Temporary Posses...

Last month, I was the lucky recipient of a jury summons.  That’s the price of one of our freedoms in this country, so I never mind it in theory.  Reality, however, brings a host of reasons why I’d rather be anyplace else. 

For starters, I live in a county that spreads across a large portion of metro Atlanta, which means a commute from the northern suburbs to downtown, at a time when roughly a bajillion other people (give or take) are on the highway, headed in the same direction.  Then, given the large population of my county, there are countless cases on the docket on any given day, so selection is a long process.  Still, civic duty prevails, so I filled my coffee cup, loaded my bag with granola bars and reading material, and headed downtown.

Because of the sheer number of prospective jurors required, the courts have a system to handle the influx.  Rather than expecting everyone to rely on chance to find parking or a reliable train schedule, buses are used to shuttle us from a big stadium parking lot to the courthouse.  Easy enough.  Traffic was on my side, I found a nice shady parking spot, the sun was shining.  What more could I ask for?

As I was walking toward the bus area, a couple of people asked me if they were in the right place for jury duty.  I assured them they were and pointed them in the right direction.  Then, I heard someone calling “Ma’am?” from her car.  Since I didn’t see any other Ma’ams around, I deduced that she was talking to me, so I turned to her.  She, like the others, inquired as to whether she was in the right place.  I told her she was and offered to wait and walk with her.  Together, we made our way to the group of people waiting just as the bus pulled up.

When we boarded, there was only one available seat, so I offered it to her (as she was my senior) and I stood nearby.  When we arrived at the courthouse, she was ahead of me exiting the bus so I was a little surprised to see her waiting for me on the curb.  She said “We made it this far, I figured we should stick together.”  So we did.  We stayed together through the metal detector scans, the check in process, and found our way to the already very full waiting area where my new partner scouted the room and found us two seats together.

When I sat down, she quoted one of my favorite proverbs: “If you want to go fast, go alone.  If you want to go far, go together.”  I laughed.  Told her that was one of my favorites, and put my book back into my bag because I was pretty clear I wouldn’t need it to occupy my time.

We chatted a bit, in the way that strangers do.  Or, at least in the way that *I* do with strangers that makes my husband and kids roll their eyes at me.  My new friend – I’ll call her “A” – noted with a chuckle that nearly every person in the very full room had their heads down, faces buried in some sort of electronic device to prevent them from actually interacting with other human beings.  At some point, the woman on A’s other side, put her phone down and joined our conversation.  We’ll call her “B”.  After a bit, the woman (“C”) directly across from us put her book down and commented on something we said.  Before long, we had a nice little coffee klatch – 4 women passing the time – learning from one another, laughing, and just generally enjoying ourselves – while hundreds of people sat silently sequestered unto themselves all around us.

When it was time for our first break, we 4 women, strangers when the day started, found our way together to the break room and shared a table where we sipped coffee, nibbled on danishes, and continued to chat.  When my husband texted to see how my day was going so far, I told him I had a new posse to keep me company.  Back in the waiting area, we settled back in to wait together.

We talked about a little bit of everything.  The news, the uncomfortable chairs, previous jury experiences, our different neighborhoods, job searches, and so on.  A mentioned that her husband was at the doctor that day for a checkup for his kidney transplant 5 years prior.  So I told her about my husband and our experience.  Which led to B saying that her uncle is on the waiting list.  Then A’s name was called to go to a court room.  Soon enough, C’s name was called.  By lunch time, B and I were released at the same time so we decided to lunch together.

Out on the street, the obvious sandwich shops and fast food choices were there.  Then B stopped a busy looking man on the street and asked for a recommendation.  *Note to my kids – SHE stopped the stranger on the street, not me!*  He told us where he was going and offered to lead us there, so we followed.  There, in this tiny little place we’d never heard of, we had delicious Jamaican food that never would have happened without the guidance of a stranger.  You know, because we took a chance, trusted the guy, and went along with him.

 Back at the courthouse, with full bellies, the room was quickly emptying out.  Then B was relieved for the day while I was left in the final group for selection.  The end of my posse for the day.  So, I checked my email, pulled out my book and settled in.  After about an hour, I was finally let go – the last potential juror to be released that day...the sole survivor.  Civic duty done.

I don’t know if my Court House Posse took anything away from their time with me.  I hope so.  We talked about children and schools and everything that I suppose a group of friends would chat about over coffee.  We were different ages, different races, and of different lifestyles but, there in that room, we were all the same.  I think we all learned something during our time in those uncomfortable chairs.

