Author: Momma Hol

Finally past half a century, and only just now starting to make sense of some of this compost called life. I hope to someday be the Great and Powerful Trash Heap . (Do you remember the Fraggles? ) Where all the garbage of life turns to wisdom and knowledge. I'm a New Englander born and bred, but have been all over the world since. I still carry my upbringing with me, but now it is garnished with bits I've picked up here and there on my travels. These are the nicer bits of luggage. The rest of my baggage is indelicate and disagreeable. It comes mostly in the form of MDD. And every day I do my best to slay that dragon and laugh over his retreat. More often than not these days, I succeed. And that, in and of itself, is a reason to smile. I am Ma to three only children (By virtue of being very far apart in age), each of whom is larger than life. I am honored to call them my weedlings. They teach me more than I ever taught them. My life has become an adventure that I never could have anticipated. And for that, I am grateful. I like to make people laugh and smile and ponder. I hope to do it here.

Sex, Sundries, and Saturday Night

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Being single is definitely fun when you’re 20. But when you’re essentially 50, it’s kind of a mixed lot. Most of us at this age are single for a reason, and it usually isn’t a meaningless reason. It is hard to meet people. It’s never a good idea to date coworkers, dating website profiles bear as much truth as your average supermaket tabloid, and the meat market bars… Well, no one wants to buy old meat. The rules have changed from when we first learned to date. Passing flirtatious notes rarely works when they are passed with your license and registration; and it’s hard to pass them under any other circumstance. You run out of places to meet people. Unless you are a flitting socialite, you are reduced to church or affiliations, mass transit, or the grocery. (Incidentally, i once asked advice on how to approach my handsome butcher… You can imagine the suggestions…) It just isn’t the chick-flick or comedy that Hollywood makes it out to be. It’s more like a lame cover of Eleanor Rigby.

I had always hoped that when i got “older” (In quotation marks because the meaning has been somewhat fluid over the years) , i would find a balance. Maybe even find a way to have the best of both worlds. But the older i get, the less i am sure of what the best of both worlds would be. I mean, obviously there are potential partners who don’t care what brand of toothpaste i buy, or get put off if i eat an entire head of roasted garlic while watching a movie. But it is physically impossible to bask in the glow of waking up next to someone without sharing the bed. To be honest, i’m so unused to sharing a bed now, that i can’t do it without staying awake to make sure that i didn’t hog covers, or sprawl, or snore my way to being single again. And how many nights can i stay awake to keep such things in check before i give in to my own fatigue?

For the most part, i accept the fact that i will likely be single from now on. I don’t really miss pulling a man’s tighty-whiteys out of his jeans so i could separate them for the wash. I don’t miss cleaning beard hair out of the sink. I don’t miss having to pow-wow before deciding on dinner. But i DO miss having someone to walk / play cards / watch tv  with after supper. I miss curling up together on the sofa. I miss long, thoughtful, late night discussions. And i miss regular sex (And before you say that you don’t have to be in a couple to have sex, i will point out that for most single people, finding empty sex is easy – especially close to closing time. But finding good and meaningful sex is harder than finding someone who folds the towels the same way you do.)

What would be perfect would be to have someone who only lived with you when you wanted them to, and vice versa. Solidarity when you needed it, and solitude when you needed that. Well, i suppose, really perfect would be to find someone who was exactly everything you liked and lived exactly how you wanted, but i am old enough and wise enough to know that what i like and want isn’t always consistent and would be an impossible role to fill. In any case, both of those things are very selfish.

Yes, i admit it. I am selfish. And my acceptance of this fact is why i have resigned myself to spinsterhood.

Mind you, i have no intention of becoming a dried up old prune who warns younger women of the dangers and evils of men. On the contrary, i intend to be the garishly stylish old broad who flirts indiscriminately and squashes her ducks against the salsa instructor at the Senior Center. I will travel alone to exotic places and have Roman Candle affairs with intriguing gentlemen who admire my chutzpah. I will show my legs and my cleavage until i have to search to find them. I will keep my own hours and sensibilities and habits. And i will throw my head back and laugh at the fact that i worried about being single at 50.

But until then, i will work my way thru this muddle; slightly disappointed at not having found, or been perfection to, someone in the second half of life, and yet slightly proud that i have found comfort in my own skin and with my own self. I will still keep an eye out for someone who makes me swoon, but i won’t lose any sleep when i don’t find them. I will feel pathetic sometimes, and then i will remember what i have had before, and what i have now, with others and with myself, and i will be thankful. I will wake myself snoring, and then remember that no one is complaining. (Thank God/Goddess/Universe that my dog doesn’t speak!) And if i visit the meat market (I will lie and tell myself that it’s just to people-watch), i will not buy anything unless it is well worth the price.

That last paragraph is a whole lot of wishful thinking.

But like most of life, it’s a “fake it til you make it” kind of thing. I will make these affirmations to myself over and over again until i am imbued with them and they become truth. Because realistically, having had both good marriages and bad, i know without a doubt that the one thing worse than being alone and lonely, is being a spouse and being lonely. And my selfish, spinster, sex-i-fied and sex-deprived self says screw that! I can have fun all by myself.

