That sort of What The Hell attitude.  Or, as today's question asks:

What is your guilty pleasure?

 I wrote about this once before, too, a long time ago, here.  But that was almost eight years ago.  Things can change in eight years, and for me they have.

My Number One Guilty Pleasure is One-Bowl dinners in front of the television.  Doesn't that sound awful and disgusting, like a dog or something?  Or like we are these hideous Neanderthals, hunkered down over huge, heaping bowls of hash-like mashed food, shovelling it into our maws while watching Wheel Of Fortune.  Ugh.

But it's not like that at all.  Once, I made lemon orzo topped with a mixed baby greens salad and roasted shrimp drizzled with lemon vinaigrette.  Or I make a nice stirfry with chicken or beef and a lot of fresh vegetables over rice.  Or campanelle pasta with ham and asparagus and asiago cheese dressed with sage and mushroom olive oil.  Or grilled steak salad with balsamic vinaigrette (homemade, of course).

After twenty-plus years of cooking full course meals for the boys and all of us sitting at the table every night--which we all loved, don't get me wrong--it's nice to have such casual meals for just Rick and me.  And cleanup is so easy.

But my guilt stirs every so often because we aren't at the table, like civilized people.  I'm not serving separate meat, veg, starch, salad.  I mean, when we lived at home and ordered pizza for dinner when Dad was working the 3-11 shift, St. Patsy always made a veg and a salad!  With carryout pizza!

Do you see how deep it goes?  Save me.

Ever since we became Empty Nesters, Rick and I have really appreciated a more streamlined, simpler life.  We eat dinner and watch the news.  We chat and laugh.  Simple pleasures.  What could be wrong with that?

image

"Of All The Words Of Mice And Men, The Saddest Are..."

Those of you who have been with me for a long time know that I have coined a term to describe myself when it comes to nostalgia and mementos and such things.  I often say that I am sort of Sentimentally Autistic; I didn't save the boys' baby clothes, let alone their umbilical cord stumps like some Earth Mothers do now.  I've tossed 99% of their school stuff, their projects, and the cards they made me.  Almost all of the photos I own of my children have been taken by someone else.

I'm not coldhearted; honest, I'm not.  My attachment is not often to Things.  I don't dwell on the Past.  I don't often go backward--don't visit my alma maters, don't return to former places to see what they look like now, don't care to reach out and find anyone from high school or college just to make that connection again. It's just not a priority for me.  I move on, always forward.  It's not a conscious decision I've made; it's simply the way I seem to live.

All of that made this question especially thought provoking for me:

Can you, along with Edith Piaf, say "Je ne regrette rien"?

No.  I regret things every single day!  I regret that I sat with my coffee and computer, slothing around in my chair, for far too long in the morning.  I regret the menopausal pounds that I passively allowed to pillow my belly when, if I had simply maintained a dreadmill regimen, I wouldn't feel so awful.  I regret that I keep forgetting my coupons when I go to the grocery store.  I regret that I didn't even try to keep my promise to my Grandma that I would go back to church.

Come on.  I'm human, I'm a woman, I'm a mother, and I was a Catholic.  My life is steeped in regret.  For me, however, the issue is not whether or not I have regrets.  The important thing is how to manage and react to the regrets that I feel.  For me, Regret and Guilt are twin sisters, bratty toddlers that play off of each other, whose sole joy in life is to torment their victim until he or she doesn't know whether to kick down a door or dissolve into tears.

All the small Regrets can be passed off with a sigh and/or an acknowledgment that tomorrow is another day and another chance to do better. I've finally decided that I deserve to let a lot of stuff go.  Oddly, the world continues to go on.  Babies are born, forests burn, lightning breaks across the sky, and raindrops glisten on the tips of willow leaves.  Somehow.

My one Big Regret--now crystalline, thanks to the benefit of hindsight--is a missed opportunity.  About twenty years ago, we were visiting friends in Maryland.  I was already sick of Ohio mightily, and we had talked about relocating to southern Maryland near our friends.  Rick went on a job interview while we were there.  Completely unexpectedly, they called back and offered him a position.  We were completely unprepared, and now that our Someday Plan was Today's Reality, I found that I was terrified.  The logistics of the whole thing intimidated me, and I found I couldn't even think straight.  I was no help at all.  Rick turned it down, saying the timing wasn't right.

