“Civic” Is Not Just a Car

· 2 Comments ·

With all the 4th of July celebrations that have been going on, my social media friends have been flooding hyperspace with pictures of fun gatherings and quotes of patriotic bent. But along with that, there have been exclamations of anger at the groups of people that aren’t respectful to the reason for the celebration. Generally, this is usually followed by nasty comments about immigrants. How all they want are our benefits without being “real Americans”.

Seems to me, the naysayers haven’t been paying close enough attention.

I was at the same Independence Day celebration as most of them. And yes, when the national anthem was played, i noticed it too: People still sitting, talking, eating, goofing off. Even tho the emcee said, “Please rise for our nation’s anthem!” But here’s the thing… If you looked closely, it wasn’t just a bunch of squatters from south of the border. There were a lot of stereotypical Americans who didn’t even take a moment to set their beer down.  And most of the teens didn’t even seem to notice the flag at all.  Even when people were standing up right beside them.

Pathetic. Disgraceful.  And utterly disrespectful.

Our founding fathers and mothers gave up everything and fought with all they had to make this nation what it is. Generations of soldiers and sailors have given their lives for it.  So get up off your ass, put your hand over your heart, and shut your pie hole for those few minutes as a sign of gratitude for the creation of the country that protects your freedom!

I was taught as a child to always rise for our flag, our national anthem, and our veterans. Hat off your head. Hand over your heart. Truly, unless you are physically incapable of standing or are forced to recognize that country as a prisoner of war or other involuntary circumstance, you show respect. So when the first few notes of The Star Spangled Banner come across that speaker, with the possible exception of Native American peoples, you had better be on your feet!

Even when in another country, when their national anthem is played or their flag is on parade, i was taught to stand and be silent. Obviously, it isn’t required, or even prudent, to pledge to a country that isn’t yours, but as a gracious guest, you assist them in paying their own respects. So, if you are a squatter from another country  – On your feet! Bare minimum, close your yap and let us show our national pride without interruption.

If i sound harsh, it isn’t unintentional.

The parental, schoolmarm, pissed-off-veteran tone of voice is 100% intended.

Because it seems that is what is needed. Either people haven’t been taught, or they have forgotten. In either case, it’s time for some remedial learning. If you have gotten into the habit of ignoring the ceremonies of patriotism, or if you were never taught them to begin with, there is no better day than Independence Day to get (re)educated.

Here is a good place to start: Flag Etiquette

I realize our country isn’t perfect. I mean, after all, we basically stole it like pirates. But the ideals behind the original intention: Liberty, equality, freedom, are blessings of the highest magnitude. The racial ignorance and ethnocentrism (And the accompanying violence) of our forefathers aside, those founding principles are worthy of reverence. They are for all of us now, not just previously-English men. The uniformed services protect the rights of all of us. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for the masses to set the booze and cigarettes down while the flag is raised. I don’t think your kids are too young to learn that running around screaming is not proper behavior while the stars and stripes ascend. And if you hate this country so much that you’d rather choke than take any of the above actions, well, the government isn’t forcing you to stay.

Part of being free means you are welcome to leave.

Personally, i do give the native tribes the choice in their reactions to our patriotism. After all, their lineage were, essentially, prisoners of war; and the stipulations surrounding much of their given communities are hardly recompense for what we took from them. But in my experience, their culture is far more gracious and civilized than their captors. Their protests are usually centered around education. Good examples of “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” It is my hope that we all show that same spirit of gallantry when we are allowed into their patriotic ceremonies. Even if we don’t show it with our own.

So there is my soapbox for today. I apologize to those of you who didn’t need this little lecture. I am just so tired of everything lax in this country being blamed on others. It is us. We, as a country, have gotten lazy, forgotten the rules, and expect the benefits of our country without remembering the responsibilities. And, honestly, if we behave that way, how can we expect better behavior from others?

In the end, our children, our friends, our guests… They all follow our lead.

So lets try to be better leaders.

