life according to me

Category: Blathering

Oh Dark Thirty or Something Like That

I’m not sure how long I’ve been awake, but realize it only when I hear the surf’s low roar in the distance through the window I opened yesterday just to get a bit of cool air in the room, then forgot about. It’s not quite chilly, but I’d rather it be shut. The short, quiet whistle just outside has me wondering who the someone is out there, his dog down the street farther than necessary at this time of night. It’s a bit creepy.

The clock reads 3:26 am, and I give in to the idea that even though it’s too quiet to run the coffee grinder or too dark to go for a walk, I decide to sit here to pass the time. And because I’ve already thought about everything there is to think about before I decided to get out of bed, I wonder why I’m making an effort to write any of this, tempted instead to fumble my way down the stairs in the dark, pick up the book I just started last night and read for a while. The only problem is, no light is strong enough downstairs to read with. This makes me realize it wouldn’t be a problem if I’d transitioned completely to Kindle which I only recently downloaded to my iPad. Somehow, the idea bothers me because I still like the look and feel of a book — especially fiction. But that doesn’t help me much, sitting here in the dark and wanting something to do.

I watch the stream of Tweets on TweetDeck with little interest, but hesitate to close it since it’s not distracting me — as if that’s possible. My brain feels empty, which means I really should be sleeping. Or perhaps I am asleep and just haven’t figured it out yet. This would be a fairly boring dream if that was the case. Imagine.

No, the ache at the base of my skull isn’t something I’d dream about. Gently, I shift my head from one side to the next, feeling the muscles in my neck stretch. It feels good, and so I extend the stretch down each of my sides, elbows up, slowly pulling, taking a slow, deep breath. Much better.

A lone bird has chirped somewhere outside and the first car headed down the hill. I wonder who it is and what time work begins, glad I am not that person, but remember briefly having to get up this early to go to work myself for several years. I remember enjoying the quiet as I readied myself, shutting the front door quietly as I left each morning, all the people I loved still tucked in their beds, some snoring.

I think about what I’ve decided to do today after the sun has risen, committed to heading down the boardwalk to get some exercise. When we first moved here, as much as I wanted to sleep in on the weekends, I’d wake, pull on my sweats and drive down to walk on the beach. It was a novelty then and I enjoyed breathing in the salty, damp air as I walked along not having to dodge the bikes and skateboards normally crowding the boardwalk. Yes, I’ll enjoy that this morning, and while I’m walking, I’ll decide whether or not to make Christmas cookies this year. The MoH and I certainly don’t need cookies around the house, but I saw some great new recipes in Bon Appetit’s holiday baking spread this year and am tempted, knowing if I procrastinate long enough, it will be too late, and then I’ll be saved from the task. We’ll see.

It’s 5:05 am, and I’ve successfully filled time more than space here, not really focusing on anything. Lizzie’s followed me up here at some point and is curled on the futon behind me. I get up for a minute to pet her, listening to her purr. I peer between the blinds, surprised to see a still dark sky, and yawn.

Should I go back to bed or risk the coffee grinder? Waste time pinning pretty things to my Pinterest boards? Paper, scissors, rock.

I’m chilled to the bone now, my head still hurts, and the stuffy nose I’m just now realizing is the culprit for my being awake is annoying me.

It’s an admirable 5:31 am.

Coffee wins.

November 30, 2011
Not Quite Q & A

I’m disgusted.

Well, at least right now I am. I’m supposed to be doing my work and I’m doing this instead. It’s because I don’t want to do my work. I figure I did work at home for 20 years and that was enough. I want to enjoy my life, my home and my family. I don’t want anything else to interfere with those things after working hours. And yes, I deserve that.

At what point in life is one satisfied? At what point do we accept who and what we are? That we’ve done what we’re supposed to have done and be over it.

I’d love to say I’m satisfied. But life is like being in a candy store. There’s always a brightly colored new sweet dangling in front of me and it’s distracting. Isn’t that the point? Are we really supposed to waste time convincing ourselves that THIS is all there is? Of course I know everything’s relative, but my satisfaction has nothing to do with having more in a tangible sense. It’s more about having an opportunity to (insert a dissertation here).

I don’t know which end is up. I don’t know who I am any more, nor what I’m supposed to do.

I’m sure someone out there can tell me this is really all randomness. That all this energy put into trying to figure things out is just a waste of time. In fact, I’m sure there are hundreds who have written books about it. They end up on Oprah and are famous for a minute or two. And then they end up like the rest of us.