I look back now and see so clearly that I blew it.  That was our chance, and I blew it.  Twenty years later, and here we are, still stuck.  Has it been terrible for twenty years?  Oh, by no means.  Not at all.  But it would have been better, I think, someplace else.  I think we may have had more opportunities for the boys, too.  But it's done and gone and that's the end of it.  Honestly, I only think of it occasionally, and then sort of shrug my shoulders and sigh.  What else can I do?

Life is full of regrets.  How can anyone say honestly that he or she has never wished to have done something else, or done something differently?  Your true strength shows when you face that regret and acknowledge it without letting it hold sway over your life.

As always, I'm eager to hear your discussion in comments.  Please join the fray.

*Note to my email subscribers:  Feedburner is having problems. I apologize for the delay in delivery of yesterday's post.

image

So Sorry, But There Was A Snow Ban In Effect, And My Mantra Stopped Working

Listen, I don't even know what to say.  I mean, I literally do not know what I'm going to say in this post; I'm putting something up here because it's way past time and I feel obligated and ashamed.  This could be terrible, it could be wonderful, it could be horrifying--neither of us knows how it will all turn out.

I suggest alcohol, perhaps a nice glass of cabernet or maybe a good martini.  Two olives in case things get long-winded and you need a little snack.  Okay.  Let's go.

1.  The Dept. got all the way to Christmas Eve, and I thought we were home free, but then no, the dishwasher refused to drain.  Rick came home from work, took some stuff apart, cleaned some gunk out of some stuff, tried it again, but alas!  No compliance.  I Googled for remedies, watched some YouTube videos (how boring that was, let me tell you), then resorted to My Plan B.  I stood right in front of it and called it out for the Betrayor it was.  And I called into question its lineage as a goddam Frigidaire, which we never should have bought anyway, may they burn in hell.  Then, after totally humiliating it, I called the appliance store where we buy everything that fails us, and they sent out a repairman--who remembered working on our icemaker during Thanksgiving last year...or was it the year before?  It's all a blur.  Anyway, he fixed it easily, and well before my family party.

2.  Which leads me to what became my new Holiday Philosophy.  A couple nights before Christmas Eve, a house near us simply exploded.  Completely. (It was later traced to a gas leak from the furnace.)  Luckily, it was vacant, a rental that was without tenants and on the market.  Shockingly, the house next door to it had to be torn down a few hours afterward because its second floor had come crashing partway down into the first floor as a result of the concussion.  The people inside had no way to extract any of their belongings upstairs or in the part of the first floor that had been structurally compromised.  Imagine sitting in your home, cozily watching TV, your Christmas tree shining brightly at 9:45 PM, then a huge explosion blows your windows out, and by 1:00 AM, you have no house, no Christmas, and over half of your belongings are gone forever.  I was completely overwhelmed by the idea of it.  So when my dishwasher gave out, I said, "At least my house didn't explode."  And that became my mantra for anything that blipped my radar.  Because...wow.  Everything pales by comparison.

3.  But I have to admit that my New Mantra and I are getting Sorely Tested lately by this Effing Snow, which is relentless and overwhelming and quite honestly, getting Personal.  It just KEEPS SNOWING AND FOR NO REASON.  We don't really need it, thank you, as we have right now an Overabundance Of Snow.  Eight inches is plenty for anyone, and that crap is EVERYWHERE.  For two days it kept me in the house because of blizzardy conditions and JUST SO MUCH SNOW EVERYPLACE.  And, just for the record, No, it is NOT PRETTY.  It is TREACHEROUS AND, IN CASE YOU ARE UNAWARE, FROZEN.  This kind of snow makes me housebound and, therefore, Mushbrained.  The more it snows, the stupider I get.  Just yesterday, I lost track of my phone about eleventy hundred times.  And I was only on the first floor of the house.  And I was irked because the Cats are No Help.  It's only going to get worse; a bigass storm is forecast for Sunday which will bring MORE SNOW.  And BELOW ZERO TEMPERATURES.  I would cry, except that it would be Truly Shameful.  I had a blissful Christmas in my home which is intact.  Sigh.

4.  Rick and I were roundly criticized by the boys for having boring Christmas gift idea lists.  Sam especially was disgusted.  Finding himself a little more flush this year, he was finally looking forward to getting presents for the family.  In a text message discussion with Jared, he compared notes about shopping for his dad.  Jared, ever the dutiful son, told Sam that I had suggested some warm sweaters or sweatpants.  Instantly by return text Sam said, "Fuck that.  I'm getting Dad a bear shooting game and a gun for his Wii."  Of course he did, and there has been an endless parade of dead, bloody animals across my television ever since.  Thank goodness Downton Abbey starts tomorrow.