Take that any way you wish.

Cell Phone, Schmell Phone!

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Sprint pissed me off. So i fired them. By the next day, i was a swarm of regret as i realized my anger made me rash. But weeks later, i am seeing benefits that i never expected. Kind of like getting lost in the woods and stumbling across a fully loaded blackberry bush. Or being stuck at home alone on a Saturday night and finding there’s a Firefly marathon on free stream. It’s strange how life works sometimes.

My old phone was an iPhone. It was WAY more than what i wanted, but hey, they made it sound essentially free, since the cost was amortized into my monthly bill. All i had to do was keep insurance on it, which also sounded like a good deal. I mean, it covered EVERYTHING! If i dropped it off a park bench and it got chomped by a duck, even… It was covered. I’m a clumsy sort, and on a tight budget to boot, so it seemed like this whole thing was made just for me.

Fast forward 2 years. My contract is finally up, but i am still keeping on the plan. I’ve grown used to it. And my phone. I can do damned near anything except sort my laundry on this phone. It alerts me to everything short of Brangelina’s next adoption. I have shopping apps, crochet apps, cooking apps, coupon apps, quote apps, driving apps, music apps, fashion apps, meditation apps, translation apps, diagnoses apps, and puzzle apps. But the phone was old in techno-years. It was getting slower. It ran hotter. And it developed a frustrating habit of stopping processes before i was finished. I knew it was only a matter of time.

One afternoon, i was trying to post on social media. After half a dozen tries resulting in “Oops! There appears to be a problem connecting” messages, my phone accidentally, but somehow forcefully, flew out of my hands, across the room, and into  a door jamb, where it suffered a rather profound joint fracture.  I picked it up in horror, gathered the little plastic eyeball thing-y that my phone had vomited upon impact, and cursed my bad temper. Thank God for insurance.

The next day, i bring my phone to the Sprint store. I wait the obligatory hour to be seen. The girl at the counter tells me she is pretty sure there is no resurrecting my phone, but they can try. I will just have to pay the copay. But what about a replacement, she asks? Good news! My insurance covers replacement. So she tells me what my choices are for replacement. I tell her i will take whatever is free. She tells me all the ones i’ve selected are free. Again, i just have to pay the copay.

“How much is that?”

“$200.”

“Wait?!?! What?!?!? That isn’t free! How about we just try to repair it?”

“Ok. That is $200.”

“WHAT?!?!?! ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT I’VE BEEN PAYING INSURANCE TO YOU PEOPLE FOR TWO YEARS, AND I STILL GET CHARGED $200 FOR IT TO BE FIXED?”

“Yes, Ma’am. It would be $600 without the insurance.”

“Um, i know you have no control over this policy. And i appreciate your time. But since my contract is up, i am done here. I’d like to cancel my account.”

“Oh, we can’t do that here. You have to do that online.”

(At this point, i am afraid of what will come out of my mouth. I know it isn’t the clerk’s fault, and i don’t want to take it out on her, so i just nod my head and leave.)

On my way home, i stop at Walmart and get a StraightTalk phone. I pick one that will do what i need and won’t break my bank. Then i return home and sign up for service. The first thing i notice is that i have cut my phone bill nearly in half. The second thing i notice is that my phone is a real pain in the ass to operate. It has none of the frillies that i had grown accustomed to. There is no voice-to-text. I can’t set individual text tones. The keyboard is set up a bit differently. The screen isn’t quite as big. The battery doesn’t last nearly as long. And the camera picture quality is on par with one made by a toy company.

Well, shit.

I think long and hard on this. Make a plus-and-minus sheet which comes to the conclusion that i can swallow my pride and go back to the frillies, or i can save money, make do, and maybe upgrade later to a better phone. Since i’ve never developed a taste for my pride, i opted to stick it out with the lame phone.

Fast forward to now. I still don’t like typing on this phone. As a result, i spend far less time on my phone than i have in years. I am reading more. (Oh, how i love an actual paper-and-print book!) I am doing more around the apartment. And i made 29 Christmas gifts this year. 29! Hours and hours of crochet. Granted, most were not big things, but still! What an accomplishment for me!  I believe whole-heartedly that, had i opted to stay with the fancy phone, i’d have spent a lot of my time playing with it instead of creating things for myself and others.

Don’t get me wrong, there have been times when i can’t make this phone behave, and it has come perilously close to being accidentally on-purpose sent to the same fate as its predecessor. After all, there is no way to sync your temper to your old phone. But i am getting more and more used to the way it used to be. You know, before my phone did everything but make breakfast. And i am happy that i am getting more done. Happy that i am not as tempted to text while driving (Because there is no flipping voice-to-text). Happy that i’m saving a chunk of cash on monthly service. In general, just happier.

I still spend too much time on technology. But i suppose we’ve all gotten into the habit of using our tech to excess. I am far from a Luddite, but i am glad to be on my way to a better balance. Less interface, more face-to-face. Less Words With Friends, more chess with my son. Spend some time making all those projects i pin on Pinterest. Maybe even visit some of those places i visit on Wikipedia.