Of course, I can think of a hundred things I’d rather have been doing that day, but I’m grateful for my posse.  I don’t remember their names.  But I will remember their stories and am so appreciative of the time spent with them.  Together, we were able to make a boring day more bearable.

The main lesson I got from the day is that I’m not alone in my instinct to connect with people  I’m standoffishly friendly (it is TOO a thing!) and I’m not alone in that.  And isn’t that kind of the point in life?  Connecting, sharing, learning?  Sometimes a posse is temporary.  That doesn’t make it less valuable.  Be open to the posse-bilities. (ha. see what I did there?)

 

The People Who Live In My Head: Send In The Clowns...

The People Who Live In My Head: Send In The Clowns...: You know what ticks me off? OK, I'll tell you. These terrorist clowns. Clowns are wonderful. The world needs clowns. They are ambassador...

Send In The Clowns...

You know what ticks me off? OK, I'll tell you. These terrorist clowns. Clowns are wonderful. The world needs clowns. They are ambassadors of joy and levity and fun. They are the embodiment of good.

I get that Stephen King and Hollywood (and, OK, John Wayne Gacy didn’t help) did their parts to twist the beautiful clown persona into something dark and treacherous.  But, like all bad examples, they are the exceptions to the rule. 
 
For those who are unaware of the current news trend, for the last several months, creepy clowns have been popping up in unexpected places, displaying creepy behavior, scaring the hell out of children and parents and building into a bit of hysteria with more and more “sightings”.  I use quotes there because I’m willing to bet that most of these sightings are fear-induced illusions.

So today, I got a voice mail from my kid’s middle school principal, followed by an “assuring” email from the school board, letting us know just how aware our school administrators are of this threat and they promise that our students will be protected.  Seriously!?!  Clowns.

When civilians and police are killing each other in the streets, when nations are at war and children and their families are being displaced by battles in their homeland, when bigotry and hate speech is coming from every news outlet, I’m supposed to instill distrust of CLOWNS into my happy little girls?  Nope.  Not going to do it.

I’ve talked about this before, but I love clowns.  I love what they represent and, had I known that it was an option in my younger days, you can bet I’d have chosen the Ringling Brothers Clown college after high school.  It may be my one regret in life that I didn’t know it was possible.

Clowns have been around for thousands of years.  Historically, clowns, jesters, and comic entertainers have been welcomed for their ability to deliver satire, comic relief, and stress release during serious times.  Emperors and kings enlisted them to break ice during tense periods.  As the circus culture rose, clowns were vital to the show – not only to deliver lighthearted laughs - but as a distraction between acts.  Without the clowns, people in the audience would be forced to watch the poop cleanup after the elephant parade.  Think about that for a second.  If we have ever needed clowns, now is the time.

Look – I’m not pretending that some jerk didn’t put on makeup and a clown suit and terrorize people.  Then another jerk saw that and thought it was a great idea.  So now there’s a string of copycat jerks who are seeking their own moment of spotlight by scaring people.  That’s all real enough.  But jerks have been around since WAY before clowns were born.  Terrorists have existed forever, and that won’t ever change.  Here, in this moment in time, a band of terrorist assholes have chosen clown costumes as their uniforms of choice.  That doesn’t make them clowns.  It makes them terrorist assholes in clown suits.

Meanwhile, much scarier things are happening all around us.  There are steaming piles of elephant poop that need to be cleaned up.  That family up there on the tightrope is about to fall.  There’s a hole in the tent and it’s starting to rain.  Quick!  Send in the clowns!

I trust the lions take care of the jerks looking for trouble.

Apathy Is My Super Power...

Recently, I was part of a conversation about super powers.  Not the cool, comic book kind of powers like flying or invisibility that one wouldn’t mind having.  No.  This was a discussion about our innate powers that we use as a defense mechanism in life.  We all have them.  But what is mine?  My mother and I decided that we share Apathy as our super power.

That’s not exactly right, though.  Because “Apathy” implies that I don’t care.  Of course I CARE.  I just choose not to CARRY.  Totally different.

My friends at Miriam-Webster – and Mr. Roget, too -say that apathy is the feeling of not having much emotion or interest.  It’s insensitivity, indifference, disregard, coldness, and detachment.  None of those things really describe me. 

The thing is, I don’t see the point in lugging my own baggage around.  I sure don’t need to pick up anyone else’s.  That doesn’t mean I have no empathy.  It just means that if there’s anything I can do to help a situation, I do that.  Then I keep moving.  Sometimes, it’s clear that I have nothing helpful to offer the situation, so nothing is exactly what I offer.