That's enough, I think.  How are all of you?  Resolute?  Virtuous?  Warm and balmy?  Most importantly, have you a good idea where your phone is right now?  Check in.

image generator

Somehow Or Other, It Comes Just The Same--Even The Grinch Knew That

Pressure Busting Tip #7

When I taught high school not so very long ago, I taught five classes a day.  The average number of kids in each class was about 23-24.  Normally, my schedule was three sophomore honors classes, my Creative Writing I/II class, and my junior regular class.  Strict organization was vital to my survival.  I knew where every single piece of student work was at any given moment in its journey from the moment it was handed in to the moment it was handed back with a grade upon it.  Never once did I lose one shred of student work.  I had a system of inboxes, stamps, and codes in my gradebook that was absolutely fail-safe.  More than once a student would say, either admiringly or in sheer, unadulterated awe or amazement, "Mrs. D., you are the most organized teacher I have ever seen in my life!"  But don't misunderstand; I was never a slave to my system.  I created the system to work for me.  And it did, unfailingly.

I think that's the problem for a lot of Holiday Bringers:  they are a Slave To The System.  Rather than create a workable system for The Holidays that works for them, they instead adhere so stringently and so rigidly to a set way of doing things that they make Christmas much harder on themselves than it needs to be.  For those tensed-up people who are already making their lists and decisions in advance, I urge them to consider Pressure Busting Tip #7:  Allow yourself to be flexible for The Holidays.  Just because you tied baby candy canes to all the kid presents last year doesn't mean you have to do it every year now.  If you can't find eggnog ice cream for the dessert coffee, use something else.  Does your son want to spend part of Christmas Eve at his new girlfriend's house?  He'll be back.  Don't create drama for yourself.  Gift yourself with the special present of saying, "Oh, well.  Will we still have a lovely Christmas?  Yes.  Then I'm not going to worry about it."  So you didn't get the tree up by the first weekend of December.  Did martial law ensue?  Bet not.  It's great to plan, but your plan should be like the Pirate's Code in the movie--"more like guidelines anyway."

image

Hey! If You Pay Taxes And/Or Are Nurturing Another Human Life, I Think You Have The Right To Do This Too

Pressure Busting Tip #5

Once, when our family was young and Jared was the Only Kid, we were on vacation and had been driving for quite some time.  We were sneaking in a little sightseeing and got a little lost, I think.  From the depths of the backseat came a tiny but indignant two-year old voice.  "Hey!" it piped up, "am I gonna live in this carseat?"

Kids don't want to spend every holiday in carseats either.  Think about it.  Could it be said that your children could honestly and rightfully associate every Major Holiday with getting in the car?  Something is simply not right about that.  If your family's holiday traditions involve leaving your home, it's time to put your foot down.  It's a tough one, but Pressure Busting Tip #5 will be the gift to yourself that keeps on giving and giving and giving:  Gently but firmly announce to Everyone that it is time for your family to stay at home for The Holidays and begin making its Own Traditions.  Naturally, there will be the usual wailing and gnashing of teeth via telephone, email, and social media.  All you have to do is remain calm, cheerful, adult, and resolute.  Perhaps tossing "surprised" in there might be helpful as well, in some cases.  Remain lashed to the mast of confidence whilst being bombarded by the storms of guilt and accusation.  You are not killing anyone.  You are not being selfish or mean.  Everyone is welcome to come to your home in order to see your family and spread Holiday Cheer on the evenings of said Holidays, after your family has celebrated.  Visitors can come in their jammies!  They can bring comfy slippers!  You can serve pie and/or cookies!  IT WILL BE FINE.

Trust me on this.  I'm a recovering Catholic, raised on years of deep, sticky black guilt.  I did this.  I do this.  And it's been 22 years since I first shocked the world by daring to do it.  And still, there is Love. 

image

Perspective

Last week I was fussy overmuch.  St. Patsy was due home from her Month Of Sistering in Gettysburg; I was thence on Chauffeur Duty for her Medical Necessaries.  I had a luncheon scheduled.  I had to get an E-check for the car.  I had to go to the bank.  I had to go to the grocery store for a few things.  I had laundry to do.  And since we were leaving on Thursday morning for our annual Independence Day Weekend Jaunt To Canada, I felt pushed and rushed because I also had to pack.  Ugh. 