Then, afterwards, i can log on and have some REALLY good stuff to write about on here.

 

Sidewalk Preaching

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So let me tell you about my son.

He is 13 years old with that “Puberty is almost here” roundness and stench. He has me dye his normally dark brown hair black with a green forelock. He is on the lego robotics team and writes most of their scripts for exhibitions. He gets astoundingly good grades in all his classes, except the two he doesn’t like, where he is in danger of failing. (Gifted, it seems, only when he enjoys a topic.) He is a sugar ‘ho and loves all things sweet: Soda, candy, slushies, ice cream, cake, even jello. He loves comic books, especially Ant Man. In fact, i think he’s a bit infatuated with Ant Man. He lives for computer games. He’s a devotee of Top Gear. He has memorized whole episodes of the Simpsons. He can fake battle with a lightsaber better than Mace Windu himself. He likes Panic at the Disco and FallOut Boy, but can also sing along to my corny music and an impressive array of show tunes. Like most other kids his age, he’s a mixed bag.

On one hand, he is intelligent, adorable, funny and sweet. He’s a seanachie since birth and can tell stories on a whim. Occasionally, the stories are true, but he’ll never tell you which ones aren’t. (For months, our apartment manager thought we were British, because he always spoke with a Brit accent when he went by the office.) He has a beautiful singing voice. A flair for acting. And the kid loves to perform. He can make you laugh without even trying. He’s just naturally funny. He has a great vocabulary and can converse with professors as easily as pre-schoolers. He usually does his chores without much reminding. He knows when and how to hug. He has no social fear, or at least never shows any. And he doesn’t give a flip about what other people think.

On the other hand, he’s messy. His bedroom smells like a long-forgotten gym locker. Every damned pair of pants he puts in the wash have exactly one leg inside out. He will sleep in clothes and wear them the next day. He doesn’t notice when he misses the bowl.  He peppers the apartment with dirty socks as if it’s a damned caeser salad. He scrapes the healthy part of dinner into the trash when i’m not looking. Fresh out of the bath, he still smells like pubescent boy hormones and sweat. He cops a rotten attitude, talks back, and has a terrible temper.

But i still think i did ok with him.

Every now and then he gives me a glimpse of the man he will become. The morals, the compass, the humor, and the love inside him. He shows kindness without thinking, he helps without asking. Or he quips at just the right time. At those moments, i know that, in spite of the anarchy and chaos that is my 13 year old boy, he will be ok in the end.

We had a moment like that the other day. We had a little thing to celebrate, and so went to the park, got ourselves some ice cream floats, and strolled. We came across a street preacher. He had his Bibled hand raised and was shouting fire and brimstone. We’re all going to hell! Homosexuals, inter-racial mixing, and liberal Democrats are paving the way to Hades! Turn away from the abominations! Now, we are not church-going people, but my son stopped as we got closer to the man and said, “You know, maybe i should be a preacher.”

“Son, you generally have to be religious to be a preacher.”

“I’m serious! I can be a preacher. I know what God wants.”

He shoves his float in my hand, says, “Watch this, ” and heads toward the sidewalk corner. Up on the edge he perches and raises his fist.

“Hey, everyone! Listen up! I have a message from God! Seriously! This is important! God wants to tell you something!”

The street preacher stops and stares. A couple passers-bye look up.

“Stop being assholes! Start being nice to each other! That is all.”

He climbs down and takes his float back. “See?” he says.

The street preacher, dumbfounded, departs. A couple people clap. I am speechless at first, but eventually reply, “I don’t know that i would word it quite that way, but i do think you’ve got the gist of it.”

We are both smiling as we walk and sip. Tho others may be horrified, i am swelling with pride. My stinky, messy, green-haired, selectively-gifted, bad-bathroom aiming boy gets it. He gets it. I must have done something right.

Yup, he’ll be just fine.

Matthew 11:28

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I don’t personally, to my knowledge, know any terrorists.  The closest thing i have in my address book are a few friends who are, as the expression goes, “proudly redneck.” But i do have friends and acquaintances from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Israel, Nigeria, Senegal, South Africa, India, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, and a host of other countries that are far less politically flammable. None of them has ever given even the slightest hint of being a terrorist. Even the Moroccans next door- They may be complete schmukeroons, but they are unlikely to be terrorists (They are so loud, nothing about them is a secret.) If any of them, even the neighbors,  needed a place to rest their head, i would gladly open my door. Without hesitation. Them or their family. It’s the right thing to do for people in need.

This time of year, the story of Mary and Joseph is front and center. Inn after inn turning them away. Mary, on the edge of giving birth, and no one will give them rest. No room. No room at the inn. You can’t stay here. No can do. Keep on walking and take your ass with you.

So Mary gives birth to Jesus in a barn. (It wouldn’t surprise me if the animals in residence curled up close, as many animals are wont to do when they see a baby of any kind in need.) In the beautiful Christmas stories, Mary and Joseph make do and go on with the tasks at hand, without further thought of the innkeepers. But i am willing to bet that they were pissed. And sad. For their own situation, the pitiful start of their beloved son, and the state of mankind itself.  What kind of people turn away a near-term pregnant woman on a cold night? Even in the womb, Jesus must have been shaking his wee head and saying, “No wonder God is sending me!”

