January 31, 2021--Inspire Your Heart with Art Day
Pink is the color of summer to me. It reminds me of a fresh grapefruit first thing in the morning or of a sunset on the beach. Pink is the color of beach towels and bikini bathing suits. It is youthful. It is new. It is the color of June. Pink is the color of the ball gown I wore twice, once when I was nineteen, and again at twenty. Pink is the color I hear when I see rustling taffeta skirts with puffy sleeves and tight bodices and boys offering up corsages and courage. Pink was the color of the bridesmaids' dresses in my wedding. It was also the color of the roses I carried down the aisle. Pink was the color of the champagne I drank on my honeymoon and of the exotic bottle it came in, which I still have. Pink is the color of the blanket given to baby girls in the hospital when they are born. And if you try to buy girl baby clothes, or girl any size clothes for that matter, pink is the color they come in. Pink is the color of blooms on the crepe myrtle which we used to have in the front yard. It grew too close to the house and had to be cut down. That may be the only time I cried over pink. Pink is also the color of the large bougainvillia in the back garden that dies every winter, but resurrects itself each spring. My father gave us that plant as a house warming gift in a pot. We planted it in the southwest edge of the yard, and it has not stopped growing since. Pink is the color of March when the azaleas are in bloom along garden walks and trails, rising out of fresh flower beds and mulch. Pink is the color of hope that spring is here at last, or in the case of a cold snap, is just around the corner. Pink is the color of October, arriving in awareness t-shirts and walkathons of support. Pink was the color of the ribbons that saved me, and of the color of the store where I bought my first new bras when the time for saving was over. Pink is the color of pajamas and lingerie. Pink is what you smell like when you snuggle down between the crisp white sheets. Pink is the color of a shirt only a real man will wear. Pink is flamingos and Florida prints. Pink is homemade hearts cut out of construction paper. Pink is bubblegum, birthday cake frosting, or strawberry ice cream. Pink is a bakery of sugar cookies fresh from the oven. Pink is sprinkles on cupcakes and sparkling lemonade. Pink is everything, and pink is all things. Pink is the color of the lenses on the glasses I choose to view the world from. Pink is me, and I am pink. January 30. 2021--National Escape Day
The gravel road eventually gives way to a black pitch and tar drive way that leads to an open parking area. There is room for six or seven cars, as visitors are always welcome. Behind the parking area to the north are rolling hills that are low and rocky. They are a good place for goats, but not for sheep as they are not entirely green. Off in the distance are mountain peaks which are good for hiking and trailheads are less than an hour's drive away. The view from the driveway and parking area is mostly blocked by the large grey weathered cedar shake shingled house. Once inside the home, however, there are large two-storied floor to ceiling windows giving a fantastic view of a blue ocean. The home was built in the seventies and maintains an aura of that time period in its interior. There is a front door which no one uses that is not unlike the front door in the Brady Bunch house from television. The kitchen is to the far side of the home, or to the left as you enter from the front door. Unlike the Brady Bunch house, this kitchen is white, with some glass cabinets--but not all of them. There is a large island in the middle that has been there since the house was built. It is an island kitchen in an island home before kitchen islands were a thing. On two sides of the kitchen there are open counters that have shutters which close when you want to hide what is going on in there. One of the counters looks out across the dinning room through the floor to ceiling windows, so the view of the sea is also available to anyone stuck in the kitchen preparing a meal. The second open counter top looks out across the den and is a great place to put snacks and shout, "Order up." There is even a small bell for just such purposes. When children visit, this bell is sometimes put away because they find it overly fascinating. The den is furnished with overstuffed sofas and chairs that are all in the same neutral, no color tone--not quite sand and not quite rock colored. They all face a small fireplace that is flanked by the floor to ceiling windows. The den's ceiling is two stories high, and behind it is the familar Brady Bunch 1970's style balcony. Off of this balcony are several well appointed guest bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. To the right of the front door and through the den is the side door which everyone uses. It is underneath the modern open staircase which is carpeted in a greyish biege low rise berber. At the top of the staircase and to the right is my small bedroom. My room is sparsely furnished. The walls are white, and it holds a single dresser and a queen size bed. In its location near the staircase and overlooking the den, I can hear almost everything that is going on in the house. There is a single uncurtained window that overlooks the parking area. I can hear all of the comings and goings in the entire house from my vantage point. The floors upstairs are carpeted with the same carpet as the staircase, but the floors downstairs are all saltilo terracota tile in a square pattern. The tiles continue, but grow slightly larger as one passes through the french doors out onto the patio which is visible through the den. Although cedar shake shingles protect the exterior of the house, the interior walls are a mix of exposed red brick and stucco. The fireplace and chimney are red brick with some drops of stucco scrapped off or put on for texture. In the center of the patio is a small swimming pool with flowing water from rocks to keep it cool. This pool is surrounded by French style patio furniture and tropical plants. There are low plants facing the ocean to keep the view unobstructed and in the center of these low plants is an opening. Through the opening is wooden pedestrian bridge which winds over sand dunes and leads to the beach. This beautiful and well-appointed home is my happy place. I initially visited it in my dreams when I was a young girl. I have returned to it in my dreams now and again without any planning on my part. Through the years, some of the colors have changed in the interior, but its essence has remained the same. January 29, 2021--Freethinkers Day/Happy Birthday Thomas Paine
Last night, at 1:20 a.m., I was scrolling through my phone and came across this article, "Revenge Bedtime Procrastination is Real, According to Psychologists," from author, Jenny Singer. Published on the Glamour Magazine webpage, the article details the phenonmenon of scrolling way past the point in which sleep should have already taken you. The name of this anomaly comes from millenials and Gen Z people in China. It translates as "sleepless night revenge." I'm lucky in that I'm retired and do not have to get up to go to work every day, but those who do, even if it is to work at home, fall prey to the never ending scroll just when they should be going to sleep. What about those of us who still fall prey to it, and don't have a job to report to the next morning? According to Singer, Revenge Bedtime Procrastination is "a phenomenon in which people who don’t have much control over their daytime life refuse to sleep early in order to regain some sense of freedom during late night hours.” It first appeared on Twitter by Daphne K. Lee. However where does that leave me? I have all the freedom I can stand. Or do I? The article states that people scroll past sleep in order to cater to themselves. They have jobs and children to care for. I have neither of those things. However, here is where the article hit home for me. Scrolling our phones late at night while we should be sleeping helps create emotional detachment. When we are home all the time, it is hard to create the same detachment that comes at the end of a workday when one enters their humble abode. True, I no longer work in the conventional sense, but I have my projects, my art, and the normal cooking and cleaning to maintain a home. You could call this behavior a remedy to quarantine depression. I like to listen to Ted Talks during this time of late night scrolling, and one Ted Talk can quickly lead to another. This paradox of continuing to scroll even though our eyes can barely stay open to see the screen is a "quiet reminder from your unconscious that you really do like being alive. There are so many good things in life that you don’t want to fall asleep and miss them." Mostly, I think we do it because it is one way to feel some kind of freedom when so much has been taken away. It's a way to keep the anxiety at bay when so much has changed in our world. Just one more click, one more like, one more anything to remind us that life is still sweet. https://www.glamour.com/story/revenge-bedtime-procrastination-is-real-according-to-psychologists January 28, 2021--Let's Talk Day