I’ve written before about the Grief Train but it seems to have evolved over time.  Thanks to the prevalence of social media, people have a forum to display just how much they care.  Or, more to the point, how much MORE they care than the previous person.  I see it more and more and it just makes me cringe.  If a person is truly a friend, and they are having a difficult time, my instinct is to send loving thoughts and to contact them privately if that feels right.  Uninvited public and highly visible declarations of my concern twist the focus away from the person at the center of the situation on to me.  “Look how much I care!  Look how much more I care than everyone else!”

Obviously, I don’t have it all figured out.  My way isn’t the only way.  Public forums are useful in sharing news and messages and initiating further discussion on topics that benefit from dialogue.  I’m just not likely to jump into every conversation.  Likewise, in a room full of people, I’m as likely to stand in a corner and listen as I am to participate in whatever is going on.

I have absolutely been called “aloof” by people who don’t know me.  That’s fair, I guess.  I’ve been accused of being shy, of being snobby, of being sad, of being disconnected, of being any number of things that are counter to the person expected in whichever environment I’m in.

The other day, my 11 year old daughter was called into the guidance counselor’s office because some teacher sent an email expressing concern that she wasn’t happy.  Whaaaatt!?!  Anyone who knows this kid knows how far that is from reality.  But it seems that my girl has inherited her mom’s RBF.  (That’s “Resting Bitch Face” for those who don’t know.)  So this counselor asked her questions, there were no red flags, so she pushed and pushed until my daughter grasped at straws to pull out some very minor conflict from the previous school year to give this lady to get her off her back. 

I had to sit down with my kid and explain RBF to her and try to prepare her for a lifetime of “Smile!”, “Why so sad?”, “Cheer up!” and so on.  All because she keeps a bit of a poker face while observing new situations before deciding whether or not to dive in.

So, my unwillingness to attach myself to problems or situation that are not my own doesn’t mean I don’t care.  If a person is in my life – even if just for a fleeting moment – I care about their well-being.  I care about their happiness, health, comfort, and pain.  But that doesn’t mean I have to take it on myself.  First and foremost, I love.  I care.  I help when there’s something I can do.  And then I keep moving.

Does this mean my superpower is Apathy?  I don’t think so.  Maybe my real superpower is Cameo.  I can enter a scene, quietly perform my part, and exit stage left.  I think that's a pretty useful skill, too.

Analog In A Digital World...

The other day, my husband was cleaning his office and came up with a road atlas, asking if I thought we should keep it.  My heart screamed “Yes, maps are very important, keep it!” but my head said “We live in a world of GPS, wi-fi and Google Maps, we’ll never use that again.” so I had to go with the brain and let him release it to the recycle bin.  I had to walk away quickly before I changed my answer and grabbed it from his hands.  Then I retreated to my bedroom to salve my wounds with the real paper pages of a book from the library. 

I’m fighting a losing battle with the rest of the world but I’m not prepared to concede to defeat.  You see, I’m analog in a digital world.  Yes, I know that my family’s probably sick of hearing it and I realize that it’s pretty hypocritical of me to blog about this subject on electronic media, but there it is.  I recognize that there are definite perks to all this technology that surrounds me.  I appreciate many of the new-fangled abilities we have.  I just don’t want them to replace everything.

When I learned to drive, I swore I’d only ever choose a manual transmission because I felt like I was in control.  It only took a few years of Atlanta rush hour traffic to accept that maybe an automatic that allowed my clutch leg to rest wasn’t such a terrible thing.  The cell phone has proven itself to be a vital tool in daily communication and the fact that one can fit in my pocket is pretty sweet.  I absolutely appreciate my DVR’s ability to keep me caught up on favorite shows while fast-forwarding through commercials, and welcome the 4 million channels I have to choose. 

I’m not a total Luddite.  I just don’t adapt easily and I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.  I like cars that use real metal keys (that could be copied at the local hardware store) to open doors and start engines.  I listen to the radio over old-fashioned FM airwaves through the ionosphere and prefer CDs with cover art to mp3 files.  I like my landline telephone and old-fashioned answering machine that allows me to screen calls. I like newspapers and magazines.  I like actual mail.