We hear the story of Mary and Joseph every year. Lets face it, Christian or not, at least in the U.S., you know how the story goes. It’s part of the reason we are kinder and more thoughtful this time of year.

Theoretically.

But we’ve become terribly hardened and paranoid. The unconscionable attacks on innocents by terrorists, which seem to be on the rise, have us all on the edge of our seats as if we’re watching someone crank the handle on a jack-in-the-box. It’s coming. We know it is. Those fanatics are everywhere and they are out to get us all. Those crazies, with their brown skin and head wraps and accents. Evil. The whole lot of them.  The entire brown population. Up to no good. Because, you know, none of them are average Joes, just trying to make ends meet. None of them go home and read bedtime stories to their kids. None of them are afraid. None of them are human.

So now we have a bunch of refugees clamoring to get into our country. Normally, we’d show off the Statue of Liberty and all her virtues and principles. We’d welcome them. Start charities to help them get on their feet. Help take care of their children. Just like we have refugees of times past. Sure, they’d face some discrimination because, you know, we’re human and all. But we’d help them. These refugees, however, we won’t help. Because they’re brown. Ergo, they aren’t human. So much for our principles.

Nope. No room. No room at the inn. You can’t stay here. Keep on moving and take your camel with you.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m afraid of the crazies just as much as everyone else. ISIS, ISIL, the KKK, the neo-nazis, Westboro Baptist Church, and Tom Cruise all terrify me. But i realize that the crazies are far fewer in number than the average Joes. I also realize that i can’t hold all brown people accountable for the actions of ISIS any more than i can hold all Christians accountable for the Westboro Baptist Church. It’s unfair, and it makes life far less interesting for all.

So, how do we embrace our humanity and find room at the inn without being foolish and unsafe? I don’t think we should be Motel 6 and leave the light on for just anyone. We have a decent refugee screening process, so that helps.  Maybe we should just have them stay in the barn. You know, like the badlands in North Dakota or something. (No, i’m not serious.) (But it’s better than turning them away.) (So maybe i am. ) (A little.) (If i was certain it wouldn’t become a prison.) (But i’m not.)

To be truthful, i don’t have a real answer. All i have is a feeling deep in my heart that it goes against everything this country stands for, everything my Christian friends profess, and everything humane to refuse to help refugees. People need our help. They are as afraid of the crazies as we are. They are also afraid of the people who are also afraid of the crazies. Us. I don’t blame them. I am afraid of us too. But i refuse to let my fear get the best of me.

Come in. It’s cold out. Let me get you some tea. And a blanket. You can stay here. Bring the goat. I will give you rest.

 

Jeremy Finds His Sparkly

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I’m sitting on my couch waiting for a rat to die. Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? And it is, tho not in the way most would imagine.

Jeremy McRatRat is a good little ratty. We knew he wouldn’t live forever, even with a nice, warm home and a healthy diet. When i went into the weedlings’ bedroom this morning, i knew it wasn’t good. The food i left him the night before was still in his bowl. He didn’t hop up when he saw me. And when i reached into pick him up, he whimpered. I think i probably whimpered too.

So i cuddled him up and took him downstairs. I swaddled him in an old, soft blankie. I fed him water off my fingertips when he wouldn’t take any from the bowl. When he wouldn’t eat a treat, i put some pancake syrup on my finger for him to lick off. A few hours later, he is still hanging in there. He is barely moving. Too weak to stand up fully, he scoots himself on occasion to get more comfortable or change position. I wish i could make him feel better, at least for this final part of his journey. It might not have started pretty, but Jeremy eventually had himself a good life.

One of my daughter’s favorite books growing up was Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. From the first time i read it to her, she said she would someday have a rat of her own. Fast forward to a dozen years later. My daughter is working on weekends and during the summers now and has a little money of her own. She does her research and picks out a good cage – One with plenty of space. She picks out bedding and researches diet. Then we go to the pet store. There were 2 cages of “fancy” rats, the cute and fluffy ones destined to be pets. On a separate stand were the “feeder” rats, the boring looking ones that were destined to become Nagina’s weekly meal. As my daughter cooed over the fancy rats, her eye kept being drawn to the other cage where a plain heather-brown rat was up on his hind legs staring at her. When she inquired and found that the only difference between the cages was a cuteness factor, she picked him. She also picked a pretty rat who looked more like a pet.

They came home with us in their sturdy cardboard carriers. I don’t think my daughter left her room for 2 days – she sat on her floor and played with them, fed them, gave them treats, until they got used to her. She decided to use names from her favorite story. The pretty rat got named Brisby (Frisby was changed to Brisby in the movie version of the story). She wanted another name from NIMH  for the the plain one, but none seemed to fit. Because he was darker, she went with Jeremy, actually the name of a lovable crow in the book. The two pets had enviable little ratty lives. Food that my daughter custom blended, plenty of time outside the cage to play with her, or just cuddle with her while she was studying. Few rats have it better.