Everybody's Got Something is a book by Robin Roberts, television news anchor of Good Morning, America. It chronicles her story of surviving breast cancer, twice. The title of her book purportedly comes from something her mother often said, "Everybody's got something." So true. Nobody is carefree, as much as they can make it seem like they are. Today's topic is about just that. Zeus sends his thunderbolts to all of us with nary a care. If you haven't been hit yet, keep moving. You may be able to dodge them for awhile longer. One something that many of us have is some form of mental illness. I mention it today because it is Let's Talk Day in Canada. Leave it to those Canadians to become proactive before us in the area of mental health. Maybe it's because of their free health care system or maybe they spend less time arguing amongst themselves. Either way, congratulations, Canada. You have won the race to a better-understanding-of-mental- health landing. In the Canadian model of mental healthcare initiatives, there are four pillars. The first one is stigma. I don't think I need to even go over the other three, as stigma will have most of us stuck. Yes, we have all said or done something that was unkind to or about someone with mental illness. Just look around the country. All those people sleeping on the streets? Most of them likely have some form of mental illness. I don't want to talk about myself, but the truth is that both of my parents had some form of mental illness. My mother has depression. She has had it her entire life, as far as I can tell. She takes medication for it, but it was not always easily diminished by a pill. My son and my dad have so many similiarites that it is surreal, starting with the same birthday. My son has autism, which is not a mental illness. However, many people still lump it into that category. We watch the struggle my son has to endure every single day. I wish I could take the brunt of it for him. Here is a truth about my dad whom I loved as any child could love a parent. Could my dad have had some form of autism, be it a milder case? Austism is a spectrum disorder, meaning that it has varying degrees of severity. Dad struggled with what is referred to as executive functioning. Executive Functioning refers to seven core areas that are weak or not fully formed. Self awareness is the first one. Dad could talk until the listener was blue in the face. He could also badger a person with questions without discerning when the recipient did not want to answer any more. The other executive functions are inhibition, nonverbal and verbal working memory, emotional self-regulation, self-motivation, planning and problem solving. A person with autism will probably have some area of fragility in one or more of these functions. To conclude, I should be really messed up now shouldn't I? I am messed up, partly from my upbringing, partly from what I inherited, and partly from my own self-sabotaging methods. I somehow managed myself in a semi-o.k. mode up until I had breast cancer. Or maybe that was the catalyst to become well or whole. All I know is I take a super-happy-fun pill every day now, thanks to one oncologist who bluntly told me I was depressed. That was a hard pill to swallow, both literally and figuratively. Robin Robert's mother was correct. We all have something. The key to supporting each other is admitting to our own internal areas that need support. January 27, 2021--Family Literacy Day and Library Shelfie Day When I was a child, my mother read to me from a book of Children's Bible stories fairly often. I still have the book. On the cover is a picture of David, as a young boy, swinging a slingshot. The corresponding story of David and Goliath was my brother's favorite Bible story. We had to listen to that one quite often. I was always a sucker for the Christmas story, but another story also caught my interest. The story of Lot and his Wife was one I remember my mother reading to me from our book of Children's Bible Stories. Why is it even in this book? It seems crazy. A woman and her husband flee their city which was ON FIRE. She looks back, and then, boom. God turns her into a pillar of salt. What stood out to me was the fact that Lot apparently kept running. He did not look back or go back to find his wife. What is up with that? He just left her there in the form of a pillar of salt. This story felt wrong to me. I thought he should carry her away from the city that was on fire. Whatever could this mean? One thing about the story of Lot's wife is that she lagged behind. Every day at school, my teacher told us to run to the fence and back on the playground before we went inside to finish our lessons. I was always the last one to finish the running. Clearly, I lagged behind. The thing about lagging behind is that is sometimes it just how you are made. You think you cannot help it. When you become aware of your lag, you can start to help it, though. I definitely have a lag. In the past, when opportunities presented themselves to me, I have neglected to take them. I do not know if not taking these opportunities have anything to do with Lot's Wife or not, as I am not a Biblical scholar. In my mind, they do. I regret turning away from things that would have been a new avenue to explore. Perhaps that is the worst thing about Lot's wife. She had the opportunity to move forward, yet she looked back, possibly with regret or remorse at what once was or could have been. It bothered me that Lot did not go back for her. Even in a salt form, she was still his wife. If I could rewrite the story of Lot and his wife, he would return and take her salt statue with him. However, he moved on. Forward. I have waited before for someone to come back for me. More times than I care to admit. If I were more modern, I suppose I would not stand and wait for anyone to save me. In today's fairy tales, the princess often saves herself. We don't know what became of that pillar of salt in the Bible story, but I like to think that a flood came and disolved Lot's wife from her saltiness. Then the salt and the flood would form into a giant wave on the beach and wash ashore with the tide, ever moving in and back out again. By the way, today is library shelfie day. That means you are supposed to take a selfie of yourself next to a shelf in the library or next to your bookshelf at home and post it on social media. Here I have used a picture of from Creative Commons that may have already made the rounds on social media. However, I thought it was so clever, I just couldn't not post it. If you read all of the titles on the books, you get a hidden message. Today's take away is read more to kids and learn from the story. Messages and meanings in stories are hidden from plain sight, but are always there upon careful examination. January 26, 2021--National Speak Up and Succeed Day
When our burgers arrived, I ate quietly while the ladies talked. Mommy had ordered me an orange soda as she always did back then. However, someone handed me a drink that was not orange soda. It was coke. All of the drinks looked alike from the outside, sitting together in their cardboard tray--all white cups with orange strips racing down the sides and plastic lids with straws poking their way out. I tasted my drink and realized it was not the correct one right away, but I couldn't tell anyone. I just sat quietly and ate my burger and fries, waiting for someone to notice that they had my orange soda. Finally, Carmen, who was Nanny's next door neighbor, took a sip of her drink. "What?...Oh, my gosh! I just took a sip of my drink and its not coke!" she exclaimed and looked at me. "Do you have my coke?" she boldly asked. I gravely nodded. "Well, here," she said. She handed me my orange soda and took the drink I was holding. "Why didn't you say something?" she asked. I just shrugged. She took a sip of the cola, and the women went right back to chewing and talking. I didn't say anything about the wrong drink because of many things. For starters, I never had to say I had the wrong drink or food item ever in my life before that moment. No one made mistakes with what I was given to eat or drink in my world. And then there was the fact that Carmen was frightening. And she was filling up my back seat. You had to be constantly on your toes around Carmen. She could read your thoughts and tell everyone what you were thinking. Perhaps though, my fear ran much deeper. I never knew when she was going to grab my face and try to force the "Y" sound I used to pronounce "little" (making it "yittle" or "yiddle") into the correct "L" sound. She had done this on more than one occassion. My speech impediment, which I eventually outgrew, seemed to drive her crazy. She had appointed herself as my speech therapist. I didn't even know I mispronounced my sounds until I met Carmen. She always pointed it out and told me to repeat words, several times over. If I didn't get it right, she would stick her large hand around my mouth, pinching it together, and force me to repeat after her. It seldom worked, but she would keep on pinching until she got some degree of satisfaction out of me. I guess eventually I said the sound correctly because Mommy and Nanny would declare, "She did it!" or "That's right!" However, I never heard what I had done accurately because like many children who have this speech delay, I could not discern the difference in my mistake or sucess. My daughter did the same thing until around age five. Her pediatrician reassured me and told me not to worry. Today, we know that if the "L" sound