When I bought my most recent new-to-me car, I was bothered that it came with an electronic key.  Sure, the automatic door opener thing is cool, but why can’t I have a regular key?  That car is now considered old and it’s hard to find a vehicle that requires keys at all.  All one needs is the ability to push a button.  At the doctor for a checkup recently, I was handed a computer tablet for check in.  What happened to the clipboards with pens attached to strings?!?  And why, when I go to the store, are my checkout options ONE over-crowded cashier lane or a dozen “check out your damn self” stations?

I know I had plenty of lazy, time-sucking activities as a kid.  That frog wasn’t going to get across the river and the planet was not going to be saved from alien invasion if I didn’t spend hours in front of the Atari!  I get it.  Video games can be fun.  What I don’t get is my kids’ obsession with watching OTHER people play video games on YouTube.   I don’t understand Music.ly.  I don’t really get the need for Kik and I’m really bothered by how few of my 11 year old’s friends know their own phone numbers and addresses.

I’m old.  I’m square.  I know.  I accept that.  And I accept that technology isn’t going away and I understand that it’s necessary to be flexible and adapt.  My grandmother did.  My mother did – she has an iphone, for crying out loud, and can text quickly while I’m still trying to find that screen on my phone! 

I truly do appreciate the amazing minds behind all of the technological wonders we have.  I absolutely recognize that many of the people I love wouldn’t have been here without modern miracles.  I’m grateful for the ability to communicate with so many people across so many miles and, without technology, there would be no place for me to vent about it.  Ah, sweet irony!

I can, and will adapt.  As much as I have to, anyway.  Meanwhile, I mourn the atlas, embrace the books, and hope that my kids will maintain at least a little bit of interest in the way things were and the way they can still sometimes be.

I’ll do what I can.  But I think I’ll always be analog in a digital world.

Analog In A Digital World...

The other day, my husband was cleaning his office and came up with a road atlas, asking if I thought we should keep it.  My heart screamed “Yes, maps are very important, keep it!” but my head said “We live in a world of GPS, wi-fi and Google Maps, we’ll never use that again.” so I had to go with the brain and let him release it to the recycle bin.  I had to walk away quickly before I changed my answer and grabbed it from his hands.  Then I retreated to my bedroom to salve my wounds with the real paper pages of a book from the library. 

I’m fighting a losing battle with the rest of the world but I’m not prepared to concede to defeat.  You see, I’m analog in a digital world.  Yes, I know that my family’s probably sick of hearing it and I realize that it’s pretty hypocritical of me to blog about this subject on electronic media, but there it is.  I recognize that there are definite perks to all this technology that surrounds me.  I appreciate many of the new-fangled abilities we have.  I just don’t want them to replace everything.

When I learned to drive, I swore I’d only ever choose a manual transmission because I felt like I was in control.  It only took a few years of Atlanta rush hour traffic to accept that maybe an automatic that allowed my clutch leg to rest wasn’t such a terrible thing.  The cell phone has proven itself to be a vital tool in daily communication and the fact that one can fit in my pocket is pretty sweet.  I absolutely appreciate my DVR’s ability to keep me caught up on favorite shows while fast-forwarding through commercials, and welcome the 4 million channels I have to choose. 

I’m not a total Luddite.  I just don’t adapt easily and I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.  I like cars that use real metal keys (that could be copied at the local hardware store) to open doors and start engines.  I listen to the radio over old-fashioned FM airwaves through the ionosphere and prefer CDs with cover art to mp3 files.  I like my landline telephone and actual answering machine that allows me to screen calls. I like newspapers and magazines.  I like actual mail.

When I bought my most recent new-to-me car, I was bothered that it came with an electronic key.  Sure, the automatic door opener thing is cool, but why can’t I have a regular key?  That car is now considered old and it’s hard to find a vehicle that requires keys at all.  All one needs is the ability to push a button.  At the doctor for a checkup recently, I was handed a computer tablet for check in.  What happened to the clipboards with pens attached to strings?!?  And why, when I go to the store, are my checkout options ONE over-crowded cashier lane or a dozen “check out your damn self” stations?

I know I had plenty of lazy, time-sucking activities as a kid.  That frog wasn’t going to get across the river and the planet was nit going to be saved from alien invasion if I didn’t spend hours in front of the Atari!  I get it.  Video games can be fun.  What I don’t get is my kids’ obsession with watching OTHER people play video games on YouTube.   I don’t understand Music.ly.  I don’t really get the need for Kik and I’m really bothered by how few of my 11 year old’s friends know their own phone numbers and addresses.