When i decided to sell my house the following fall, the ratties came with us to the apartment. Brisby didn’t take the change too well, and passed on shortly after. I buried him under my chocolate-mint in the garden.

Because we were told rats didn’t do well alone, my daughter didn’t waste any time getting Jeremy a new partner. Ramsay was a sweet little thing, but he didn’t take the change from shop to apartment well at all and died in a few days. He now resides under my hosta.

The next partner was Remi. Remi was an asshole. He was the most handsome of all, but he was grouchy. When i saw one day that he had bitten my daughter bad enough to draw blood, he got released into the woods.

All thru this, Jeremy remained his sweet cuddly self. Rather than attempt another partner right away when we released Remi, we decided to let him be king for a while. Surprisingly, he took to it very well. He liked getting all the attention. And he made a playmate in our chi-mix dog. When he got his out-of-cage time, he and Siri-dog would play for ages like best buddies. It was heartwarming to watch the dog, bred to be a ratter, and her bestie, a common rat, play like kids.

When my daughter went off to college, Jeremy remained in his usual spot. My son likes him and did a good job of keeping him fed and watered. I, however, took on the duty of loving. I picked him up and gave him scritchens every day. At least once a week, i let him out to play with Siri for a few hours. When i could, i’d let him cuddle with me while i read or wrote. I’d long since gotten over the creepiness of holding a rat, but the smell still makes me wrinkle my nose. In spite of that, i made sure he felt the love and security of being a “pet”. Rat or not, he is a member of the family and is treated as such.

He is an interesting bloke, this rat. I’m certain he has a bit of Brit in him because if i leave my tea anywhere low while he is out, i catch him dipping his snout into it and taking a good, long pull. He also has a sweet tooth (Just like his momma, my daughter) and will try to do tricks for a piece of frosted breakfast cereal. He will actually smile for a piece of banana. And a cookie? You can get him to dance a rapture for that!  He definitely knows what’s good in life.

He is also ridiculously smart for a rat with no education. When i let him loose, and it’s time to go back to the cage, all i have to do is call his name, and he appears and sits on my foot. He outsmarts the dog at every turn. He is unfailingly charming, popping up on hind legs for any visitor to his corner. And if you cuddle him close, he will lick you in appreciation. Just a lovable little pet. I hate that he is leaving us. He has shown us so much love and taught us so much.

He taught us that you don’t have to be beautiful or fancy to be lovable. That it’s up to each of us to make playmates of our enemies. That it’s ok to eat your favorite stuff first, as long as you also eat the healthy stuff, too. And he taught us that not all rats are vermin, even if they come from the feeder cage. All of this is true for rats, and true for humans, as well.

I will remember these lessons. I hope you will, too. And when we share these lessons with our grand-weedlings and they ask us how we know these things, we can say in total honesty, “A rat told me so.”

 

Ten Granny Squares

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If Life
Is what you make of it,
Then i ask you,
Will it ever be over?
How often we all
Start a new project and never complete it.
Closets full of half-pieced quilts.
Drawers of uncrossed cross stitch.
Journals and flash drives of unclimaxed novels.
Garages of blocked cars.
Sheds of unhammered plywood.
This is life.
Ideas begun
And ended without end.
The East says that life restarts until it is complete.
What incentive, have we, then, to finish?
Is the bare balsa wood schooner
Sail-less
On a card table in the attic
Assurance of another lifetime?
We repeat
And repeat
And repeat
Until we are finished.
If life
Is what we make of it,
And all we make are
Unfinished projects…
Are we immortal?
And if we choose that our time is up,
Do we simply put the last stroke on the canvas?
Then lay our head
In the knowledge
We are finished.
We are finished.
Finally.
We are finished.
I wonder.

“These marks were made by a 1966 Pontiac Tempest”

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I can’t believe that it’s almost Thanksgiving. This year has flown by. It’s been a year of learning for me. Of adjusting. Big, honking life lessons, and smaller just-as-important ones. This is some of what I have discovered:

Your weedlings will never cease to amaze you. When my middle child left to start at West Point, I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage without her. She was a teenager and certainly had her share of fun, but she also helped me around the house, played chauffeur for her brother, cheered me up when I was down, encouraged me when I was exhausted, got me moving when I was depressed, and could cook up a mean meal when it was her turn. Losing her from the household was hard, even outside of the emotional upheaval that comes when one of your brood leaves the nest. Even as I was full of pride for her accomplishments, I was worried about managing. I knew my oldest, who has always had more than a bit of caretaker in her, would be there to help me if need be. And she hasn’t let me down. What surprised me was the fact that my barely-teenage son has also stepped up. Getting his chores done without much complaining, sometimes even without asking. Doing for himself and taking meal duty if I am working late. Being as empathetic as a 13 year old boy can. Yes, he still leaves his smelly socks under the coffee table sometimes. But I have been pleasantly surprised at what he has taken on to help without cajoling from me.