 

One Step Forward, One Step Back

· 2 Comments ·

Do you ever have those days where the thoughts rush thru your head so fast that no thought gets finished before the next begins? Like there is a monkey in your head spinning a radio dial back and forth while making that insane laugh noise that only monkeys can make? Like the mystic being in charge of your brain has decided to play 52 pickup with a deck of flash cards? Like you gave a room full of four year-olds kegs of Mountain Dew and an unlimited supply of Pixie Stix?

Welcome to my world today.

I am resisting the urge to forcibly shut the voices down with wine or Valium or the fishing channel . Instead, i am relying on tea and nature sounds and fresh bed sheets. This is how i self-comfort. I am moderately successful. Sometimes. Well, more than half the time, anyway. I am still learning.

Do we ever really stop learning?

Baby steps.

You may remember when i first started on the road to self-soothing. My unsuccessful attempt to learn meditation (Stream of Consciousness ).  I still suck at it. But i have learned a few tricks that make my mental state more like a ballad by Meatloaf and less like a Megadeath concert. Still not zen calm, but better than mental thrash metal.

Why did on Earth did Marvin Aday want to be called “Meat Loaf”?

Baby steps.

I may never learn to truly quiet my mind. I may never master meditation. And i may end up taking something to help me sleep tonight. But i am still better than i was. More tranquil than i was. The voices are softer and there are fewer of them.

No – not those kind of voices. My own voice. Just multiplied. And i won’t shut up.

I talk too much. Even to myself. Like a one-woman Broadway show that no one wants to see. Carrie: The Musical.

Why would anyone think that was a good idea?

I think i have that book somewhere. Where did i put it? Oh, an i must find that book of funny poems while i’m at it.

There once was a girl from Glen Hart…

Baby steps.

 

 

 

Of Mint and Marigolds

· Leave a comment ·

“There are as many ways to live in this world as there are people in this world, and each one deserves a closer look.”

 

If you are close to my age, you remember reading Harriet the Spy as a kid. It was a great book with all kinds of kooky and unusual characters. And when Nickelodeon made a movie based on it a while back, tho it was very different from the book, it also made a point to include a wide variety of characters. As a weedling and an adult, i was so glad to see spectrum of people because i was and am surrounded by a stunning array of unique individuals. And the older i get, the more i realize that there are far more ways to live than i ever imagined. There are those who know me well, look at my life, and see me as one of the unusual ones; and others who find me rather conservative in my choices. (OK, there aren’t many of the latter, but there are some…) In the end, the beautiful part is that we made a choice. To live as we see fit. Plant the seeds of things we want to enjoy and share. Our own personal garden of love.

Have you ever seen an English cottage garden? It is a glorious mess. Beautiful flowers, herbs, shrubs… Very little structure, no formal order… Just a cacophonous hodgepodge of color and texture and form. And no two are the same. For many of us, life is like that. Dig behind the clump of coneflower and you may find cosmos. Or you may find oregano. That’s the beauty of it. So many disparate notes rolled into one crazy symphony.  To the outsider, no rhyme or reason. To those unfamiliar, it might appear that a seed truck overturned in the yard. But in its discord, there is exceptional wild beauty. I would say that my life is like that. A terraced bed of herbs and wildflowers and creepers with the occasional high-bred lilac. All mounded together. A surprise around every corner. Sometimes it’s even a surprise to me.

Now, my sister? She has more of a traditional garden. The kind that makes you stop every night on your evening walk, to take a moment to enjoy and smile, remembering that it’s those little things, like flowers, that make life worth living. The interesting part about my sister is that having a traditional garden was not an obvious choice for her. We didn’t grow up in a traditional family. No one taught her which flowers to plant where or what bulbs were compatible with what shrubs. She just had this natural talent. Don’t get me wrong… Look behind the rosebush and you may find an odd bit of Lamb’s Tongue. But even still, the woman has made a damned fine Martha-esque landscape with very little training.