It’s pathetic.

It’s really not pathetic. I just feel like I’m supposed to think that because I want to beat others to the punch.

Nothing makes sense.

Actually, everything always makes sense, and I’m tired of it.

August 9, 2009
Good Old Days?
One way I can tell the economy is rotten is by the increase in spam emails I’ve been getting. A portion of each morning is spent deleting yet another “You, too, can make money at home” message or invitation to “join me in getting out of debt.” Most are automatically caught as junk and deleted, but a few make it through.

Occasionally someone I know will actually send me an email, and if it’s my mother or her sister, it’s one of those feel good messages with the giant multi-colored text. You know, in case someone doesn’t know where her reading glasses are, she’ll be able to read it from a 15-foot distance. Ironically, both of those factors cause me not to want to read the emails, but I did this morning, shaking my head the entire time I was reading. I know it’s meant to be — well, I’m not sure. Boastful? Condescending? Perhaps sarcastic? Maybe funny. Hmmm…

Maybe you’ve seen it:

The idea of a parent bailing us…
CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL THE KIDS WHO WERE BORN IN THE 1920’s, 30’s 40’s, 50’s, 60’s and 70’s !!
First, we survived being born to mothers who carried us and lived in houses made of asbestos.
They took aspirin, ate blue cheese, tuna from a can, and didn’t get tested for diabetes or cervical cancer.
Then after that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based paints.
We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets or shoes, not to mention, the risks some of us took hitchhiking.
As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags.
Riding in the back of a Ute on a warm day was always a special treat.
We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle.
Take away food was limited to fish and chips, no pizza shops, McDonalds, KFC, Subway or Red Rooster.
Even though all the shops closed at 6.00pm and didn’t open on the weekends, somehow we didn’t starve to death!
We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this.
We could collect old drink bottles and cash them in at the corner store and buy Fruit Tingles and some fire crackers to blow up frogs and lizards with.
We ate cupcakes, white bread and real butter and drank soft drinks with sugar in it, but we weren’t overweight because……
WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!
We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on.
No one was able to reach us all day. And we were O.K.
We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. We built tree houses and cubby houses and played in creek beds with matchbox cars.
We did not have Playstations, Nintendo’s, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape or DVD movies, nosurround sound, no mobile phones, no personal computers, no Internet or Internet chat rooms……….WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!
We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no Lawsuits from these accidents.
Only girls had pierced ears!
We ate worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.
You could only buy Easter Eggs and Hot Cross buns at Easter time…….no really!
We were given BB guns and sling shots for our 10th birthdays,
We drank milk laced with Strontium 90 from cows that had eaten grass covered in nuclear fallout from the atomic testing at Maralinga in 1956.
We rode bikes or walked to a friend’s house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just yelled for them!
Mum didn’t have to go to work to help dad make ends meet!
Footy had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn’t had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!!
Our teachers used to belt us with big sticks and leather straps and bullies always ruled the playground at school.
The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!
Our parents got married before they had children and didn’t invent stupid names for their kids like ‘Kiora’ and ‘Blade’…..
This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!
The past 70 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.
We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned
HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!
And YOU are one of them!
CONGRATULATIONS!
You might want to share this with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated our lives for our own good.
And while you are at it, forward it to your kids so they will know how brave their parents were.

Kind of makes you want to run through the house with scissors, doesn’t it?!