You can enjoy things you never thought you could. This is a recent discovery. Coworkers asked me to join them at a haunted house. I can say honestly that I’d have rather rubbed a cheese grater on my face than pay good money to have rubber masked clowns jump out and grab me, but they were so excited, and I didn’t wish to be a party pooper, so I went. And it was fun. Yes, I screamed myself to near-laryngitis. Yes, my jaw is still feeling the sting from being clenched so forcefully. Yes, I’m sure I horrified some people with my repertoire of vulgarities and curse words. Yes, my abs (or what passes for them) are still sore a day and a half later. Yes, I wet my pants. More than once. Stupid animatronic dinosaurs. And no, I doubt I will go again. But I’m glad I went. If for no other reason than to prove to myself I could.

Punting is a viable option. I’ve been in this apartment a year now. In all that time, in spite of dozens of tricks and tries, I haven’t been able to keep my dog from peeing on the landing. Anger, frustration, disgust… These things are not good for one’s blood pressure and peace of mind. Finally, last week, I decided to stop running plays. I punted. Scrubbed the carpet for all of its worth and laid down plastic carpet protector. The first few days, she wouldn’t step on it – she jumped over it to the first stair. Then she tried peeing on it. Apparently that was unsatisfying because now, a week later, she is sticking to her weewee pads like a good little doggie. I’m not a big fan of plastic on the floor, but at least my budget for rug shampoo can be cut.

Letting go of worries gets easier as you go along. This time last year, there were people and things I allowed to consume my thoughts. Finances, exes (OK, really just one of the exes), the pets, the weedlings, the job, aging, change and OH-MY-GOD-THE-FUTURE… My blood pressure escalated, my depression worsened, and I alternated between sticking my head in the sand and letting my head explode like a dead possum in the sun (Yes, that visceral image in your head is exactly what it felt like). I’m not sure what happened. My emotional IQ reached its peak. My therapist started hypnotizing me during sessions. Bath and Bodyworks started replacing my wallflower scents with perfumed Haldol. God/Goddess/Universe intervened. Something. But one day, not too long ago over a cup of afternoon tea, I realized I wasn’t nearly as worried. All the things that normally kept me as tense as a cat hanging from the curtains were starting to lessen. Things slowly but surely were starting to even out. Not that I don’t still get concerned over my bank account or the future of my weedlings, etc., but somehow, in my heart and gut, I know it is going to work out. I know it is getting better, or at least coming to an end. My blood pressure is on the wane. And I feel hopeful. Really hopeful. What a gift!

Don’t get out of the habit of reading and writing. I already knew to keep up my good habits of eating well and exercising. But I had forgotten to keep up the habit of reading. Books provide escape, intellectual stimulation, focus, and a break from technology (At least for me, as I prefer paper books). I may never learn to effectively meditate, but I will always be able to bury myself in a book and turn off the outside world. It really does help. And I often learn something in the process. Not a bad result for a habit that shouldn’t be hard to cultivate. As for the writing, that is a little harder habit to maintain. It requires both intellect and imagination, and stress has a tendency to turn off both in me. But doing it is like leaking a pressure valve. Tension and thoughts that have built up exit my fingers and end up here. Far more effective and beneficial than them staying retained in my jaw. And, hey, someone might get a laugh out of it.

I can’t stomach commercial meat in my house. It’s been coming on for a while, but I have finally gotten to the point where I can’t stomach the thought of something that lives its entire life in terrible conditions and then gets killed for my benefit. I have taken to buying free range eggs, local and/or free range meat, and far less of both than I have before (Which is somewhat a function of economics). I suppose there will come a time when I can’t even stomach that and will give up meat entirely. But for now, I still crave it sometimes. I just eat less of it. Maybe it’s a justification on my part to say that the lamb had a happy life romping around the pasture before slaughter. Maybe it isn’t true that the local farmer doesn’t slam his pigs to death like the videos I have seen posted about large scale farm corporations. If so, don’t tell me. I will work my way there. At least I am making progress in my attempts to be less of a selfish human. I don’t have to be a super human.

Tho not there yet, I am getting closer to being comfortable with my appearance. A little while back, I took an offer for a free consultation with a plastic surgeon here in town. My sagging face really bothers me, and I was curious what it would take to fix it. Apparently the answer to that question is $18,000. Either I am far worse off than I thought, or I am unreasonable in wanting to have my jowls cut off. I mean, I know I am looking my age, and I know my age is getting older. But $18,000 older? That’s at least 3 kick-ass vacations (more, if I go alone) – and I’m thinking the vacations might make me just as happy. Really, it’s all a moot point since I don’t have $18,000 lying around anyway. But still. Time to make peace with my face. I am 49 years old. Obviously, so is my face. New England winters, southern summers, beaches, coffee, a short smoking career, various other ingested chemicals, kids, hormones, a life as fully lived as I could tolerate… These things have left their mark. And tho I spackle and Bond-O and paint and detail every day, it’s still a Tempest and not a Mustang. And that’s ok. No one will be clamoring to restore me to my former glory, but at least I’m forever memorialized by Marissa Tomei.