I’m old.  I’m square.  I know.  I accept that.  And I accept that technology isn’t going away and I understand that it’s necessary to be flexible and adapt.  My grandmother did.  My mother did – she has an iphone, for crying out loud, and can text quickly while I’m still trying to find that screen on my phone! 

I truly do appreciate the amazing minds behind all of the technological wonders we have.  I absolutely recognize that many of the people I love wouldn’t have been here without modern miracles.  I’m grateful for the ability to communicate with so many people across so many miles and, without technology, there would be no place for me to vent about it.  Ah, sweet irony!

I can, and will adapt.  As much as I have to, anyway.  Meanwhile, I mourn the atlas, embrace the books, and hope that my kids will maintain at least a little bit of interest in the way things were and the way they can still sometimes be.

I’ll do what I can.  But I think I’ll always be analog in a digital world.

Analog In A Digital World...

The other day, my husband was cleaning his office and came up with a road atlas, asking if I thought we should keep it.  My heart screamed “Yes, maps are very important, keep it!” but my head said “We live in a world of GPS, wi-fi and Google Maps, we’ll never use that again.” so I had to go with the brain and let him release it to the recycle bin.  I had to walk away quickly before I changed my answer and grabbed it from his hands.  Then I retreated to my bedroom to salve my wounds with the real paper pages of a book from the library. 

I’m fighting a losing battle with the rest of the world but I’m not prepared to concede to defeat.  You see, I’m analog in a digital world.  Yes, I know that my family’s probably sick of hearing it and I realize that it’s pretty hypocritical of me to blog about this subject on electronic media, but there it is.  I recognize that there are definite perks to all this technology that surrounds me.  I appreciate many of the new-fangled abilities we have.  I just don’t want them to replace everything.

When I learned to drive, I swore I’d only ever choose a manual transmission because I felt like I was in control.  It only took a few years of Atlanta rush hour traffic to accept that maybe an automatic that allowed my clutch leg to rest wasn’t such a terrible thing.  The cell phone has proven itself to be a vital tool in daily communication and the fact that one can fit in my pocket is pretty sweet.  I absolutely appreciate my DVR’s ability to keep me caught up on favorite shows while fast-forwarding through commercials, and welcome the 4 million channels I have to choose. 

I’m not a total Luddite.  I just don’t adapt easily and I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.  I like cars that use real metal keys (that could be copied at the local hardware store) to open doors and start engines.  I listen to the radio over old-fashioned FM airwaves through the ionosphere and prefer CDs with cover art to mp3 files.  I like my landline telephone and actual answering machine that allows me to screen calls. I like newspapers and magazines.  I like actual mail.

When I bought my most recent new-to-me car, I was bothered that it came with an electronic key.  Sure, the automatic door opener thing is cool, but why can’t I have a regular key?  That car is now considered old and it’s hard to find a vehicle that requires keys at all.  All one needs is the ability to push a button.  At the doctor for a checkup recently, I was handed a computer tablet for check in.  What happened to the clipboards with pens attached to strings?!?  And why, when I go to the store, are my checkout options ONE over-crowded cashier lane or a dozen “check out your damn self” stations?

I know I had plenty of lazy, time-sucking activities as a kid.  That frog wasn’t going to get across the river and the planet was nit going to be saved from alien invasion if I didn’t spend hours in front of the Atari!  I get it.  Video games can be fun.  What I don’t get is my kids’ obsession with watching OTHER people play video games on YouTube.   I don’t understand Music.ly.  I don’t really get the need for Kik and I’m really bothered by how few of my 11 year old’s friends know their own phone numbers and addresses.

I’m old.  I’m square.  I know.  I accept that.  And I accept that technology isn’t going away and I understand that it’s necessary to be flexible and adapt.  My grandmother did.  My mother did – she has an iphone, for crying out loud, and can text quickly while I’m still trying to find that screen on my phone! 

I truly do appreciate the amazing minds behind all of the technological wonders we have.  I absolutely recognize that many of the people I love wouldn’t have been here without modern miracles.  I’m grateful for the ability to communicate with so many people across so many miles and, without technology, there would be no place for me to vent about it.  Ah, sweet irony!

I can, and will adapt.  As much as I have to, anyway.  Meanwhile, I mourn the atlas, embrace the books, and hope that my kids will maintain at least a little bit of interest in the way things were and the way they can still sometimes be.

I’ll do what I can.  But I think I’ll always be analog in a digital world.

The People Who Live In My Head: Life's Like A Box of Puppies...