Outside of this giving me a few interesting memories about my own childhood and that of my sons, being the born party pooper I am, I couldn’t help but think of a few other things as well.
- Yes, many of us did grow up in houses with asbestos — right up until it was scraped off the ceiling about 10 years ago — well past my childhood. No men in white suits showed up to remove it. My mother and my oldest son used spray bottles and sheets of plastic, scraping it off with wide spatulas. My oldest son has never been able to breathe to begin with, so Hell. Why not take on this little Do-It-Yourself project? Just because something was tolerated in the past doesn’t make it appropriate to ignore it today.
- On the lead-based paint? Absolutely many people survived — most noticeably the person who wrote this email. But those who happened to have their cribs positioned near windows that could be chewed on when teething didn’t quite survive the same way. They ended up with permanent brain damage and have needed medical attention, and special assistance in school to the tune of millions and millions of tax payer dollars. They never had a chance, and their parents didn’t know, because lead-based paint is what was used. You could call Oliver Stone to see if he has a film in the works about a government conspiracy on this…
- Childproof caps were definitely a horrible thing to inflict upon the unsuspecting public. But I’m thinking it may have been necessary since the “If you touch this medicine, I’ll knock the shit out of you” threat to children had seen better days. Anyone who’s been beat by a parent more than once will confirm this.
- Seatbelts? Well, just go back up to the lead-based paint issue. If you survive a car crash but have injuries so severe that long-term medical care is required, ultimately the tax payer is paying the bill to keep you alive. (Just think about all those “child-proof” caps you’ll have to deal with.) And if you survived that car crash even though you didn’t have a seat belt on, I’m thinking you should have to foot the bill for your own care. I’m tired of paying for my health care AND everyone else’s. How hard is it to just buckle the damn thing?
- The reason there were no lawsuits from injuries caused from falling out of trees or needing stitches because the neighbor’s kid ran over you with a bike is because 1) there weren’t very many lawyers. College was something most couldn’t afford — hence, fewer lawyers; and 2) People couldn’t afford lawsuits even if they realized that sometimes the losers in the world DO need to be accountable for their actions. The tree I was in and fell out of when I was 8 was on private property. I was trespassing and stealing fruit. If anyone needed a lawyer, it was the farmer.
- Yes, I had a teacher who had a paddle and used it. She was pissed because I wouldn’t hold hands with a boy during a game, so she lifted my dress (ahhh…remember when girls had to wear dresses to school? So lovely to have to tolerate that while playing on the monkey bars…) and paddled my butt in front of the entire class. Should kids today have to tolerate that to grow up and say, “Look at me! I survived a teacher who whacked me! Should any kid have to deal with a bully anywhere? At some point, just sucking it up in those situations is weak. Teaching kids how to stand up for themselves and to know what’s okay, and what isn’t matters. Of course, today, bullies often have guns, don’t they?
- Drink milk with Strontium 90? And survive? Evidently, the concentration is key to whether you end up with bone cancer, cancer of the soft tissues surrounding the bone, or leukemia. It doesn’t just come from cows grazing in a field, it’s connected with weapons testing, which has decreased tremendously since the government was forced to realize that it was affecting people’s health. You know, like benzene in drinking water. Scary stuff. And sure. I’m totally angry that the government has regulated this out of my environment. Not.
- “Mum” may not have to go to work to help Dad make ends meet today, either. In fact, “Mum” may have a college degree, and realize that working all day, and taking care of her house and family after she gets home is like having two jobs for less than what Dad earns, so how stupid is that? “Mum” can now choose to stay at home to raise her children instead of paying the childcare provider her entire salary AND have a title: SAHM. Some of us refuse to call ourselves anything of that nature, however.
- Yes, the “Good Old Days” are gone, aren’t they? Just think. Without our beloved laptops, computers, Macs, PCs or however you lovingly refer to them, we wouldn’t be able to write and send emails such as the one above, would we? We’d actually be getting the work done that our employers pay us to do! What an interesting concept.
I could keep going, but this is way past the length all those You Too Can Make Money At Home Blogging gurus mention. God forbid that whatever is on my mind exceeds a few paragraphs.

Goodness. What a snarky woman I am today.

I’ll write about something pleasant next time, or just avoid reading those emails.
April 7, 2009
Fooled

Do you ever have days where you’re up early and feel as if you can do just about anything? That was me today with the sun not more than a glow behind the mountains and everyone still fast asleep. But that was three hours ago, and all I’ve accomplished is consume two cups of a very dark Brazilian coffee I found at a local Latin market, and a rather large bowl of Wheeties.

I’ve flitted from the website of a cooking group I belong to expecting to see this month’s challenge posted (it wasn’t…) to a photography site where I continue to read about how to improve the lighting in my photos and how to build my own lightbox, wondering if any of the boxes in our garage are large enough to work so I don’t have to get in the car before it’s absolutely necessary today.

I gaze through the stats on my food blog and wonder how it’s possible for the number of page views its recorded are possible since my last check and where they’re coming from. That takes me to who is so I can research an IP address even though I know that never really tells me anything helpful.

All the while, I’m making a mental list of what I’ll accomplish today and the time is steadily ticking. Always ticking. And to make matters worse, I’ve activated the voice on my Mac to let me know the time on the hour and half hour because I lose track of it so often now, engrossed in too many things all at one time, wanting to do them all, and able to finish only one or two. It’s truly annoying.