I know people with very orderly vegetable gardens of lives. Every plant in a neat row and serving a specific purpose. I have noticed that many of my local friends have gardens like these. Rows of carrots and corn and tomatoes. Some have special sections of fun fruits and such to help their weedlings learn to tend their own garden (How much respect i have for these people!) Some have very small gardens and prefer to get their produce from others. Some have unusual plants done in an orderly way. Or traditional plants in a cottage style way. And some have little more than a single beautiful orchid.

Each of those gardens is worth a look.

There is a saying often attributed to Einstein, “If you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing it is stupid.” In that vein, judging someone else’s garden by the rules of your garden can be similarly hazardous. I can look at your orderly rows of green beans and peppers and think to myself, “Nope. Not for me.” But the minute that statement degrades into something akin to, “You are supposed to put the zucchini in the front!” Or, “They are doing it wrong. There should be some sunflowers in the back.” Then, we have a problem. Just because i don’t like your garden doesn’t mean it is bad or not worthy or wrong.

Because in the end, your garden is not my garden. I can tell you, if asked, that i think hostas are boring. But i have no right to go into your garden and dig them up. You can tell me that my yard looks like unicorn vomit. But you have no right to come stake my garden into rows. Rather we should appreciate each bed as it is, even if it isn’t one we would want for ourselves.

Of course, if you let your watermelon spread over into my yard, that’s a different matter entirely….

 

And If She Asks You Why, You Can Tell Her That I Told You

· 2 Comments ·

You can’t make anyone do anything. In the end we all do what we want. We only have control over our own actions, and sometimes even that is questionable.

Have you ever watched someone about to fall? You see them shift, you watch the tilt, all in slow motion. You know they are in for pain, and you know you can’t stop it. I watched a relationship do that last night. Yes, i was uncomfortable. Yes, i felt awkward. But, mostly, i felt powerless. Even understanding both sides of the argument, able to empathize with how each of them felt, there was no way to make peace. Both friends would suffer, and there wasn’t a damned thing i could do about it.

This morning, it was the global version of that same sensation. As i learned of the shooting in Orlando, which is sad enough in itself, i could see what would happen next: Knee jerk reaction and retaliation of Americans against muslims, savage protests by the masses, the promotion and election of politicians who eat such groups for breakfast, and the escalation of violence and hatred between religions. Again, i am devastated, weeping for the results. And again, i am impotent. Nothing i say or do is going to bring those victims back to life, nor will it stop the vicious aftermath.

I realize that many times in life and history, one lone voice has impacted the vector of time and stopped the descent into whatever circle of hell was gaining ground at that moment; but those voices came from people who already commanded attention. The Dalai Lama, Mother Theresa, Jimmy Carter, Robin Williams… Some people have the gift of influence. You, me, Daniel the bartender, most of the people we know… We could plead til we were blue in the face, but the politicians, the terrorists, the hatemongers… None of them are listening. Even on the small-scale, watching a fight between friends, it is nearly impossible to build a bridge that can bear the weight of the hurt feelings. To our credit, most of us still try, desperately hanging onto the thread of a utopian pipe dream.

Most of the time we are disappointed.

But that last shred of faith, the faint shadow of that castle in the air… They give us the strength for another attempt. Some of us are too stubborn to resolve ourselves to watching havoc play out like a movie. And tho i may never be able to keep terrorists from annihilating a group of bystanders, perhaps i can at least give my friends a white flag to clutch in peace.

I would still consider that a success.

 

 

There Is No Truth, Only Zuul

· Leave a comment ·

I was looking thru my profile pictures on Facebook this morning, and i noticed something that really piqued my analytical mind… The pics i like least of myself got the most “likes”. The ones where i felt i looked best got the least. I wonder what that means?

I have read that researchers and psychologists believe that if we were to meet ourselves on the street, we wouldn’t recognize ourselves. That what we look like to the outside is very different from what we look like in a reflection. I can see that being true. After all, we don’t often get the opportunity to see what we are like from afar. When you look at yourself in a mirror, you only see one part at a time. And when we see ourselves on film, we are usually too busy critiquing ourselves to get a good overall view. So it makes sense that the visual in its entirety is lost.