There is no reason to be afraid. I may not have Underdog, but I still won’t fear. With all I have done, even in cases where my actions and hopes didn’t pan out, I survived. Even if it left me a step or two behind, I was still upright and walking. GGU has blessed me with resilience and resourcefulness. And I am grateful. So why have I kept worrying about the future? Changes in family, in physicality, in work, in life…. BRING IT ON! I may not win the game, but I’ll keep playing til the end. And if it becomes evident that even my best skills aren’t going to win this quarter, well then, I’ll channel the Harlem Globetrotters and play for style and fun. But I will play. I will keep playing. No more bench time for me, and no more forfeited games. I’ll be the most tenacious team in the league, even if I don’t make the playoffs. So bring it, world! BRING IT!

And on that happy note, I wish you all a wonderful day, and I encourage you to look back and see what you’ve learned this year. You just might surprise yourself.

Stream of Consciousness

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My therapist has taken to guiding me thru meditation. Because, you know, it’s too frigging difficult for me to figure out. Breathe in… Breathe out. Yah. WAY too difficult. Two flipping steps. Two flipping steps that I can’t manage to master.

I love simplicity. Food, art, architecture, fashion: I love when they are seamless and with clean lines. I am, however, incapable of producing such things. I can’t just fry an egg. I have to glaze the pan with bacon grease first, dose it with smoked sea salt and freshly torn herbs from the garden, lay it on a plate with toast and frou-frou jam and perfectly cooked bacon. Even if you told me you only wanted an egg. I can’t help myself.

I tend to complicate things. As my son pointed out to me earlier in the week, I can’t even just say, “I’m sorry.” I have to apologize profusely and explain the screwed up reasoning that devoured my head and made me think that tossing the condiments in the jumble bin in your car console was a good idea. Even tho you don’t give a shit and have already moved on. I should have moved on with you.

I’m supposed to quiet my mind for 15 minutes a day. This is supposed to bring me one step closer to serenity. I need some serenity. Like, I REALLY need it. I’m wired and frazzled and buzzing with short circuits. Serenity seems about as likely for me as waking up next to Liam Neeson. But I know if I can manage to get some, things will get better. SO WHY THE HELL CAN’T I DO IT?????

I am a smart woman. A resourceful woman. Other than pie crust, I’ve been able to manage everything I’ve set my mind to, sooner or later. I can do and do and do and do. The only thing I can’t do is not do. Apparently, God/Goddess/Universe forgot to give me an “Off” button.

For a lot of my life, it hasn’t been much of a problem. I can multi-task like a champ. I am good with creating things on the fly. I awaken with all the ideas that rushed thru my head during sleep. It has served me well, for the most part. It’s only when I need to reboot that I realize I’m incapable of shutting down.

You know when you go to turn off your computer and it gives you that belligerent pop-up saying “Your Thesaurus program is still running and preventing you from shutting down…” ? Welcome to my head. Words, numbers, lyrics, jingles, memes, every mistake I’ve made that day, did I remember to lock the front door, the possibility that a spider will crawl in my window, into my ear, and lay a new colony, and the realization that there has never been a Weird Al tribute album…. All these things still cycling thru my mind. And the bitch is sitting there in her oversized easy chair telling me to “Breathe in…”

I apologize. She isn’t a bitch. She’s actually one of the better things in my life. She lets me vent and helps me distinguish between things I need to fix and things I need to suck up and walk over. She’s been with me a long time now and she’s kept me out of the bin for all this time. No small feat, I’m sure. So now all she has to do is help me find my power button so I can turn myself off.

“Feel your scalp relaxing… Your face… your neck…” I’m trying to do what she says, but instead I’m becoming acutely aware that NONE of these things is relaxed at all. It’s like straightening your leg when you’ve been sitting on it for an hour. Existential ponytail headache. She has already moved on to my shoulders, arms and fingers, and I’m still focused on the stiffness of my ears.

This isn’t working. I’m never going to be able to do this. I must be an idiot. All I have to do is breathe. WHY CAN’T I DO THIS??? Listen to her voice. Just her voice. Concentrate on that. ‘Breathe in… Breathe out…’ I wonder if this is the voice she uses with her daughter when she is upset? Does she use this voice with her husband? Oh, ick! Get that thought out of your head. Not supposed to be thinking about stuff like that. Supposed to be concentrating on breathing. My right nostril is a little stuffy. Must be the leaf mold. All that rain over the last few weeks. I wonder if it’s going to be a rainy fall. Maybe it will be a snowy winter. Remember that winter a few years back when we actually had snow on Christmas? That was really cool. ‘Feel your toes relaxing…’ Toes? What happened to hips and knees? Have I been talking to myself this whole time? God, I suck at this. “

Maybe I should just give up and accept the fact that my hard drive does NOT turn off. That the lags will get more and more and eventually I will crash. Wait. Bad analogy. Computers that have crashed get replaced. I’m not ready to be replaced. (How awesome it is to finally have reached the point where I don’t want to be replaced!) There must be a way. An emergency switch or something. Maybe she can hypnotize me and give me some magic word or something that will turn me off and reboot me. That might work. Because right now, she’s going “Breathe in…” and I’m thinking that I need to pick up mustard at the grocery.

Got any Grey Poupon?