I’ve wasted at least a half hour searching for an article I saved not too long ago knowing I had something to say about it and now can’t find it. It’s no wonder since I bookmark extensively using delicious, Evernote, and Firefox. I’ve searched, and it’s just not there. So then the wind goes out of my sails, and I scan my sidebar to visit someone — anyone — arriving there and marveling not only over their writing, but the lots and lots of people who comment there. I even visit some of the commentors, thinking about the little community this person has built. Or is it acquired? No matter. It exists. People take the time to stop and say something instead of, “Nice.” or “Looks terrific.”

I remember those days.

It’s what I get for defecting almost permanently to foodland.

Goodness. I’m here so infrequently now I even get spam telling me they can’t figure out my posting schedule. How hilarious is that? Um, can you tell us what your posting schedule is so we can spam you more than we already do? kthxbai.

It’s almost 10 now, and so I must make some decisions about this chilly, grey….wait.

It’s April Fools Day!

Clearly, the joke is on me.

Thinking I’d actually accomplish something.

Right.

April 1, 2009
The Things We Keep

Yesterday I tackled the garage, and although I’m far from being done, I’m satisfied with the progress I’ve made. It’s a jumble of items you’d expect to find in a garage: a fairly recent deposit of my kitchen overflow; remnants of our recent construction; boxes expelled of Christmas decorations waiting for their return; and my son’s truly unbelievable collection of crap.

Not exactly a glamorous way to spend the first day after the holidays home alone, but pleasant. I popped the garage door open to let in the light and brisk air realizing that if I had an attic or basement, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy either of those or my less than friendly neighbors as they passed by on their morning walk, furtively avoiding my gaze and the greeting perched on my tongue, just waiting for an opportunity to be human. Ever the optimist am I.

I think the reason I avoid organizing our garage or anything else in my house that collects pieces of our lives over time, is that I’m forced to think about the memories attached to every item I handle. It isn’t that I regret those memories — it’s more about having to accept the time it adds to the task, and the mood I’ll need to wallow in when I’m finished.

My thoughts wandered from annoyance with my son for keeping what resembles a rat’s nest wherever he goes, to flippant defiance: What if I printed our address in craigslist in the “free” section and just left the garage door open to the inevitable riot? Instead, what I’m left with this morning are what lies between, like thoughts about boys growing up who were never interested in playing sports, but did to indulge us.

Thoughts about school and career, and where all that knowledge and understanding goes when one is done with it. Of an old house and all its poignant memories. Of grandmothers and Martha, old friends I should call or write, and school kids I will never, ever forget.

Beauty lost to function and sentimentality to practicality on many counts during my purge. Copper pieces that have gleamed in the morning sun and cast sparks of light on my dining room wall for years are in the discard pile. Decorations for Valentines Day and Easter that used to liven up the house when the boys were little also ended up in the pile along with a huge bag of stuffed animals I haven’t opened in years. If I see them, I’ll have to think about who owned which and at what point in life. It’s sort of leaning against the discard pile, not quite a part of it, and not quite separate. Is there a child’s stuffed animal heaven somewhere I haven’t heard of?

But there are things I’ve not quite decided to let go of, and If they’re any indication of who I am or what I’ve been, then I’m as odd as I’ve always thought I’ve been. As odd as the stack of Martha Stewart Living magazines that seem to be about much more than the paper they’re printed on. What does one do with that many magazines sitting, collecting spiders and bugs with too many legs to count? Do I get one out each week, leaf through it, cut out what strikes my fancy and toss it to get on with the next? There’s something about a sharp pair of scissors cutting along a perfectly straight line and thinking through one’s life.

Ferd, a giant bunny, sits in a corner on a stack of coolers. It’s not a very dignified place for something that reminds me of how simple love can be if we allow it, and how easily life can be taken for granted, or lost if we’re not careful.

And these bottles? I dug them up in the washed out area of an old dump near one of the last places my grandmother lived. It was in the middle of nowhere — one of those places people used to go and then forgot about after the freeway was built. The bottles aren’t valuable, but I like their varying shapes and embossed surfaces, each a slightly different tint than the next. She was like that.

Or a bag I packed the day I left my job, nearly two years ago. It’s moved from one side of the garage to the other, but I haven’t unpacked it yet. But I might blow the dust off the silver bar that used to sit on my desk to remind me that others see us quite differently than we see ourselves.

I’ve done quite a bit of thinking since finishing my work yesterday, and realize that as much as I got some exercise and fresh air, I’ve only moved everything from one side of the garage to the other. It’s more organized than it was, but it’s all still sitting there.