So, on Tuesday I zipped out to the grocery store.  It was another hot and tropically humid day with ever-threatening showers.  I only needed to grab a few things, mainly nibblies for our Jaunt.  (We like to have a little Road Food on hand to keep our stomachs full for tastings, and Room Food for snacking.)  I was zooming through the aisles as much as I could, which was not much, because it was the 2nd of the month and the store was full of the elderly Social Security recipients.  The checkout lines were also long and slow due to heavy couponing, WIC cards, check writers, and exact change counters.  I, however, was patient and made a mental note to report back to my husband the vast numbers of individuals following The Rick Rule:  Retired People need to shop during the week and leave the weekends for the working people.

I glanced nervously out the huge windows ahead.  It was clouding up again.  I hoped like hell I wouldn't have to load up my car in the rain, then unload it all in the rain.  I saw a few drops hit the glass.

Finally through the line, I hurried out to my car.  Once I stowed my stuff, I happened to glance over to the store's front.  A young couple were unloading a full cart, and the man was valiantly stuffing as much as he could into a large backpack.  The young woman kept shaking her head.  It occurred to me that they had no car.  They were going to walk home with all their groceries.  And there was no possible way that any more of the contents of that cart were going to fit into that backpack.  Simple physics.

I backed my car out, hesitated, then resolutely drove up to the couple.  Pulling up alongside, I called out the open window, "Do you not have a car today?  Would you let me help you by giving you a ride?"

The two exchanged a glance, and the young man came to my window.  "We don't have a car," he said.  "But, ma'am, I guess if you would give us a ride, we'd be glad to take it. Thank you so much."  They opened the door to the back seat and began stowing their bags.  "Wow.  Thanks so much!"  the young woman said as she climbed in after them; the young man sat up front to navigate.  "I don't know what we were gonna do.  That backpack broke, and we had a lot more stuff than we thought."

"I'm so happy to do it," I said.  "Besides, there is no way I could let you even try to walk with this heat and the weather looking this way.  It might storm again any minute.  Now if you'll just tell me where you live and how to get there, we'll be off."  I introduced myself, and told them where I had taught in case one or both had attended there.  They gave their names, thanking me over and over again, the woman recognizing me from school years ago.

"This is awfully nice of you, Mrs. D.," she said again.  "You're probably the only person in this town that would do something like this, though.  No one in this town gives a damn about people like us."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true!" I protested.  "That's just not true at all.  But I'm glad I saw you and am able now to help out."  We drove by a restaurant a few minutes from the store and stopped at the light.  "Do you like that restaurant?" the young man asked.
"I do," I said.  "But it's so popular and crowded that I don't eat there often.  I like the food, but I don't like waiting for it."  "I work there," he said.  "I just got promoted to staff trainer, and I'm being trained for manager."

I looked at him; his pride was evident.  "That's awesome.  You must be a very valued employee," I told him.  "But, how do you get to work every day?"

"I walk.  It adds another couple hours to my day, and it's worse when I work real late, but I walk.  That's what I do."

As I drove, he told me little things here and there about the neighborhood as we passed them:  the school that is now a charter school, the neighbor who barbecues every Sunday, the guy who is real nice about letting all the kids play in his yard.  Pretty soon we drove up to a tiny house on the corner, and I drove up the driveway.  I admonished them both not to be in a hurry; I was retired and had all the time in the world.  They laughed and pulled their bags from my car, thanked me about eleventy more times, and told me I really saved them that day.

A light rain was falling, and I said they shouldn't get wet.  "I'm so glad I could help you!" I said again, and I backed out of their stubby driveway and drove off.  And really, I was.

It was an interlude I sorely needed. 

My father used to tell us constantly that we needed Contrasts in life to help us fully appreciate the Good Things.  One of his watchwords was Appreciation.  We were raised on it.  And here I was, forgetting it.  I am thankful for such an Object Lesson.

header image here

The Art Of Being Nance: We Might Need To Put A Call (Or A Text Message?) Out To Jesus

I find myself singularly uninspired and hugely unmotivated lately.  This leads to massive amounts of Leisuretime Guilt.  It is difficult to reconcile myself with this New Lifestyle.

But I press on.