is not present after age six, then speech therapy might be in order. When Carmen took to pinching my face, I was not yet five. No one stopped Carmen when she took to her homemade speaking cure, so I withdrew. When I was around her, which was often, I let others speak for me. It was easier. Funny that neither she nor anyone else ever saw a relationship between her face pinching and my hesitancy to speak up, though. January 25, 2021--Opposite Day I believe that Opposite Day should replace Valentine's Day as a romantic celebration. In fact, I wish I had been married on Opposite Day, as it seems the most appropriate way to celebrate marriage. If I were a matchmaker, I would assume the obvious, nevertheless. Yes, it is important to find a mate who comes from some sort of similar life experience or who shares in your core beliefs. If you do not start with that level of mutual understanding, I suppose you can make of go of it, but it seems like it would be much harder. Some one would need to bend or stretch their standards and that could be uncomfortable. Moreover, I submit that without looking for the opposite of ourselves in a relationship, there would be no chemistry. I think we always are searching for our opposite in order to bring balance to our own personal force. For example,... I have no examples actually. If I were to say that I am a spender and my husband is a saver, that might show the world too much of our personal lives. What if I also stated that I am loquacious, and my husband--not so much? The actual case is that we are both talkative, but at different times and about different subjects. My husband can wax on about sports. I try to tune in. Really, I do. He patiently explains the plays to me, and every time it's like I never heard it before. The same could be said of our bank account transactions. It's as if the playbook he is reading from is written in a different language. He is a planner. I am more spontaneous. I like a trip with no rules. He wants to know where he will rest his head every night. We have made this work, however. He has planned the most fascinating trips, complete with printed itenaries. I throw them away and pack for the weather in whatever place we are going. Problem solved. He is a morning person. I stay up late. We both want a cup a coffee first thing when we awake. If the first one up makes the coffee, then the last one up (usually me) has it waiting for them. I once worked with a man who asked me what exactly I did at home. I think he was getting at how I described my husband. I married a neatnik. I can live with mess. How this works out for us is that I allow him to clean to his heart's content without complaint. He has grown accustomed to my clutter. He sometimes secretly throws things out that he thinks we no longer need. However, it is not really so secret because I know what has gone missing. This also works out for us both because I have a hard time parting with items for a whole variety of reasons. I tend to hang on to all kinds of things that are no longer necessary--which might in fact, be holding me back. It seems some sort of miracle that I live with a man who will toss stuff out for me. I always have a sense of the lightness of being around him. And by that, I mean that his somewhat silence and clearing of the halls allows the things that I am truely good at (creating more collections and entertaining others) flourish. So yes, in fact, opposites do attract and can live together quite nicely. However, on this day of opposites, it would be foolish to think that we do not pick our friends, mates, or lovers from some sort of common ground. A person never gets too heavily involved with another person when there is not a sense of shared ethics. Shared beliefs, similar backgrounds, shared experiences, shared living spaces and shared children make for superior partners, but we would be no where if there were not some soulful attempt to bring equalibrium to our own personal powers. January 24, 2021--Talk Like a Grizzled Prospector Day
I am a seasoned thrift store shopper. Thrift store shopping is a form of treasure hunting, and therefore is as close to prospecting for gold as I am likely to get. I have my favorite secondhand shops which will remain my well kept secret, as the entire thrift store scene is getting way too mainstream anyway. A good thrifter knows the rules and protocol for finding the best treasures, however. When you first arrive at your charity store of choice, you need to plan on mucking around for a bit. The best finds are never at the beginning of your hunt. If there are shopping carts available, grab one right away--even if you have nothing to put in it immediately. The shopping cart will help you stake your claim, or let other shoppers know you are currently searching a shelf or rack of clothing. At my last thrift store shopping trip, the treasure hunter's code of conduct was breached. I was deep into a rack of women's blouses intent on mucking through the entire inventory. Suddenly, a woman with a shopping cart full of clothing and babies moved right next to me. She surely had seen me, but had chosen the exact moment I turned toward my own shopping cart to make her move. In effect, she was jumping my claim. To make matters worse, she pulled her cart from the far end, leaving her tots unattended. Completely hornswoggled, I glanced at a little girl in the child seat, who took my glimpse as an invitation. "What's your name?" she asked. While the girl made her inquiry, an older child smoothly climbed out of the basket portion of the shopping cart. The younger girl was a cutie pie, but also, precocious. Was this part of the woman's plan in jumping my claim? If it were, I was having no part of it. I made my way to another aisle. When there I staked another claim and began to muck through the rack some more. Turns out, on my second claim, I hit paydirt. I found a blouse in my size from a high end department store with the tags still on it. However, my bonanza was peppered with sadness. As I stood in line to check out, my thoughts drifted back to that little girl in the cart whose mama had jumped my claim. Consarn it all, anyway. A child that young acting so precocious is bothersome. She wanted attention--closeness. To have the adult in her life stand at the driver's end of a shopping cart and engage with her in a shared experience. The child wanted to not be ignored. That is all anyone ever wants, really. I thought of the future of this small girl. I thought how if she was craving attention at that young of an age and if she continued not getting it, she would grow up to seek it from anyone who offered it. Heck, she was already doing just that. What a sad, sorry tale this has made. Dadburn it all to hell. Just at that moment, my own grown up baby came up to me and placed a few more found treasures in our cart. Our hunt was complete then. We would have another one on a different day. I didn't know where the claim jumping woman was at that point, but I wanted her so badly to stop regarding her own treasures as just a couple of flashes in the pan. January 23, 2021--National Reading Day
Sacrifice is what parenting is all about. And the sacrifice that no one talks about is reading aloud your children. It is vitally necessary though. Almost as vital as feeding and clothing them. It is the only thing that creates life long readers. That has been researched and proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Sure, a school can establish life long reading habits, but the success rate of it is no where near the success rate of parents who read to their children. Reading aloud to your offspring is tedious at best. The number of times I unwillingly read aloud The Little Engine That Could to my daughter as her bedtime story when all I wanted to do was go to sleep myself should have won me an Academy Award. I hate that book. It is too wordy and too long. The only good part is the final page when the reciter can literally huff and puff while chanting, "I thought I could...I thought I could...I thought I could." However, reading aloud to your kids gets better if you are willing to continue it. What I mean by this is that my husband and I started reading to our children almost as soon as they were born and stayed the course into the time they started school. Then, we started reading novels aloud to them, as a family event. I started it really, though. Before my daughter was born, I read the entire Winnie the Pooh series aloud to my son, which in its original form is quite lengthy. We followed that with the Paddington series. Then we had my daughter and were dragged back into the early story books that parents typically read to their children. When she could read on her own, my husband started reading The Harry Potter books aloud to both of our children. I listened in as well, but sometimes I missed an evening or chapter due to other obligations, like cleaning up the kitchen or taking a shower. It got more difficult to follow the story the more I missed out, so I eventually gave up. My daughter was really young during this episode of our lives, and she recently admitted that she also didn't understand what was going on during the Harry Potter series most of the time. She just liked the camaraderie that these readings afforded her. Often, I would glance into the living room and see both kids entwined around their dad as he incited Voldemort. The other series of books that we read aloud and I successfully followed along to was The Series of Unfortunate Events books. These were easier to follow when read aloud, probably because of the narrator jumping into the story from time to time. Today is a day dedicated to reading to children. Thankfully, my children are both grown and enjoy reading on their own. I haven't read a book aloud to them in a really long time. However, reading aloud to them was a practice in our household that my husband and I kept up for a long time--past the time when most parents have already given it up. In conclusion, it is a sacrifice worth making. January 22, 2021--Nude Beach Day