It’s only been sifted.

January 6, 2009
Walk, write. Just get off your ass.

I should go outside today and walk.

The cold isn’t quite as bracing as it’s been the last week or so for my west coast bones, and I’m tempted to stretch them in the warm, bright sunlight somewhat like a fat, old lazy cat.

Tempted would be the key word there.

But if I ventured out to traipse back and forth through my old walking course in the neighborhood across the street, what would I think about? The thought is almost as scary as being stuck on an airplane without a book — nothing to occupy my busy brain. Nothing to worry about or to plan for, to gossip with a friend over. Just quiet. Well, and the occasional home owner who seems surprised to see a human walking down his street after his garage door opens just enough to allow him a line of vision. Interloper that I’d be, my presence would put him in the awkward position of making eye contact and possibly uttering a greeting, or more commonly, have to avert his gaze so as not to invite one.

I could use the time to prod myself over writing if I went for a walk. Or organize my plan of attack on the area of our house that is supposed to be a garage and is more like a junkyard right now. Or make some kind of a schedule for something. Anything. You know, so I can have one.

Aren’t people supposed to have schedules?

I think people have schedules to have them — not because they’re necessary. It takes time to plan them, and keep them, and check things off as you complete them. It fills the time in a day so that when your head hits the pillow at night, you can feel like you’ve been a good productive human instead of a lazy ass.

If I had a schedule, I would be well into it today, have my grocery list made, probably already have purchased and put away those groceries, and be up to my very sore elbows in some new recipe. (Minestrone sounds heavenly right now in case you’re wondering, but I’m struggling to decide whether that lentil recipe with orzo would be better….)

But I’m here instead, thinking about next week, yet another new year, and the overwhelming possibilities that come with that inevitable flip of a single calendar page.

All I have to do is reach out and choose.

It’s amazing, isn’t it?

For instance, I could write a book. I keep threatening to, but know that I’ll get around to it some day — after I have a schedule. The world needs another book about yet another human who overcomes challenge and adversity and still has a positive outlook on life, right? I’d definitely need a schedule to complete this daunting task, and would absolutely need to walk every single morning to get it done. I know this. Walking helps me sort out the tiny details as much as it also helps me unravel huge structural knots.

I could finally upgrade this site to 2.7 because I should have a long time ago. But where would the spammers get to park their disgusting crap?

I could flip the switch on my food blog since it’s been ready and waiting for the domain I’m paying for and haven’t used so far, needing a week to work out all the kinks I never quite understand. Actually, I will be doing that next week. Yikes!

I could make a list of resolutions to consider, but I’m never very good at that, so wouldn’t take it very seriously and would struggle not to put something on it like, “I will make sure I change out of my pajamas every day all year before 2PM.” What’s the point of taking off flannel bottoms if all I’m going to put on is yoga pants?

I could get a job, but then I’d have to have a schedule, right? And clothes, and, and, and…I’m still removing suit coats and trousers I no longer wear. Why would I want to start that all over again. God forbid having to worry about whether my sweater is five years old, or my shoes are not quite fashionable.

I could go on a health-nut get-into-shape change-my-life type permanent binge, but then what would I do with a new body? Write a new blog so I could tell others how they, too, can have killer abs? I know mine are under my middle age spread somewhere.

I’d rather say, “Let’s not and say we did” to it all right now.

But that walk is sounding kind of nice about now.

December 30, 2008
Dust, Old Things & Memories

Somehow when we started all of this construction business, I figured it would be fun to post the ups and downs of going through the mess I know is involved. Best laid plans. What seemed like forever was really only about six weeks, so I should have been able to write about some of it, but it’s not like we were renovating the Taj Mahal.

I guess putting up with this most recent mess isn’t such a bad way to live if in the process I can once again discover the joys of good housekeeping. *insert loud snorting and guffawing here* But I tell you, the old body just isn’t what it used to be. Hauling furniture up and down the stairs may sound like a great idea for working the glutes, but I pay for whatever gain I may get with excruciating pain in my arms. Imagine a hot pole being stabbed through your arm every few seconds if you type, or cook, or grip anything. Lovely. I am seriously good at sucking it up, however. I come from a very long line of women who just grin and bear it. Imagine the badges we’ll get when we reach those pearly gates.