Mindful as I am with my Tragic Neglect of this space, I will flood it now with a variety of Thingies for your perusal.  Such as:

(-)Yesterday while out on errands, I saw this sign on a church:  NEED A MAKEOVER?  CALL JESUS!  I don't think I'm being deliberately obtuse when I say that I really don't get this exhortation.  Yes, I do infer that it means a spiritual makeover, probably, but why "call" Jesus?  Do I just holler?  Can I punch in 1-800-JESUS on my cellie? Or is there a Latino Clinique representative who rented the sign, maybe? "Oh, Jesus, I don't know. I'm just tired of the same old look. Can we sort of freshen me up a little with a more peachy lip and maybe a moss green eyeliner?"

(-)I am on Day 3 of a Monumentally Huge Headache Of Titanic Proportions.  No idea why.  So...Rick decides to use the leaf blower for eleventy hours.  Clearly, this is Purgatory.  Tomorrow, if my headache is gone, I will be reevaluating my life and considering entering a convent to atone for my (obviously) considerable sins, unless it is too late, in which case I'll say hello to a few folks for you.

(-)What has happened to me?  Some of the following are true! 
1.  I voted for a republican in the last local election.
2.  I own an iPhone.
3.  I have a secret Twitter account.
4.  Ditto Facebook.
5.  I own leggings and wear them in public.
6.  I send text messages.
7.  I ordered beer in a restaurant.
Which of these are you willing to believe of me and shatter all of your Nance Ideals?  Oh, the HORROR, I know!  But I have a good explanation, and you shall have it, for each and every one that is A Fact.

And just so that you can rest easily...

(-)I went on a private tour of the Cleveland Museum of Art this week, with a lovely cocktail party immediately following.  My financial planner and sometime boss (for whom I do some freelance writing) invited Rick and me.  It made me a little ashamed that I had not been there in so long, but renewed my pride in our wonderful museum and its collections. I immediately resolved to drive in one day soon and spend several hours wandering and enjoying the paintings and furniture.  I am not much on sculpture or armor or sarcophagi although there are plenty of those there.  I am also anxious to again prove that I can, indeed, view art and not embarrass myself by crying at it, like I did at the Vermeers in Washington, D.C.

I think I told you about that, didn't I?  Sigh.  (But...his brush hairs were right there and everything!)

This headache...what a bitch.  Send me your drugs. STAT.

Ladies And Gentlemen, Have I Got A Deal For You! The Dept. Tries To Jog Its Memory And Be A Little Reasonable

Scene opens in a brightly lit television studio. Audience is seated, and the stage is decorated to look like a living room with dark carpeting, dark floor-length draperies. Adjoining the "living room" is a counter area.

Applause sign lights; audience applauds and cheers wildly. TV product pitchman Billy Mays bounds in energetically, waves at audience. Cheers and applause intensify.

Billy: (incredibly loudly) Hi, everyone!

Audience: Hi, Billy!

Billy: (with the volume of an onrushing freight train) Do you want a box of shit in your house?

Audience: Yeah!

Billy: (with the decibel level of a U2 concert in your basement) Do you want to be self-conscious every single time you wear navy or black?

Audience: Yes! Yes!

Billy: (as if a tornado set off a gas main explosion in your utility room) Do you want to step in piles of regurgitated kibble and hair in your bare feet because you are the only one who can see them in the entire world?

Audience: PLEASE! RIGHT NOW!

Billy: Do you want to add hundreds of dollars to your budget for medical bills not covered by your health insurance just now when you can't really afford it?

Audience: WHAT A DEAL!

Billy: Then have I got the deal for you! Get a kitten! Right now, for a limited time offer, you can get a kitten--and all of the great features I just outlined can be yours, with these added bonuses. Stay tuned.

Audience writhes in their seats as Mays takes a break. While he is hosed down and shot with tranquilizers, the living room set is prepared. Several fluffy, cute kittens are released onto the couch.

Mays leaps into living room set. Audience releases one long, sustained "awwww" as he grabs up one adorable kitty.

Billy: These kittens have been on set for only three minutes, and look at the hair they've already left behind!

(Camera pans at swaths of cat hair on couch, carpeting, and along hem of draperies.)

Audience: (ad libs) Wow! Awesome! Incredible! Amazing! Never seen anything like it, etc.

Billy: (chuckling volubly) You'll be vacuuming two, three, maybe four times a day! And good luck on those draperies! Once those little cuties start walking along the back of the couch, they can leave a path of hair so thick that even an industrial Dyson can't suck it off.

Audience Member: (pointing) Ooops!

Billy: Yikes! Little Fluffy there isn't quite litterbox trained yet, is he? That's gonna go right down to the pad and maybe leave a stain. Well, just move a table or get a big plant to put over it!
Audience Member: (pointing) Ick!