Ok, session is up. I’ve failed again. Still no off button. Still no reboot. BUT I WANT SERENITY!!!!!!! Sigh. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. That at least slows me down. It’s possible I am getting better at this meditation thing and just don’t realize it. Maybe I am actually calmer than I was. Maybe the planets will align, i’ll wake up with Liam Neeson, and he’ll hit me with some Valium. Maybe he’ll hit me with a hammer. It’s Hammer Time. Hit me with your best shot… Fire away…

Breathe in…. Breathe out.

Forget it. Where’s my tea?

Pregnant Pause

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The words are within me, just waiting for birth. Growing. Taking on visuals and spins. Gaining personality and momentum until the day when they fly out of my fingers and onto the keyboard. The afterbirth, a mess of teacups and biscotti wrappers. But then, there it is. My baby. Yet another fruit of my mental loins. Yet another legacy of my expressed, or occasionally unexpressed, genetics. They very rarely look like I expect. And I have stopped trying to name them before they are actually born. I must let them reveal themselves and see how and where they choose to land. Then I name them. I groom them with spellcheck. I perform APGAR for word choice and grammar. I swaddle them in the cradle of my blog. (When I was a new parent and young, in lieu of a cradle, I had a Moses basket of a composition book.) I sing to them and rock them by virtue of introduction on social media. And, eventually, they take on a life of their own.

I have created a rather large brood. And most of my offspring are happy-go-luckies with no aspirations further than a smile and a chuckle. But some are rather dark and broodish, as if I were part Sylvia Plath. Some are the quiet, philosophical types, playing Dungeons and Dragons in the attic. Some are angry, poster children for social disorders. Some are fragmented and broken, needing a therapist to sort them out. And some are mischievous, horny little goats. I love them all: The good, the bad, the temperamental, and the just-plain-mental. Some children are easier to deal with, but they are all rewarding and loveable in their own way.

I have spent whole years pregnant with essays and poems. And I have spent times barren and childless, fawning instead over others’ offspring. I have held gatherings with friends’ children. I have spent lifetimes alone with my own. I have celebrated their victories, cried over their defeats. And I have spent time defending them from bullies and people who cannot see the soul within. I am inordinately proud of them, as all parents are of their children.

It’s a real commitment, this choice to be surrogate for verse. And as I watch each child board the bus for school, where they will be subjected to the opinions, prejudices, and actions of others, I pray that they remain true to themselves. Standing tall amongst the other stories and poems. Even if they are never as recognized or celebrated as some of their peers, I know they are important. I know what they represent. I will read them and love them and cheer them on.

That’s what a mother is for.

Mums The Word

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It slipped out.

I didn’t even know it was coming, and “Pop!”, there it was.

My daughter wrinkles her nose.

“Ma, did you fart?!”

“Damn! That is pungent! My eyes are watering!”

I am mortified. We are in her flower shop, fer gossakes, and I am overtaking the roses, carnations, and freesia combined. I can’t come up with anything to say as I watch her wipe tears from her eyes and back away. I mean, what COULD I say? I could apologize, but really, the damage is done, and I’m sure the color of my face conveys a heartfelt “mea culpa”.

She is waving herself with a palm frond.

I’m looking around for a can of Lysol, but, DUH, it’s a florist! I’m the only one who could need Lysol in a flower shop. There aren’t enough gardenias to cover my accidental fumigation. I’m pretty sure the lilies are wilting. The cooler fan sounds like it is coughing. Great. Just great.

This is as embarrassing as the day I broke the camera at the DMV.

Hold up… Two young guys headed toward the shop. Holy shit! Literally! Short of burning sage, I don’t see how the stench could be vanquished. Now I have tears, as I realize my tail pipe is about to be the talk of some trendy bar tonight. I am running around, fanning the room with two big, waxy leaves. I know they can see me thru the large plate glass window, but the discomposure of being seen doing such an awkward dance is still preferred to them whiffing my indiscretion.

My daughter is laughing at me as she pulls out the arrangement that she assumes they are coming for.

I drop my green fans as the door tinkles open.

I put on my best smiley face, hoping to God and everything magical that the Brick Wall of Sulfur had disintegrated before they entered. As we welcome them and talk about the flowers, I am acutely aware of their facial expressions. I search for wincing. I look for bared teeth. I peek fervently for their eyes to cut sideways with looks of horror or nausea. None appear.

The transaction complete, they turn for the door. As I exhale a sigh of relief, I hear the cork again. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

They turn. “Sorry. Did you say something?”

“Just have a good day!” I say with a smile. Now please hurry up and leave before it hits you! Please, please, PLEASE!!! In the name of everything Holy, go now!

As the door tinkles, I turn to my daughter. An explosive bark of laughter exits her mouth like an untied helium balloon. She runs for the flower cooler, yelling as she goes, “I’m not coming out til it’s gone!”

This sucks. I fan the room once more. Wave the door open and closed a few times. Toss around the aged flower heads in the trash bin. Then I head for the car, where I will be sure to open all the windows before driving off.

It’s true. Everybody farts. And sometimes you just can’t control when. But if you can’t hide one in a flower shop, then it’s the devil at work. Or the kielbasa. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.