The People Who Live In My Head: Life's Like A Box of Puppies...: I’ve often described my life growing up with 8 siblings as being “like a box of puppies”.   I think that was – and is – still an accurate de...

Life's Like A Box of Puppies...

I’ve often described my life growing up with 8 siblings as being “like a box of puppies”.  I think that was – and is – still an accurate description.  The 9 of us all have very different personalities, but it’s clear that we’re from the same litter.

Just like a pack of puppies, there was a lot of activity in many different directions.  Sometimes one puppy would stray too far or annoy another puppy.  Each and every time, that deviant puppy would be barked at, nipped on the nose, and brought back into line by the other puppies.  The same was true for my brothers and sisters.  We may have spent days exploring and testing boundaries but we always came back to the box at the end of the day where we would nestle down, snuggling, sometimes laying on another puppy’s head, and sometime “borrowing” another puppy’s favorite toy.

All these years later, we’re off in our own boxes, some with our own litters, but when we come together, we revert to the puppies we’ve always been.  I never felt the need to foster too many friendships out in the world because I had everything I needed built right in.

I guess I always knew that we were a little different in terms of family size, but I was well into adulthood before I figured out that my siblings and I had something really unique and special in the way we relate to one another.  My mother often receives compliments about the way her “children” (we’re all middle aged at this point) interact.  We not only enjoy each other’s company, but we’re more likely to laugh than to argue.

I don’t know what the secret is.  My mother is a nice person, who raised nice people with the Golden Rule as her guide.  Maybe that’s all there was to it.  Maybe it was magic.  Whatever it is, I just didn’t know we were unusual until I watched other siblings interact.  I have definitely judged anyone I’m getting to know by the way they treat – or even talk about – their sibling(s).

When I became a mother, I did my best to lead by example in the way I treat others.  When I introduced a sibling to the mix, I made it very clear to my first daughter that this new little person will "maybe make you mad sometimes, and you may want her out of your stuff sometimes, but she will ultimately be all you truly have in life and that is a gift to be treasured".  I certainly didn’t expect miracles, but assumed that was just a good nugget of advice to tuck away for later in life.

My two girls are as different as night and day.  But you know what?  They’ve become their very own smaller box of puppies.  They bicker and complain about one another as you’d expect an 11 year old and (almost) 8 year old to do.  But at the end of the day, they come together in the box.  They have their own rooms but sleep together every chance they can.  They stay up too late, talking and giggling and plotting to take over the world.  They look out for one another not because they are expected to, but because it’s instinctual and they want to.

This has all happened right under my nose and I suppose I was aware of it, but it didn’t fully register until we had annual pediatrician appointments the other day.  I’ve been in the habit of scheduling them together every year for my own convenience.  I never gave it a second thought until the nurse asked if I wanted them in separate exam rooms.  I asked the girls.  They were very emphatic with their “No!” – they wanted to be together.  When the doctor was talking to the 8 year old, the 11 year old answered the questions.  And when it was the 11 year old’s turn to get a couple of shots, the 8 year old asked if she could sit on the table with her sister and hold her hand.

The nurse commented to the girls that it was so great that they were such good friends.  Then, this old school pediatrician, who has known both of my girls all their lives, just sat back and watched them together, then told me “Great job, Mom.  You’ve got a couple of best friends there and I don’t see that every day.”

What’s the point of this story?  I don’t know.  Maybe a bit of bragging, but maybe it's just to say that in these times of people lashing out at one another, it does a heart good to see love in action.  Knowing that, for now, at least (because God only knows what the teen years hold with these two), I’m doing something right gives me hope for the rest of the world.

This year, all of my puppies will be gathering at the beach to honor my mother’s birthday.  I can’t wait to climb back into the box, and I know there will be room for my two pups, too.  Maybe that’s the key to world peace:  more puppy boxes.

Makin' Lemonade...

Apologies to Beyonce fans who may have stumbled across this blog in search of her latest “masterpiece” but this disclaimer is the only mention of her here.  People have been making lemonade for generations.  Queen Bey doesn’t own the idea.  Back to your (ir)regularly scheduled programming.

 

My husband and I had very different childhoods.  While I moved around the country and attended different schools, leaving a trail of friends behind, he lived in the same town, attending the same schools all of his life.  So, when we go back to his home town, the adults we visit – whose children play with our children – are the same people he met on a playground. 