Talking with someone about this and why i like the pictures i do, i tell them i like the ones that i feel portray the image of the woman i want to be. The ones where i feel like i look pretty or sexy, smart, unique, badass, and happy. The ones that other people like… I look at them and see too many chins, or asymmetry, or age. Obviously, other people don’t. The logician in me says that one of us, either me or them, must be wrong. But who decides? I wonder what it would be like if, for a moment, we could see ourselves as others see us. Or that they could see us as we view ourselves.  Would we be shocked at the results? Would it help us to become more impartial? Less prejudiced against ourselves and others?

And what if we extend it to more than just looks? How we perceive our own intelligence, wit, and altruism surely has the same type of bias. What i feel are my greatest assets may not be the same as what you feel are my greatest assets. And if there is a disparity, which perception is the most truthful? With our human tendency to self-deprecate (or self-elevate, depending on your personality type), can we ever become truly honest with ourselves about ourselves? On the flip side, can anyone who isn’t privy to the thoughts in our head ever hold an accurate impression of the goings on inside?

If we can’t hold an impartial view of ourselves because we are too close, and others can’t get an impartial view because they aren’t close enough….. Who holds the actual truth?

Maybe God/Goddess/Universe is the only thing capable of being both within and without; and therefore, the only potential truth holder. (In which case, we are still at a loss; because if GGU starts speaking to you and telling you the real truths, the world will be more inclined to believe that you forgot your medicine that morning….)

Another possibility is that the truth becomes known when the perceptions within agree with those without. When what i see in me is also what you see in me. Perhaps that’s when the truth appears. When we learn to view ourselves without the first person bias. And when others learn to view us from a more personal vantage point. That intersection becomes a sentinel moment in the life continuum. That point in time becomes the terminus, the clear definitude of authenticity. When all agree and all is revealed, would it be as if we, as a group, achieved Nirvana and became fully, completely aware? Like a rapture of veracity?

Or maybe there is no truth. There is no essence. There is no real.  Perhaps the philosophical quest to find it is doomed to be unfulfilled. It could be that everything: truth, time, life itself, are all abstracts in the eye of the beholder. It is possible that Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates were all full of shit and just too lazy to seek out real employment.

But i suspect not. I think truth is something that we work towards, in a rather Buddhist way, tho not necessarily thru Buddhism. And i like to think that when we find it, like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, we will break thru that barrier to see what lies beyond. We will become one with the other side. Elysium, Heaven, immortality.

I could be wrong, but i hope not. Truth is an ultimate quest. And what is life worth without a passionate crusade?

To Die With Honor ~ Memorial Day 2016

· 1 Comment ·

So the Klingons have this saying, “It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.” (Unsurprisingly, but a bit disappointingly, they didn’t coin the phrase. They stole it from Mexican revolutionary Emiliano Zapata.)  Warriors have this credo running in their blood.

What good is life if we merely exist as chemical creations, without letting ourselves shine forth like the miraculous spirit-filled beings we are? The energy we house, the ideas we birth, the inventions, the music, the poetry! We must be free to liberate these things from ourselves, or it is all for nothing. Not all of us have the strength of body or will to fight the good fight for this human cause. For freedom. But there are a special few whose hearts are bursting at the seams with a need to plow the road for others, so that they can live and laugh and love without tethers to an ersatz owner.

“Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13 (NASB)  Soldiers have this credo in their veins. The men and women who serve our community and country are all of a special breed. Being willing to die for your fellow citizens is a commitment that few make. Whether storming the beach at Normandy, protecting a village from conquerors, or becoming a human shield for an innocent, the ones in uniform have proven themselves heroes time and again. And as the saying goes, tho all gave some, some gave all. And it is those we honor today.

I served. And tho i never expected the time would come, i did end up in a war zone. I did my job to the best of my ability and i never gave a thought to bailing, even tho, like most of my brothers and sisters who served with me, i didn’t really understand why we were there. And if i had died there, i’d have been pissed. My spirit angry at the emptiness and vanity that comes with the mockery of a calling.