We had a large group that night, and I sat at a table in the pizza joint with another male friend, Slick, when an old friend from church sat down. I recognized him immediately. However, he introduced himself as a male prostitute with a different name. "No, I'm Steve Bliss," he insisted when I tried to correct him. What? I was having a triple freak out inside my brain. Complete cognitive dissonance. The table conversation quickly went to Steve's exploits, egged on by Slick. What is it with males always talking about themselves anyway? I had soon had enough. I confronted Steve, or the boy from the beach, starting with the memory of the day I lost my top. He denied it all. I had been on a day trip with my "church friends," when one girl thought it would be fun for all of us girls to change swim suit tops under water. So we did, and then someone kept my top on purpose. I was stuck out there in the waves, half nude. It traumatized me. I would like to now publicly shame all of those who participated in this "joke" and also publicly thank the one young man who came out in the waves where we were and pretended to want to have a look. He didn't get one because I stayed safely ensconced underneath the waves. I say "pretended to want to look" about the young man because as it turned out, he was gay. Yeah, maybe some gay dudes also appreciate the female form, but in his case, I just don't see it. I think we all knew it, but did not have a name for it back then. We only knew he seemed different, more inclined to keep our girlish secrets. He was the easiest to talk to among all of the church youth group boys. Perhaps that is because he listened more and did not talk much about himself, like all of the rest of the boys did. I miss my friend to this day. After that incident at the beach, I separated myself from the church youth group as much as possible. Later, when two of those mean girls showed up as fellow comrades on my school's drill team, we all pretended it never happened. The night I ran into my beach rescuer again, the conversation quickly ran to tales of "Steve's" business adventures and contacts, all married men in the community. I couldn't listen to it. Not because of moral objections but because it felt like bragging. I stated that I wasn't hungry and would go home. My table companions begged me to stay. Without innocent ears to hear the boasting, I guess it would lose some of its impact. Later, I learned that his parents had thrown "Steve" out of the house. I am guessing it had to do with his sexual orientation, but I always knew his mom to be extremely supportive--so it all was passing strange. Anyway, he had left home and lived on the streets which is probably what led to the start of his business career in prostitution. Even later, I learned he had died. He had been sick with the disease that no one talked about back then to which there was (and still is) no cure. His parents had taken him back home and were left devastated by the turn of events. I didn't even put the whole picture together until I had learned of his death. Part of me half-way believed the story of the newly named male prostitute when I had run into him during college. He had adamantly denied knowing me then. When someone lies to you like that, it seems like it might be true. If I could see him today, I would thank him though. Thank you, Friend, for coming to my rescue that day when I made Surf Side Beach into a semi-nude coastline. When you ran out into the waves to try to have a peek, I got my swimsuit top back rather quickly. It seems the other girls didn't count on me getting attention from a boy for their stupidity. And thinking back on it now, I surmise that the other boys didn't also join you because, well, when confronted with true sexual prowess, they fell short. January 21, 2021--Conscious Uncoupling Day/Get to Know Your Customers Day Is there anything better than getting your hair shampooed at the salon, and then getting a great blowout? It is complete nirvana. There is only one thing that can ruin it, though. And that is a hairdresser who does not know when to shut up. I don't like to chat when getting my hair done. However, I have had to listen to questions before from my hair stylist and then find a way to answer them that is just vague and general enough to make the questioner understand that I am not in his or her chair to become their friend. I realize that makes me sound rather cruel, but there has to be a better way to enhance the customer experience than to badger them with questions. The last thing I would want to talk about in the hairdresser seat is my place of work, when I still had one that is. "Where do you work?" is still the most common question I get asked when getting my hair done, followed by, "How many kids to you have?" I consider myself a friendly person. I always answer the questions. However, I seldom feel like talking in depth to a near stranger. All I want my hairdresser to do is make me pretty. Or at least, better looking than when I stepped into the salon. Here is the worst question a stylist can ask me, in my opinion. "Who did your hair last time?" Most often the answer to this question is, well, me. I have cut and colored my own hair, and I don't believe I should have to cop to it when in the barber chair. O.K.? "Yes, I did a crappy job cutting and coloring my own hair. That is why I am here, in your chair. Your job is to sort out the mistakes and not ask me who created them," is what I am thinking when asked this question. It's just so embarrassing. Maybe I did not have time or money to come into the shop. Maybe I have sat in the salon chairs so many times in my life that I thought I could do just as good a job. May I am full of my on bluster for thinking it, but that is my truth. "Happy now?" I have broken up with plenty of hairdressers in my day, as well. The reasons for this are varied. Usually, the reason is because the hairdresser gets really good and moves to another shop or level, and therefore, prices me out. I have a limit on what I am willing to pay for a haircut which is where the self cutting comes into play. I like to think of these breakups as conscious uncoupling. Conscious uncoupling is a euphemism for breaking up. If asked why I left a hair dresser, my answer would be, "It's not you; it's me." But here's the truth of it, which can be applied, I supposed to other kinds of break ups as well. "With your higher pricing, my attraction has waned. Sorry, but I am no longer drawn to you and your talents as I can get the job done just as well or better at a cheaper price. And I would not be true to myself and what I am if our relationship were to continue. Going forward, just so you know, what I am, above all else, is...well,...cheap." January 20, 2021-- National Cheese Lover's Day/Inauguration Day I love today. It is National Cheese Lover's Day. It is a day to celebrate cheese from all over the world. How does one celebrate cheese? I thought you'd never ask. You buy some kind of cheese that you have not tried before and eat it. Pretty simple. Some people take their cheese pretty seriously. I do not. However, I have never met a cheese I did not like. And here is a little known fact. If you have a hard cheese that has started to grow a little mold, all you need to do is cut it off. The cheese is saved. And you will not be poisoned. National Cheese Lover's Day makes preparing dinner simple. You can prepare a cheese board like the one above. Voila. A healthy dinner. And if you add wine, you have a party in the making, waiting to be devoured. Speaking of devour, I have found it difficult at times to keep cheese very long in the refrigerator. There are thieves who will eat the cheese and neglect to tell anyone else that it has been eaten. These folks are enemies of the state. They generally wake up during the night and lay siege to the kitchen. The next day, evidence of the attack is everywhere. There are cheese wrappings on the countertop. Dirty dishes lay in the sink. An empty box of crackers rests sideways on the kitchen table, crumbs scattered at its opening as if it has been assaulted. In summary, it is a sad and nasty sight to behold. As Keeper of Flame, I have become accustomed to these midnight raids upon my kitchen and its precious contents. And from this day forward, I will take a pledge to protect my cheese and its various accoutrements from those who would cause them harm. In short, I must protect the cheese--at all costs to my mental state and my personal safety. So with little more to add to the subject, I now will take my OATH OF OFFICE: I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the office of Turophile (person who loves cheese), and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Distribution