After the last class reunion, a plan was hatched to meet up for a multi-family camping trip.  Sounded great to me, so the date was on our calendar for months.  Schedules were planned around this event.  And then…

His grandfather was not doing well for a while.  After a hearty, full life, at 88 years of age, his heart was failing and we knew that he’d be leaving us soon.  There were many trips to the hospital, he was moved to hospice care and we were prepared for the sad phone call that was sure to come.  And then it did.

These times are always loaded with the many decisions that must quickly be made.  When and how to travel, juggling kid schedules, and so on.  We also had to figure out what to do about our camping trip plan.  We talked to the kids and prepared them for the idea that it would be cancelled.  They were very good about it and understood that we needed to think about Abuela and Tio and honoring Abuelo was the most important thing.

Meanwhile, in South Florida, the family was thinking about my husband.  Considering his normal schedule (nights and weekends), they arranged the funeral mid-week, so he could get back home and not miss work.  Of course, not knowing about our original weekend plans, they made it all possible for us and unveiled the silver lining.

We strategized and stared at calendars and considered all the options and decided that, if we were going to pull kids from school, this was the week to do it, so we began scrambling.  List-writing, organizing, packing, and then checked the girls out of school early.

They were surprised, of course, because this day also happened to be one daughter’s birthday.  We explained what we had in mind and had to apologize that her requested Italian restaurant dinner would have to be postponed.  They were likely too stunned to be disappointed, and jumped right into action.  We packed, we prepared, and we loaded and we were on the highway by late afternoon.  As we pulled away, I declared that this would be our Lemonade Trip.  Yes, the reason for our journey was sad, but we were going to have fun, too!

A couple of hours into the trip, I remembered that there was a location for an Italian chain that is no longer in our area.  Lemon Squeeze #1 – the birthday girl still got her alfredo!  Score! 

When we arrived at our destination, there was time for a splash in the pool but the girls understood that this day was about Abuelo and that they’d be bored while we took care of business and so there’d be more lemonade on the other side.  Obviously, there was sadness and grief, but there were also hugs and affection from favorite relatives who gushed appropriately.

After the funeral, there was Cuban food at the favorite family restaurant, and then we journeyed to Grandma’s house.  This is a bit of a drive along a highway lined with sugar cane and canals.  As long as we’ve been making this drive, we occasionally see a gator or two in the canals.  Not on this day!  I don’t know if it was the time of day, the weather, or the planetary alignment, but we spied 40-50 (lost exact count) gators along the way.  For the 7 year old, that was a major Lemon Squeeze!

After spending the night with Grandma, complete with a carrot feeding visit to the horse and a chance to romp with her dogs, we were back on the road.  We were still a day early for our camping reservations, but still ready to have fun so at the first turnpike stop, we raided the brochure racks for our next adventure.  Orlando and Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum won the Lemonade prize.  We were appropriately amazed, amused, and educated before continuing our expedition.

After one final night of rest in real beds with pillows and modern conveniences, we finally arrived at the final sweet ingredient of our Lemonade Trip.  There, at the campground on the Suwannee River, we reunited with my husband’s old friends, their children, and settled in for a weekend of Remember Whens, What Nows, and fun on the river with the littles and not-so littles.

All sadness aside, the trip couldn’t have ended in a nicer way.  As a kid, my family had a group of families we did these things with and those are some of my fondest memories.  My husband’s friends are wonderful (as my mother put it, this is his tribe!) and we all had such a good time (I don’t think it was just because of the beer and S’Mores) that we declared that this should be a regular thing. 

I couldn’t agree more and I’m ready for the next time.  I do have one caveat, however.  Next time, let’s skip the sour part of the Lemonade.  Maybe next time, we’ll go with Mojitos instead.

Los amamos, Abuelo, gracias por la hermosa familia que nos dio.

New Shoes...

I’ve never had the shopping gene that most women seem to have.  I mean, I spent plenty of time at the mall as a teen, but that was more of a social outing – hanging with friends, eating mall pizza, etc. – than a shopping excursion.  I now avoid a mall like the plague.  I’m more of a thrift store shopper.  Not only because I’m a cheapskate, but also because the hunt is more interesting.

Current styles have never been my thing, either.  My fashion choices have always leaned to comfort first, with a bit of pizzazz second.  If I have a shopping weakness, however, it’s shoes.  I think that goes way back to childhood and I remember favorites from years ago.  From the platform tennis shoes my brothers dubbed “Cowabunga Shoes” to red Mary Janes, to denim cowboy boots, I’ve long held to the belief that new shoes make you run faster and jump higher.