“Any soldier worth his salt should be antiwar. And still there are things worth fighting for.” ~ Norman Schwarzkopf. And this, THIS, is what makes the difference between a mercenary and a hero. A patsy and a protector. If i had died without contributing to a human cause, i would have considered it senseless.

It’s an insult to all who don a uniform and serve to send them to die without cause. To use them as anything but the mighty defenders they are. They are not pawns for corporate needs. They are not leverage for your financial interests. They are vanquishers of those who would terrorize innocents. Do not belittle their importance and significance by using them as sympathy points in the media or distractions from real and true human issues.

The veterans at home now, who are committing suicide in droves, this is what happens when you strip soldiers of their honor. When you pointedly tell them in word and in deed that their actions made no difference. When you rip from them their worth by subjugating the notion they hold most dear. When you shrink their value to little more than a penny on the sidewalk, its triviality so obvious that no one stoops to pick it up.

On this, Memorial Day, i am on fire for my brothers and sisters who gave all and are forgotten. The ones whose importance is diminished by government and bureaucracy who don’t hold dear the responsibilities that our soldiers took on before they were taken back by God/Goddess/Universe to the virtuous gemstone quarry from which they came. They deserve better. Their souls deserve respect. Notice. And in their darkest hours, protection of the masses as they once protected us.

Those of us who have served… Who lost someone in service… Who remember a time when the powers that be thought far more of those who volunteered their lives… It is our turn to say thank you. Not just with a day of remembrance, but with voice and action. Humankind is lucky to have those heroes who walked, unflinching, into the face of darkness and never returned. A little gratitude is not remiss. And the best way to say thank you is to keep any other service member from dying without reason. Take care of those who do return. When they have fought to their last breath, breathe for them. Give them a cause worth sacrificing for, and respite when they are spent. It is the least we can do, but all they ask for. Help our government to remember.

War is an evil thing. Be glad that someone took up arms in your stead, so that you wouldn’t have to live the horrors of it. Especially if you are one who sent them to war in the first place.

Yes, Uncle Sam, i am talking to you.

The Human Animal

· 2 Comments ·

So, Siridog got her ass kicked earlier this week. Indisputably and thoroughly kicked. Ended up at the vet with shots and meds and a cone of shame, but thankfully, no surgery. I’ve taken to telling people, when they see us on a walk and ask what happened, that she got in a fight at the bar. But really, she got totalled by a cat.

My oldest weedling has two cats, each large enough to be mistaken for feline Shaquille O’Neals. Except that they aren’t nearly as industrious. But they are that big. Clark is a gray and white, cute-faced stoner. Either that, or he was dropped on his head as a kitten. Laid back and chill, you can almost hear Bob Meowly singing reggae in his head. George is a typical gray tabby, except supersized. He is generally pleasant, slow-moving, and could easily be mistaken for Garfield if he were shot in black and white. She has had both of these cats her entire adulthood. And they’ve never bothered anyone.

But as sometimes happens in apartment living, she needed them out of the abode so a repairman could let himself in (They like to try to scoot out when an unsuspecting visitor enters). She brought them to my place with the original intent of shutting them in the bathroom. But after watching for an hour, she saw nothing to prohibit letting them out. Stoner cat was sharing a bowl of kibble with Siri in perfect camaraderie, and George was ignoring everyone. So she made the decision to let them be.

Fast forward  a couple of hours later. The youngest weedling comes home and gathers up Siridog for her afterschool walk. He immediately put her back down because she whimpered. Then he noticed his arms were covered in blood. Rather than freak out, he immediately called his sister, who came and scooted her off to the vet. She was in contact with me the whole time, knowing i would be a mess if i lost my Mexican mutt baby. And she felt terrible that George, who we knew was guilty by his ducking and hiding, would do such a thing.