Billy: What? I don't see anything. Let's move on.

Audience: Screech!

Billy: Ha ha! Yes, aren't they cute, folks? Look at the little sherpas, hooking onto those draperies with those talons and climbing all the way up! Wow! You've just gotta watch 'em every minute! And it's not like you can just put up a barrier, is it? Those guys can jump! Okay, moving on!

Billy moves over to counter area and takes a kitten with him. He puts it up onto the counter and wads up a paper ball, playing with the kitten as he chats with the audience. The kitten plays and looks vastly adorable the entire time.

Billy: Now, folks, (loud enough to be heard in Uzbekistan) HOW MUCH WOULD YOU PAY TO BE ABLE TO HAVE THIS KIND OF EXPERIENCE IN YOUR VERY OWN HOME?

Audience: (ad libs) Seven hundred! A million! Ten thousand! My whole fucking life! My kids!

Billy: BUT WAIT! REMEMBER: THE HAIR EVERYWHERE, THE YAK-UPS, THE LITTERBOX DUTY, THE TRAINING, THE LIFETIME COMMITMENT, THE DESTRUCTION OF YOUR HOME DECOR, FINDING SOMEONE TO TAKE CARE OF IT WHEN YOU GO AWAY, THE VETERINARY BILLS, THE YOWLING AND MEOWING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!

Female Audience Member With Two College Degrees And Really, Plenty Of Common Sense, Honest: But they're so cute and furry! And cuddly. And I miss having a pet. Sometimes. Crap. Sigh. Oh, I know. Shit.

Female Audience Member's Husband: (takes out bottle of Captain Morgan, drinks entire contents then proceeds to stand up, take folding chair and hit self in head until unconscious)

Audience: WE WANT ONE!!

End scene.

When Right Is Wrong And Simple Gets Complicated

(This was mentioned in an email by my buddy Shirley as a possible topic to explore here at the Dept., and when it came up in the comments section on my other blog, I thought it deserved discussion.)

Have you ever noticed how damned hard it is to do the right thing anymore? We were told to start drinking more water, so we all ditched soda and began buying bottled water. Now we're being carped at about how gullible we are for spending money on water, of all things, and worse, for overloading the landfills with more needless plastic containers. Then, we find out that--horrors to end all horrors--the reusable bottles we opted for to save the environment are made out of Bisphenol A and phthalates, which are detrimental to our health and may linger in our bodies far longer than first thought. Holy crap. What the hell are we supposed to do? I guess just dehydrate or get hammered on wine, which, depending upon the studies, may or may not be good for us.

We're all trying so hard not to add to the general clutter of our planet and our lives. The mantra for the last ten years seems to be Simplify, Simplify. I like the concept. I really do. I used to get two newspapers a day. I subscribed to four magazines: Vanity Fair, Newsweek, Entertainment Weekly, Bon Appetit. Then I realized something: when each one came, I sat down immediately and read it, cover to cover. Then it sat on the coffee table where it used to get knocked off by someone (Jared or Sam) propping his feet up or a rambunctious cat event, or used as a coaster. I had to keep moving it to dust or look for something. Eventually, I'd recycle it, then wait for the new one. And I hated Magazine Gleaning--you know, the time you take to first rip out all the stupid subscription cards, overpowering perfume samples, and freefalling ad cards that inhibit your reading enjoyment. Finally, I stopped renewing, and I don't miss any of them. I read lots of interesting stuff online. Where there are no annoying cards, no smelly perfumes, and I feel like I'm being environmentally-conscious as well.

But...yikes. Have you seen this? I feel really guilty! So many magazines are folding. So many people out of work! Crap.

Now, the newspaper thing is a little different. I am down to one newspaper a day for an entirely different reason. I stopped our local paper because I just could not tolerate A) the poor level of writing; B) the obvious bias against our high school; C) the delivery person's stubborn refusal to stop tracking through our landscaping. Okay. But my wonderful remaining newspaper, the Cleveland Plain Dealer is having its problems as well. Layoffs! Job cuts! The publisher that owns it and other newspapers sees a grim future. People are getting their news online, no doubt about it. And...that is keeping lots of paper out of the waste stream. And the demand for recyclable material in this economy is down anyway. See what I mean? I'm being green and environmentally responsible! Yet I might be hurting the U.S. economy as well!

I think this is, perhaps, an example of a Catch-22.

So, my question is: Am I part of the solution or part of the problem?