of these Attrited Grates of Esoterica. January 19, 2021--Brew a Potion Day Welcome to Polyjuice 101. In the Harry Potter universe, a good poly juice potion can be brewed to turn oneself into just about any person or animal you could want. The downside is that it takes all day to brew and only lasts one hour. Our son had a Harry Potter Poly Juice Potion Maker he had received as a Christmas gift when he was eleven years old. He had a friend who lived across the street and one afternoon during the holidays, they took over my kitchen and brewed up every drink the machine would make. It was all fine by me, though. For one thing, it kept them busy. And secondly, it used up every drink mix that came with the machine. That meant I could file the toy away into the donate box. As far as gifts go, it may have been one of the worst gifts ever given. Or it could have been one of the best ones. It just depended on one's perspective. The bad thing about it was that it was a giant piece of plastic. And it was trendy. It was the kind of toy that was meant to end up in a land fill or a thrift store until even the thrift store would send it to a land fill. The good thing about it was that it kept a couple of preteen kids busy one afternoon doing something together that was not side by side gaming or watching a movie. Well worth the investment, I suppose. On the other hand, neither one of them really needed the machine to make pretend drinks. They could have experimented in the kitchen on their own. However, it might not have occurred to either one of them to be that creative. So, the plastic molded machine provided plenty of inspiration. I watched from the den as these two young wizards created potion after potion, and tried them out on each other. They made such terrible faces at each tasting, that I didn't want to be a part of operation. Later, when Dad came home, he went right for it. As a matter of fact, he kept the ruse up for weeks, if not months. He would all of a sudden pretend to be Professor Snape, forgetting all about his identity as Dad. He would just launch into Professor Snape out of the blue, creating anything from mild amusement to frustration for his awaiting audience of one. He would explain that lingering effects of a poorly concocted poly juice potion left him unable to control when he would turn into Snape. In order to get Dad back and lose Professor Snape, our son had to chant, "Finate Incantatem," which is the spell in the Harry Potter universe that undoes other spells. I don't remember how long this game lasted, but probably until the last Harry Potter book was read and the final movie had been watched. Today, our grown-up son is a fan of water enhancers. He loves to mix vitamins or flavors into a water bottle. If it makes him hydrated by consuming more liquid, I'm all for it. In our household, however, these items are referred to as Poly Juice Potions. You could say it's a holdover from a happy memory. January 18, 2021-Maritn Luther King Day/Elementary School Teacher Day
In the fall of 1968, I entered first grade. Before school started that year, there was a conversation that my mother and grandmother tried to have with me. We were all sitting around my grandparents' house, as usual. I was twirling in the living room when I overheard this, "Do you think we should tell her," said my mom. "Well, we better say something," said Nanny, my grandmother. They suddenly had my attention. I looked at both of them. "You know," began Mommy, "when you go back to school in few days, it might be different." I just stared at her. "There might be all kinds of new children," said Nanny. Still, I stared at them. "What we mean is that there is going to be different children in your classroom." I tried to take this in. "You might not have the same friends as you did in kindergarten," said Mommy. Now she had me. What? This was outrageous. What was she saying? My eyes began to well up. "But I want my same friends," I cried. "Well, every year could be different. Every year, your exact class will not be the same children. The school will mix them up. You will have many different children in your class every year." "But I want Sherrie...and Donnie...and Eddie..." I sobbed. "Well, you will have them. Even if they are not in your class, they will still be your friends." Her response was not helpful. How could this be? I had spent the entire last school year getting to know the kids in my kindergarten class and had a few I really liked to play with. Mommy and Nanny looked at each other. "Well, maybe we should just leave it," said Nanny. "She'll find out soon enough." "I suppose you're right," said Mommy. "She won't understand or be able to tell the difference anyway." I continued to sob. My grandpa walked into the room just then. "What's going on here?" he asked. "We're just trying to prepare her for the changes coming at her school," said Mommy. "There ain't going to be any changes for her," he said. "School is school. Quit trying to mess with her mind." I was thankful for Grandpa. Finally, a voice of reason. After much consoling and reassurances that I would still see my old friends from the year before, I felt better. I quickly forgot about this conversation. On the first day of school, I sat in my new classroom. I spotted my friend, Sherrie, sitting near the back. Also present were many of the other children who had been in my kindergarten class. As well as the familiar faces, there were some unfamiliar ones besides. I found the boy who sat across the aisle from me particularly interesting. His name was Eric. My first grade teacher introduced herself and began talking to us. We sat attentive in our desks, lined up like soldiers at inspection. Mrs. Franklin said this and that. I don't think I paid close attention. However, when she started talking about the new faces, "the black children," as she called them, I looked around the room. "Black people do not believe in God," said Mrs. Franklin. "They think when you die, you do not go to Heaven. You just die." Her comments were met with deadly silence from her audience. Crickets. That is the most disturbing thing of all, looking back now, ages later. No one said anything. We didn't know what to say, and we were only an average age of six. We had not been taught to talk back to any adult ever. I announced what Mrs. Franklin had said that night at dinner. My parents exchanged glances. "Old Lady Franklin's been in the classroom too long," said Daddy. "What Daddy means," said Mommy, "is that Mrs. Franklin is older, and sometimes older people get confused. And by the way," she continued. "It's not true. We all go to Heaven. The same Heaven." I was relieved because I was starting to like sitting across from Eric, and this other new girl, Yvonne, had smiled at me when we were lining up to go home. January 17, 2021--Cable Car Day Every cable car ride I have ever been on has been memorable. Today is Cable Car Day, a day to remember the traditional cable cars in San Francisco or any cable car that makes its way up the side of a mountain or over a geographical gap. One of my favorite cable car rides was the one over the Niagara River near Niagara Falls. There wasn't much to this ride really. However, the fun was waiting in line for two hours for a twenty minute ride, and thus watching my family--one by one--turn traitor on me as it had been my idea that we all ride this contraption. With the levels of starvation that we were experiencing by the time we got to take our turn to ride across the river, the possibility of the cable breaking and dropping us all into the furious river below would have provided relief. We had divided up any chewing gum, cough drops, and breath mints between us at the end of hour one. The phrase "Ride or Die," takes on new meaning in this context. My feet were so tired and numb that the water underneath us had started to look inviting, like a giant foot spa. Furthermore, only my husband was still speaking to me by the time we made our way to the front of the queue, and that was only in the most perfunctory way. I am willing to say today that it was a mistake to wait that long for such a short ride, but I am also glad to say we did every single thing a person can do in and around Niagara Falls, save for going over it in a barrel. Another trip found us all in San Francisco in 2016 the week of the Golden State Warriors vs. Cleveland Cavaliers NBA finals. Up until what could have been the final game if Golden State had won, we had ridden those iconic cable cars all over town. Every ride felt like a celebration. You were never guaranteed a seat, and whether standing or seated, you had to hang on for dear life. Tourists, business people, drunks, and natives all crammed onto one car it seemed. Waits for an available cable car could be long, but not as long as we waited in Niagara Falls. However, except for the fact that you would frequently pass other cable cars while riding one, it would have been easy to think the entire city had only one of them operating at any given time. The next day, the Cleveland Cavaliers to come back and win the championship, the city of San Francisco shut down all cable car operations. This meant that tourists like us had to walk or Uber to get around. The game was not actually played in San Francisco, but there was a pervasive fear that fans would go crazy and attack the cable cars should they win. Heck, maybe even