Now, Siri weighs less than half George.  If he had wanted to kill her, he would have. But in spite of all the blood, there were no cuts that went thru the fascia, and there were no bite marks anywhere near her neck. What that told me was that George was trying to prove a point to Siri. And prove it, he did. He was the Alpha. And tho the outpouring of sympathy was overwhelming and the cat critics were thunderous, i couldn’t be too mad at George. I’ve no doubt that he got too close to Siri’s sleeping place or favorite toy, and she growled or barked, sparking him to demonstrate his mettle. That’s what animals do. They fight to be king. It’s their nature. How can i fault George for behaving the way he was made to?

My inability to be angry at him got me to thinking about man equivalent.

My middle weedling is on her way today to an internship at the United States Institute for Peace. And tho it may seem contrary to send a military person to the USIP, in reality, it makes perfect sense. Douglas MacArthur said, “The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.” Being able to broker for peace will make her a better and more principled and ethical (And hopefully less war-torn) soldier.

And lets face it, we all want world peace

But realistically, man is, in many ways, little more than an animal. Especially when up against a wall . And we can’t expect an animal to behave like anything but an animal. We can’t expect it to want to be anything but Alpha. And we can’t expect it not to fight.  So in a world fraught with dictators and hunger and poverty~ both in pocket and in soul~ How do we find peace?

The minority religion guerillas who feel threatened and bomb their way to Alpha. The socially disordered who are desperately spiritually hungry and shoot their way to Alpha. The inner city kids who feel disposable and punk their way to Alpha. From a feral perspective, the violence isn’t the least bit surprising. They feel cornered by circumstance, by life, and in an attempt to escape, bare tooth and claw. Just like your average junkyard cat.

Of course i don’t advocate violence. I wish i had the power to stop them and make them all take a breather with some milk and oreos and maybe, for once, try to talk to each other. Try to find a way besides killing. Pull a Robert Fulghum and bring them all to a table laden with crayons and paper and legos and keep them there til they learn to play together. Make them eat together. Make them rely on each other. Maybe then they will elevate over their own nature and become more than an animal.

But the fact remains that we’ve been trying various methods since the beginning of mankind, and in spite of the efforts, there has always been war. On any given day, there are insurgents or enemies or just plain punks. For every bully who repents, there is another to take their place. Which makes for a vile and repulsive truth: Those who broker for peace will never have the success or profits of those who broker for war.

And yet, some will continue to push for peace. Against the odds, they soldier on. Hoping the animal will regain its humanity. Hoping to salve and heal the need to be Alpha. Hoping the human animal elevates itself to something more than the cats and rats and wolves. Reading the news each day makes me wonder how the peace keepers can keep up the fight. They must truly be people of faith. Faith in humanity.

I can’t help but wonder, sometimes, if that faith is misplaced.

But i trust that my weedling and her ilk have the fortitude and the patience to soldier on in the face of history and animal nature. Such respect i have for their tenacity and passion to make the world a safer and more harmonious place. And with her military training, my daughter will be able to keep others safe when the animals rage. Like a zookeeper for human animals.

I guess that makes her the Alpha.

 

A Birthday Card for Ma

· 7 Comments ·

Today is my Ma’s birthday. She would be 73 today.

73. Holy cow.

She was 51 when she died, so i can’t even picture her as past middle age.

I wonder if she would be the type to lie about her age? Would she swear she was 49? Or would she steal Sophia Loren’s tactic and tell everyone she’s 85, so they’ll think she looks unbelievable for her age? Or maybe she’d just say it. “I’m 73, ” with an unspoken, “And eff you if you have a problem with it, ” behind it.

I don’t know.

Would she have stopped dying her signature red hair and let the gray come in? Short and pretty and wavy, tho undeniably gray? The pewter buzz she sported after the chemo actually was pretty flattering on her. Maybe she would have kept it. Or maybe, after seeing my oldest’s new galaxy hair, she would have gone out and gotten it done up for real. Plum and purple and blue and green. The Cora-lee Nebula. She could have pulled it off. She had the chutzpah.

I don’t know.

There is a lot i don’t know about her. A lot i don’t understand about her. And i hate not having the chance to find out.

But there are some things i DO know about her. Things that, even tho she never got a chance to do, i am certain would have become truth for her.