Again, comfort is key for me, and I’ve never had an interest in Steve Martin-esque Cruel Shoes.  No stiletto, pointy-toed torture devices, but I appreciate design and quality and I like a little funk.  Sadly, becoming a grown up office-worker put the damper on my wardrobe choices and I settled for mundane professional attire.  Those favorite canary yellow Doc Martins and electric blue suede shoes had to be retired to make way for boring black loafers and such.

The thing is, no matter how many black shoes I’ve adopted over the years, I’ve never been able to settle on one that didn’t eventually hurt, deliver blisters, or otherwise disappoint.  The ones that felt good, comforted, and became favorites didn’t work with the proper/boring business clothes that now fill my closet.

The point of all this is that maybe I’ve realized that the shoes were never the problem.  Maybe my achy, unhappy feet have just been telling me that my life needed more cartoon-covered skirts and comfy overalls back in my wardrobe.

A couple of weeks ago, I walked away from my job.  With no notice, no plan for what to do next.  That’s not a move that is typical for me.  I’ve always hung in and tried to make things work.  Just like all those black shoes that seemed perfect for a while, it became clear that no amount of cushion insoles, bandaids, or thicker socks was ever going to make them fit right.

So, as I sit here in my comfy slippers, trying to figure out where to go and what to do next, one thing is clear:  I can’t keep trying to make my feet fit the shoes.  Somewhere out there is the perfect, comfortable (and maybe slightly quirky) place for my feet to land.  I believe those shoes are out there, the fit will be perfect, and I will run faster and jump higher.

 

Something’s Not Right – I’d Better Get Some Paint…

My right shoulder has been killing me lately.  I’m right handed, so this was obviously not a great thing, so I finally scheduled a doctor’s appointment and was told it was tendonitis.  You know, from all my years of not playing tennis, not swinging a hammer, and not being a competitive swimmer, it was bound to happen, right?  So the diagnosis and treatment plan basically came down to:  “Doctor, it hurts when I do this. …So stop doing that.”.

The point of telling you all that was not to garner sympathy for my woe, but to tell you that, of course, when the recommendation was to rest my shoulder, I thought today would be a great day to pull all the heavy pots and pans out of my very small and awkwardly-positioned corner kitchen cabinet to replace the contact paper shelf liner.  This is a task that required circus-level contortionist skills.  But I did it.  The new liner is wrinkled and there are no proper right angles, but it’s in there, dammit!  It’s clean and fresh and I feel accomplished!  Surprisingly, my bum shoulder doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.

Metaphysically speaking, there’s an understanding that back pain, shoulder pain, etc. can often be related to “Carrying a weight on one’s back (or shoulders)”.  Sometimes, just recognizing that is enough to ease the pain.  Sometimes, recognition also requires a heating pad and/or aspirin.

As I was crawling, twisting, maneuvering into position at the back of the cabinet and laughing at myself for thinking this was a good idea, I flashed to my mother helping my aunt scrape old wall paper off of walls in an apartment building my aunt owned.  This was a rough time for my mother and, as they worked, they talked about the frustrations and the more they talked, the harder they worked, the more they scraped, and, eventually, the more they laughed and felt better.

Then I realized this is something of a pattern in my family.  When things go wrong, things get done!  When I was unemployed and waiting for a solution to my husband’s health problems, I did a lot of painting.  When I look at the somewhat bizarre color on my kitchen walls (seemed like a great idea at the time!), I’m reminded of how far we’ve come.

My brothers build stuff.  Or tear stuff down.  My mother pulls weeds and grabs a shovel.  I paint or clean or craft something weird.  It’s what we do and I guess it’s cheaper than therapy.  So that stupid cabinet has been begging for new shelf liner for years.  Why today?  I don’t know, other than the very clear understanding that there are things that either need to change or that are changing that are out of my control. 

We were met with a family health crisis over the last few weeks and there was nothing anyone could do to fix it.  We’re now on the other side of the emergency but there’s still work to do.  This was something I could do.  A brother came to town last week and fixed a bunch of little things in my mom’s house.  Because that was something he could do.  That’s just how we handle stuff.  I’m not sure on which side of the family this trait originated, but I’d guess it was probably my mother’s.  We’re worker bees and I’ve seen evidence of this behavior in my aunts and uncles as well.

I have some other minor frustrations to work out so I might mop the floor later.  If you see me dusting or raking leaves, that’s when you’ll know that something is really not right in my world for the moment but it will pass.  If you see me pulling out power tools, you probably want to keep your distance.