if they lost. As it turned out, Golden State lost the fourth game of the championship, giving up what could have been a sweep. Cleveland went on to win it in four out of four creating their own sweep. But, by then, we were safely home back in Houston. And no one did anything abusive toward the San Francisco cable cars. They waited silently that night, ready to take us on a party ride another day. Too bad though that we didn't anticipate the closing of the cable cars on our last day in San Francisco. Like many other things in life, you never really know something is your last time until it becomes your last time. January 16, 2021--Religious Freedom Day While out in our yards one day playing with all of the neighbors' children, a lady drove a dark sedan through the street slowly. When she saw all of us youngsters about our house and the two homes across the street, she stopped and got out. She handed us each a flyer. I could not read yet, but I didn't need to because she told us all what it said. She said to show the paper to our parents and have them drop us off at her church that evening at six o'clock. They were having a revival and were going to hand out the biggest candy bar in the world to a waiting child. She said we would all have a chance at winning the giant bar just by attending the service. "The biggest candy bar in the world?" we shouted. "Will it be Hershey's?" Someone chimed in, "I hope it's a Crunch bar." "I can't tell you what kind it will be, but it will be at least twenty feet long," said the lady. My brother and I ran inside to tell our mom about this exciting kid-friendly adventure. My mom said, "No," initially. We were Presbyterian, and this was not going to be the same as our church. However, we pleaded. We cajoled. We begged. Finally, my mom went outside to talk to the other neighborhood moms. A meeting was held in the middle of our street. All of us kids stood on our respective sidewalks and waited. Eventually, the mothers adjourned, and we all went inside. Once in our house, my mother said my brother and I could go, but we would probably be disappointed. She warned us that there might not even be a giant candy bar given away to anyone at the end of the service. However, her words fell on deaf ears. We said we would share the candy bar with each other if we were the lucky winners. Finally, that evening, after dinner, we put on church clothes and loaded into the neighbor's car who had agreed to drive us all there. My mom had filled my head with so many warnings about how different this church was going to be that at first I was disappointed. From both the inside and the outside, it looked like any ordinary church. We sat side by side on a normal church pew. There were songs, and prayers. Finally a lady came out and started talking about our names that were written in a big book somewhere. She kept turning around and pretending to write names in a giant Bible that was propped open on the alter. This action confused me because she said our names were in a huge heavenly book that we couldn't see. However, I could see the Bible up there. I didn't know what she meant. She continued to call out the names of children in the crowd. She said every time they did something good, a check mark was put next to their name. My name never got called out. And I listened specifically for it. Never mentioned. Not even once, but plenty of other names got more than one check mark. Finally, at the end of the service, it was time to give away the world's largest candy bar. Some adults began walking into the sanctuary with a long garland of taped together hard candy. The bad kind of candy you get at Halloween. The sort of candy in your trick-or-treat bag that gets eaten last, or not at all. Peppermint disks, butterscotch buttons, root beer barrels, and gummy fruit gels. It was not a candy bar at all. It was simply a long-ass rope of candy that someone had painstakingly clipped together with scotch tape. The lady announced another name, the winner of this not-really-a-candy-bar at all revival/fiasco. It went to a boy we did not know. On the way out of the church, they let us each pick one piece of the same candy mix from a bucket. I took a root beer barrel, but it didn't taste quite the same as the other root beer barrels I had once devoured. When we went home and told our mother about this woman's shameful disregard for the truth, it was the first time I remember her ever saying, "I told you so." January 15, 2021--Halfway Point of Meteorological Winter We are halfway through winter which means we are halfway through the darkest and coldest months. Some folks might say we are halfway through the darkest days of our lives. I'm not so sure about that. I hope so, but the optimist in me has taught me to think that things could always be worse. Some other things that are halfway through are plentiful. When Winnie the Pooh was halfway through the rabbit hole, he had to call on Rabbit's friends and relations to get him completely through it. Is it time for each of us to call on our friends and relations to see us through these dark days until spring calls to us from the other side of the hill? Wednesday is halfway through the week. I always like Wednesday, but some people refer to it as hump day. When reporting to a job every day, Monday and Tuesday can be hard. Wednesday is less so. It is the day when your work week finally starts to cook. You are in the zone at your job, accepting your fate with gusto. The next day is Thursday, so all of your gusto flies out the window as you prepare mentally for your weekend. I hope that fifty years old represents halfway through the journey of our lives. None of us knows when we will go, but no one wants to leave too soon. Have you ever noticed when you are halfway through a party? Not really because you only leave when you feel like it is time to go. What brings about that feeling? It could be that the food and booze run out. Although, I have hosted a party before where my husband went on a beer or wine run in the middle of it. On more than one occasion. One clear indication that a party is over is if the host walks out of his bedroom into the party, having changed into his pajamas. If he proceeds to tell everyone good night, then the party is most definitely over. For most of the parties I have been to, I try to leave when I get tired. Unlike when I was a younger person, that could be near the beginning of the affair. When you attend events with others, you always need to agree with each other when it is time to go. If one of you is falling down, it is definitely time to go. Once in Vegas, my husband had to literally drag my wide awake happy self up to our hotel room. It was three am, and our plane left the next morning at God-awful early. I have heard that they pipe in extra oxygen in those places to keep you awake, but that could just be a rumor. However, most of time when leaving from somewhere with the person who brought you, you will just look at each other with a knowing glance and mutually agree upon the time to make your exit. I wish winter were like that. I am ready to give my knowing glance to these darkest days of the year. Problem is, I can't catch the old man's glance. Just when I think today is the day. This will be the time we are officially leaving winter, I awake the next day to more cold weather. More long dark nights. Good news is that the long dark nights are waning. I am starting to smell spring in the air. However, I am forgetting one small thing. February. January 14, 2021--Caesarian Section Day
On June 18, 1991, I had my first one, and on August 26, 1998 I had the second one. The medical reason for both of them was macrosomia which means the baby is too big--too big to make it through the birth canal in my case. Too big (in some instances) to go full term. I am talking about the C-section here, of course. I am thankful that the caesarian section was invented. Although named after Julius Caesar, the Roman emperor, he is not thought to have been born that way. Accounts show that his mother lived, and my copious research suggests that no women lived through that kind of surgery until the 1500's. Instead, the operation, as well as the dictator, is named after Caesar's ancestors who were thought to have been born in this manner. Today, in the United States of America, one out of every three births is performed by C-section. Reasons given today for macrosomia in the fetus are gestational diabetes, which I did not have. Weight of the mother is another one, but I am certainly not going to talk about my weight. However, I will say that going into the first pregnancy, I was an appropriate weight for my height. Both of my babies weighed over ten pounds at birth. Although no medical reason was ever given as to why I had these two baby giants, my understanding is that it might have something to do with the fact that my baby daddy stands six foot four. Or maybe it was all the prenatal vitamins I took. Ultimately the cause of it is not as great as or equal to the result. Getting these children here was complicated. I remember an OB appointment during my eighth month with my first born. My doctor did her usual measurements, and said, "This baby is already over eight pounds." Her announcement made me think. "What if he's too big to come out?" I asked. "Then we do a section." I had no idea what that meant, or what I was in for. She had explained to me