I am certain she would be proud of my sister and i. We have done well. Our weedlings are pretty awesome too, and she would be  so in love with them. And the beautiful great-grand-daughter that my niece has blessed the family with? I think Ma would have her as a personal pet. Our whole family has grown and grown up and found their stride. She’d be so proud of all of us. Ma would be one hell of a colorful matriarch, and full of joy for how wonderful the family turned out.

I am certain my Ma would still be chemical free. Her sobriety was important to her, and she made it her mission to play Pied Piper and lead others to a cleaner path. She was put here on this Earth to be that shepherd. It was evident. It was inevitable. And it would have continued.

I am certain she’d be feeling the Bern, tho i’ll bet she’d secretly have the hots for Trump.

I am certain she’d be lamenting the end of American Idol. And that she’d own the entire Shrek franchise on dvd.

I am certain she’d be delighted at the bawdy antics of Betty White.

I am certain she’d still be the same big-hearted, larger-than-life, joyously funny, universally accepting,  hot-flash mess that she was.

And i miss her.

God, i miss her.

Happy birthday, Ma. Your legacy lives on. You did good.

 

 

Me, Too, Mr. Thorogood

· 4 Comments ·

Why are people so uncomfortable when they see someone eating alone?

It was a long and frustrating week. A lot of beating my head against  wall. Worry over deadlines. And one particularly vexing moment when i discovered that typing, “Why the hell won’t this stupid thing work??!!” into the help menu didn’t yield any helpful results. I was glad to see Friday, even if only to mark what is likely a halfway point in this mess.

Because i survived the week without developing a permanent tic or Valium habit, i decided to treat myself. There is a well regarded restaurant that i hadn’t tried that sits smack-dab halfway home. It being warm and still light out, it was nice to see that there was a tiny table still open on the patio. I’m certain a subconscious, relief-filled “Aaaahhhhhh..” escaped my lips as  parked my tookis. Normally, when eating out alone, i bring something to read to assuage the nervous Nellies who grieve solitary diners. But i hadn’t expected to go out today, so i was amusing myself with people watching and a sudoku on my phone.

I ordered tonight’s special cocktail that sounded like they knew i was coming. I wasn’t terribly hungry, so i ordered an appetizer, and then another when i scarfed the delicious first one down like it was Aunt Bea’s best biscuit.  My mood was improving. It’s amazing what some good flavor will do.

There were two tables nearby, both of which were filled with near- or newly retired doctors and their wives. Bits and pieces of the conversations floated my way. I didn’t pay much attention until i heard one say, “I wonder if she is waiting for someone…”

I looked up, and sure enough, they were all staring at me.

“No,” I said. “It’s just me tonight. Just relaxing after a long week.” The three women all looked full of pity.  Two of the men looked at their wives. The third man smiled. He asked me what i was drinking and if it was good. He asked my opinion of what i had eaten, which i answered as the server approached their table. Then i went back to my own amusements. A few minutes later i heard one of the wives…

“We should invite her to join us or something.”

Please, no. I don’t want to have to refuse them, but i am in no mood to have a condolence laden conversation with a table full of strangers.

My ersatz ally spoke up on my behalf. “Don’t be silly! She is enjoying her drink. Leave her be. Not everyone wants to be with a crowd.”

Bless you, sir.

I’m sure the wives were thinking he didn’t understand. No one should sup alone. It’s unnatural. Single women are lonely. Blah blah blah.

Nope. Not lonely. Just enjoying quiet and trying to empty my mind. Relaxing. Marking the end of a tiresome week and the beginning of the weekend. Treating myself, instead of waiting for a savior to do it for me. That’s what we single people do. We take care of ourselves. And we have the occasional dinner out just like you married people. No need for sympathy. No need for disdain. And for the love of God and everything holy, quit talking about me from only three feet away so that i can palpate your compassion.

Sheesh.

I admit, sometimes i want someone to talk to. Then i go sit at the bar and chat up the bartender or the other patrons. But if i’m at a table, not engaging with others, and not looking heartbroken, i am fine. I am enjoying my own company, or my magazine, or my food, or whatever. It’s ok. Really. Your humanitarian efforts to make me feel less lonely don’t have the desired affect. They just kind of irritate me.

But i won’t tell you that.

Instead, i will keep sipping and munching and reading or whatever. And i’ll wait for your tablemate to point it out. After all, in any gathering, there is always that one person who didn’t mind being single and truly commiserates.

Winning the No-win Scenario

· 5 Comments ·

I am a mother. Three times over. And the weedlings have all turned out great in spite of my shortcomings as a parent. In spite of my mistakes. In spite of my own childishness. Somehow, the weedlings came out wonderful. There are other people who contributed, not the least of which were their fathers who loved them dearly and did their best at this Kobayashi Maru thing called parenting. But it’s Mother’s Day, so i’m going to lay my experience of motherhood out on the table for you…..

I often tell people that i have three “only children”. There are nearly 10 years between the first two, and nearly another five before the third came along. So tho they each have some of the traditional birth order traits, they aren’t exactly perfect examples. Part of what having them so spread out creates is a huge disparity in the way they were raised. My age, my philosophy, my whole self grew and changed between births. It was as if they were raised by three different mothers.

I didn’t have much use for babies as a child. I was never a girl to always have a dolly in  a stroller or make plans for my future wedding and family. My visions of the future were very different, and they revolved more around Vulcan than Walnut Grove. I didn’t babysit much as a teen. And it was less than a year after i moved to an opposite part of the country from my family when i had my first daughter. A a result, i was clueless.

But, i admit, i am a smart and resourceful woman, so i read up as best as i could. I tried to get informed. I made a lot of mistakes. Mentally, i was stunted and depressed and self-absorbed, tho i didn’t know it at the time. I was lost. In every way, i was lost. But i tried.

The magazine feminists who claim women can have it all? Be supermom, shatter the glass ceiling, look like centerfold, and be a paragon of success? They can kiss my ass.

It is impossible. I bought into it, but the stock didn’t pay off. Everything suffered. My career languished. My self-esteem dropped to negative levels. And my beautiful daughter was deprived of so much of me. Back then, the psychology of “good enough” wasn’t accepted, and the push for unattainable success coupled with the inevitable failure was more than most of us could take. (I was not alone. I know of many who fell into this pit.)

By my second child, i knew what a mess i was. Strangely, that helped a lot. I made sure i was as prepared for the post-partum depression that had crippled me with my first. I was living in a foreign country, even farther from family, but i forced myself to take advantage of support services available. I didn’t feel the need to do everything. I was content to be Ma. I stuck with much of the things i had adopted with my first – breast feeding, cloth diapers, homemade baby food… – only now, i didn’t hate myself for my inability to always get it right. I did my best to enjoy the moments with her that i had been incapable of fully experiencing with my oldest. As a result, she got far more of me than her sister did.

By the time my son was born, i was old enough that i had settled into myself. And while that was good for me, it may not have been the best for my son. I was no longer on my toes, pre-empting bad decisions and flung peas. I merely sighed and cleaned them up. I didn’t get wound up when he ate mulch. And tho i called poison control when he sprayed Lysol in his mouth to combat his bad breath, it didn’t render me stomach sick or desperate to flagellate myself as punishment. I was chill. That lack of concern bubbled over into him. He has a nonchalance about life that will preclude him ever being the head of an empire. Of course, he probably will never have an ulcer either, so it isn’t all bad.

Now that my children are more weeds than weedlings, i am able to see more clearly the impact i have had on them. And while it is true that my clinical depression, my aggregate unrest, and my self-ignorance have laid permanent scars on my children; they have also been marked with some good things. They are all three charitable and non-judgmental. They are intelligent. They are curious. They are kind. They are entertaining. They are fearless. They are beautiful. At least some of that had to have come from me. What they are, who they are… Some of that is me.

Wow. It’s amazing when you really think about it.

They really love. They really live. My weedlings… They are truly good people.

So i guess i was good enough.