that without the surgery, my baby was at risk of a permanent shoulder injury. After hearing that, I was all in. I remember all of it in great detail which I will not reveal in this post. However, what I will say is that the medical staff made me walk into the operating room. "What? No gurney?" I thought. "I wanted a ride." And as a further indignation, they made me hoist my substantial whale of a body onto the surgery table. "They have got to be kidding," I thought. After some time and help, I was up there. Then they proceeded to jab me with all kinds of sharp objects. I was awake for the entire procedure, as is customary. Unlike in the movies, neither one of my kids cried when they were born. They just squinted at me. "What the Hell just happened?" their blinks seemed to say. "I don't know," I answered them back. "But I think we're going to be o.k." January 13, 2021--National Sticker Day Does anyone remember when happiness was eating a banana and then putting the Chiquita sticker on your nose? Someone figured out that putting that sticker on our noses or foreheads was a big deal, and that kids liked stickers. And thus, the million dollar sticker industry was born. I never used stickers in the classroom as a motivational tool. I have seen them used as a way to chart a student's growth, however. Who is the most voracious reader in this class? Just check the chart on the wall. How did those teachers keep up with the supply chain of stickers? I have been in other people's houses where I observed chore charts for their children on their refrigerator. When the child completed all of his chores, there was a sticker on the chart. I guess there would be some kind of reward at the end of the week or the month for a certain number of stickers. I have really never used extrinsic motivational devices with my children. It was always too much work. There was a brief period when my husband and I paid them a dollar a week for room inspection. If their bedrooms were clean at the inspection time, they received a dollar. The good news was that their rooms were almost always clean. The bad news was that they were getting rich. Too rich. So we stopped. I no longer had to worry if I should require them to use their own money for stuff. Should I pay for the movie or have them reach into their own coffers to pay for it? Should I buy the snacks, or do they purchase their own? And then do I purchase my own extra large popcorn and coke? The role of fat cat robber barren was not for me. What if the world operated like the Ohio State Buckeyes football team? If you are unaware, each time one of their players makes a contribution to the game, they get a sticker to put on their football helmet. You can spot the really good players by how many stickers are covering their heads. If the world operated the way their team worked, then every time we made a good play in life, we would collect a sticker. Paid your taxes? You get a sticker. Gave to charity? Collect your sticker. Mowed your lawn and recycled your debris? Here's a sticker! Did your car pass inspection? Another sticker. Wait, we do get a sticker for that one. If the world operated that way, we would soon be able to paper the outside of our homes in stickers. And to what end? Would it increase the resale price of your house? Would real estate agents be able to say, "And as you can see from the exterior of home, the sellers are fine, upstanding pillars of the community." Would I want to live in a house covered in someone else's stickers? Yes, I would. January 12, 2021--Stick to Your New Year's Resolution Day
Could it be that only eleven days ago we all made our New Year's Resolutions? It seems like so much has already happened this year. Who knew eleven days could just fly by so fast? If you have fallen off your resolution wagon, today is the day to regain your momentum. Here is a quick review of my resolutions for 2021 and how I am doing:
In the story, Gatsby's resolves are listed on the back cover of a Hopalong Cassidy book. They included, rules for his behavior as well as a regimented schedule. This routine included "exercising, studying electricity, working, playing sports, practicing 'elocution and poise,' and concluding each day with a two-hour study of inventions," (National Endowment of the Arts--The Big Read). I think we all know what Gatsby's biggest goal was, however. Ultimately, he wanted to win back Daisy. And do you know where all of this goal setting got him? One morning, he woke up--a corpse floating in a swimming pool of his own blood at his fake house in the Hamptons. And yet, we continue to read this book. We continue to set our own goals and make our own resolutions. Perhaps it is just in our human nature to reflect back on what went right and what went wrong. It is as if we cannot stop ourselves from setting goals and making resolves. Like accessorizing, it is what separates us from the animals. No matter what state we find ourselves in or what circumstances, we are all a bit like Gatsby. We continue to believe in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter–tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning—-, it will all be true. January 11, 2021--Sketchnote/Hot Toddy Day
When the weather is cold and frightful outside, it is a good time to make a hot toddy drink mix. A hot toddy is a mixture of bourbon, hot water, honey, and lemon juice. It should be sipped slowly. It is a cure for anything that ails you on a winter's day. It is made up of equal parts (a shot of) hot water, bourbon, honey, and lemon juice. But you can adjust the bourbon or water for medicinal purposes. You should not drink a hot toddy while taking cold medications, however. Be ready for your next meeting by practicing your sketching techniques. Helpful things to have in mind are symbolic renderings of common transitions in writing. Arrows can be used for almost any of them. January 10, 2021--National Slow Cooking Month I own six crock pots, or slow cookers. I consider them collectable items. One I inherited when my mother was going to throw it away. It is extremely old school with a liner that doesn't even remove. This one I only use as a back up on holidays. The second one is metal and has seen better days. It may be time to retire it, as the scratches on its Teflon like surface have increased. I bought this one because supposedly you can brown the meat in it and then continue to slow cook it to perfection. Over time, however, I have found that pre-browning meat that is to cook in a slow cooker is just a colossal waste of time. All it does is just make the meat look prettier, or more appetizing. The same effect can be achieved, at least with chicken, by adding paprika at the last minute. Also, you can put the uncovered ceramic crock pot into a heated oven to achieve a browning effect on your meat dish at the end which makes more sense to me. There is a good chance that your eaters will be too hungry by then to wait for the meat to turn a savory color of doneness anyway. And thusly, you are saved a completely unnecessary step in the cooking process. The third slow cooker is my big daddy. It holds seven quarts and is good for cooking a turkey breast or large roast. And similar, but more updated, is slow cooker number four. I use this slow cooker the most often because one thing I hate the most in this world is cooking that involves any kind of thinking. So that would be just about any kind of cooking. Go ahead haters. I dare you to comment on my laziness. I hate thinking about cooking so much that I purchased slow cooker number four specifically to keep from thinking about it. The built in timer allows me to walk away and never think about the food inside again until it is time to eat it. My fifth slow cooker is the casserole style of slow cooker. You can make a homemade lasagna in it it, but my favorite casserole is King Ranch chicken, or spaghetti chicken if you're not from Texas. Granted, every time I use this slow cooker, I end up thinking about cooking. However, it is worth it because by the time I get around to purchasing the ingredients, I would have been thinking about King Ranch chicken for quite a while. And my final slow cooker, is a lunch pail traveling slow cooker that I purchased on the Crockpot website. This is the slow cooker I used to bring my lunch to work in my last few years of teaching. Some teachers had microwave ovens in their classrooms to heat up their lunches. However, I didn't want to invest in one for that purpose. I had students who would ask me periodically to heat their lunch in my microwave. It happened so much that I got to the point where I would say, "Sure, knock yourself out." Then they would wonder around my classroom for a while looking dazed. The lunch bucket crockpot was a lifesaver, though. I plugged it in behind my desk, and by lunch, my leftovers would be nice and hot. I ate it right out of the bucket. If you are working, I highly recommend this model. My favorite thing to bring in it was left over pie. It would be the perfect just out of the oven temperature by the time I got to have lunch. And who doesn't like pie? The world needs more of it. January 9, 2021--National Vision Board Day
I once gave a final exam to my humanities class where they had to create a vision board. I wish I knew then what I know now. It wasn't too very bad of a project, but I know I could have done it better. The vision boards that the students made were mainly focused on the things that a luxury lifestyle would attain. I did not teach humanities for several years after that. However, years later the course was re-gifted to me. I am happy to say that the vision board project remained in the curriculum. Nevertheless, I am unhappy to say that I still did not have a grasp of how to make that project better and more meaningful. You can make a vison board out of anything really. It can be old pictures, lists, drawings, cut out pictures from magazines or and electronic one like the one I have made here. The main difference between a vision board and a story board or design board is that a vision board should focus on how you feel or how you would like to feel. My vision board here for 2021 may not make sense to anyone but me, and that is what a vision board should be like. I will try to explain my board however. None of the people in the pictures look like me, and that is perfectly o.k. The point is that I want to feel like the people in the photos. First are the doing things. I want feel good surfing with my boogie board and reading on the beach. I want to feel good celebrating the fall. I want to share my piano playing with my husband and have us feel good about it together. Here is a bit of a secret. We now have two pianos! I want us to play duets like Fred Rogers and his wife did. If you saw the movie, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, you will get what I mean, even though both of us are gonna really suck at it. The focus will be about feeling great while doing it. The next idea on my board is learning. I want to learn how to be a real bartender in my own home. It's amazing how long I have just gotten by on beer and wine when there is a whole world of cocktails and mixed drinks out there. Secondly under learning, I want to learn how to have deep and meaningful conversations with a complete back and forth exchange of ideas. This point may be hard to explain, but I still do not have a complete grasp on conversing well on difficult topics. In both of these points, I want to feel accomplished. Thirdly, I want to feel organized. I do not have a closet anywhere near the one in the picture, but I want my closet to have that sort of vibe. I do not look like the lady traveling with the suitcase. However, when I travel I want to feel as organized as she looks. She looks like she knows where she is going. I want that to be me. The last organizing photo has a woman setting a table. She looks calm and relaxed. I want to feel that when I host my next event. The fourth idea or topic on my vision board is executing. It is not enough to learn about something. You must execute it. I want to feel confident, yet gracious, and self-disclosing yet like a listener when hard conversations come my way. No one wants to have difficult conversations, but I don't want to feel like I am running and hiding from them anymore. Finally, I want to have it all and feel pretty good about it. There is a song by Steve Winwood that goes, "I'll be back in the high life again." After the year we all just had, it should be the song of 2021. And if the first week of 2021 is any indication of how the year will go, then we all desperately need this song as our mantra. We all should have a personal vision board as well. January 8, 2021--Bubble Bath Day One night while I was undergoing treatments for cancer, I noticed that getting out of the bath tub was exceptionally difficult. I think I almost slipped a few times. Truth be told, everything had been getting difficult physically. It was hard to walk. I wanted to just sit at work, but of course I couldn't. I had to rotate around my classroom. A colleague noticed that when I was near the end of my treatment, I started to feel better. "How did you know?" I asked her. "Because normally you don't stand up to say 'Hello' to me when I walk in the room. Today, you stood up." She was correct. I had started to feel better, but before that happened, I felt bad. As my granny always said, "Things are going to get worse before they get better." Things for me reached a low point sometime at the beginning of the spring semester for 2010. I told my husband about getting out of the bath tub and how I was afraid I would slip. I said I would just become a shower gal from then on out, but I didn't like how the water slid off of my bald head. He said to take baths and he would help get me out. I sort of doubted the sense of this. I didn't know how it would work mechanically. He is strong, but I feared I would make him strain his back, or he could lose his grip on my soaking wet hands, and down I would go. However, he insisted--so off I went. He said he would come get me out at a set time we both agreed upon. Imagine my surprise when I was luxuriating in a beautiful warm and sudsy bath, and he entered my wash chamber with my cell phone. I looked at him strangely. However, when he told me who was on the line I agreed to take the call. It was at old friend of mine whom I hadn't spoken to in a while. We enjoyed a lovely chat while I remained in my cozy tub. I finally admitted to her what I was doing, and we shared a laugh about it. She was sworn to secrecy about never telling anyone that I was talking to her while bathing. I don't know why I wanted that. It seemed invasive somehow. It was no one's business really. After we hung up, I tossed my phone onto the rug that lay right next to the tub. And I waited. It had to be past the time for my husband to come and get me out. My water was getting cold. I could run a little more warm into the tub. Or-- "Wait a minute," I thought." I have my phone right here. I can call him." "This has to be the height of modern American consumerism/decadence," my mind raced on. "Here I am in my warmish tub, about to call someone on my cell phone--in the same house--to come and get me out of it. I should be in a Hollywood movie." Just as I was reaching for my phone, however, my rescuer made his way into the bathroom. "Sorry," said my husband. "I got busy watching the game." Monday night football. I should have known. I doubt the Queen has to wait for her staff to appear because of something like that. January 7, 2020--I'm Not Going to Take It Anymore Day
It was 2009, and it was my first visit to my surgeon. I was to have four chemotherapy sessions and then surgery, and then more stuff. However, before the first chemo, there would be a chemo-port surgically inserted near my collar bone. Before that operation could happen, I had to book another appointment with my surgeon to review the procedure. In his office we met, we consulted, and I made up stories in my head about the photographs on his desk. On the morning of the port insertion surgery, my husband got me in one piece to the Day Surgery Center at the hospital early. We waited. Eventually, someone came and walked us into a large circular room with little hospital cabanas all around it. It seemed there were plenty of people on the docket that day. They gowned me up. They put me on a gurney and then proceeded to do all kinds of unimaginable things to me. There were needles and mean people, who stuck me with them. My husband held my hand. We watched as our next door neighbors were rolled away. Newer people came and went into the surgery suite. I overheard a conversation between my newest neighbor and his doctor about getting something done to his arm. His surgery that day would be the last of three to get his arm fully recovered from a motorcycle accident. I thought, "Why am I here? I don't even ride motorcycles." Finally someone came to inform us that my doctor was running late. My procedure was the first of many that would be done to me over the next two years. My medical team wanted to kill the breast cancer that had been detected only a few weeks prior. The guy in the cabana next to me had seemed so nonchalant. Did he not know they were going to cut him? Eventually, I would become a battle weary soldier, not surprised by anything, and none of this hospital stuff would scare me. But not on that day. A surgical assistant came by to ask me what I was getting done. I had been waiting for my doctor to show up from what I assumed had been his early morning golf game, and some newbie second lieutenant showed up to ask me more inane questions. "And why are you getting this procedure done today?" he repeated. "Because I have breast cancer, and no one," I began. "NO ONE," my voice grew louder, "HAS THOUGHT OF ANYTHING BETTER TO DO-- THAN TO DIG A HOLE IN MY CHEST--TO PUT A FOREIGN OBJECT IN THERE-- IN ORDER TO FILL IT WITH CHEMICALS--TO KILL SOMETHING I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW I HAD!" I just wanted to walk out of there at that moment. Nothing seemed real. My husband shushed me. A nurse scurried over and offered a sedative. The surgical suite had nearly emptied out, but I was still expecting some type of applause. My outburst would surely garner something in this theatre in the round. Instead my husband apologized to the few remaining medical customers. My surgeon finally showed up and apologized for arriving two hours late. I looked at him for signs of an early morning tryst with the hottie he had pictures of on his desk. My husband had said the girl in the photographs was most likely his daughter. I was not so sure. |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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