But I am enjoying putting things back in order. Having to look at all of it in dusty piles and eliminating a few places I used for storage has forced me to reconsider some of my possessions. If I actually knew how to use eBay and didn’t mind mailing things, I’d have a roaring business ahead of me, but it’s more challenging than that.

When I look at many of my things, I can’t say they have any but sentimental value. For the most part, they remind me of times in my life that were filled with hope and some dreams that never quite came to fruition. When I look at them, I smile, remember, and know that it’s fine that none of it happened, but stuffing it all in a box to sit in the garage doesn’t seem right. So I’m sorting through it all and wondering what stays and what goes. What matters and what doesn’t.

What matches…

Because when you get right down to it, if I don’t think it matches, it’s outta here. Well, maybe not quite that harshly. There’s more of a routine that goes something like this:

1) Move the item to a spot where it’s less noticeable — like the office upstairs. It’s the “I love it, but there’s no place to put it” graveyard. Nobody ventures up to the land of the Resident Teen but us, so I can put my items up there to sit for a while. A long while.

2) After I’ve given the item all the love and attention it’s going to get, and the layer of dust on it makes it appear somewhat like a chia pet, it goes in a box that’s headed for the closet. Any closet will do. It’s still in the house, and maybe comes out at certain times of the year — maybe — but clearly, things aren’t looking good for it.

3) Once the box is full, it’s moved down to the garage to sit along side other similar boxes. When I walk by the boxes, I’m reminded how much I liked those items, and oh aren’t they cute and I should go through them to decide what will stay and what will go. Later. Much later.

4) When we get tired of not being able to park both of our cars in the garage and actually clean it, I sort through the items, keep a few for old time’s sake and donate the rest.

The time is seriously now for one of those donations. I will wave lovingly from the garage as the truck pulls away with my memories hoping they will find a new home.

*sigh*

December 19, 2008
Crickets. I hear crickets…

I sit at my Mac on an enormous grey exercise ball scanning all of my open windows. There’s twhirl in the upper corner — not nearly as noisy as it has been, but there, its colorful avatars proudly displaying each person’s thoughts, comments, responses, and taunts to visit yet another link. And email is open, too, even though it shouldn’t be considering an audible reminder lets me know when I have a tweet, or more junk mail.

Blurb is open too, as I’m compiling a friend’s family recipes into a cookbook. But I’m here instead. I swore I heard crickets coming from the general vicinity and thought I might fill the space a bit with words that don’t add up to much more than my thoughts, which I suppose are something.

I’ve learned that in order to write more than what I’m taking up space with at this moment, I’ve got to read and be involved. To do something other than what I’ve been doing. I’ve also learned that I can’t wake up at 4am and expect to function at this point in the day.

None of this is unfortunate, however. In fact, it’s how I’ve always wondered life might be if I had the choice to do what I wanted and when from one day to the next. My house is even clean. My cupboards organized. The last bit of cat crap sprayed on the wall in her last explosion decontaminated. The nasty white carpet I’ve complained about for the past year and a half soon to be torn from the floor and replaced by indescribably beautiful wood.

And we’re going to Las Vegas this weekend.

Like how I slipped that one in there? You’re thinking we just went, right? Actually it was a year ago, I think.

This means I have to go shopping you know. Maybe a few tops to wear with my jeans. Pretend I know how I’m supposed to dress…

Like I could pretend even if I wanted to.

It’s more fun to watch the the twenty somethings doing their party thing — from afar, mind you. *remembering that twentysomething girl barfing in a trash can last time…*

But it will be relaxing as it always is, and there’s sure to be good food on our agenda. What? Like that’s a surprise.

October 14, 2008
10 things from my brain today
Random thoughts and observations after returning from my morning walk today (which is saying quite a bit considering I wasn’t thrilled with the idea to begin with…):

1. Holding my coffee cup under the drip as the coffee is brewing makes for an excellent rich roasty first cuppa in the morning. The second? It has to be what swill tastes like.

2. The kids in carpool this morning were mumbling about their plans for after school as usual, but “not being able to meet tonight because I’m going over to so-and-so’s house to watch the debate” surprised me. From an 8th grader? How cool is that?

3. The Clean Eating magazine I picked up at Whole Foods the last time I was there and filled my basket for much more than the $40 my son tells me is possible to spend, is something I shouldn’t be feeling snarky about. I’m sure that their tag line of “Improving your life one meal at a time” doesn’t include butter or whole anything and that the recipe on the cover for Cheesecake Pears has far fewer calories than the Key Lime Cheesecake I just made. *sigh*

4. The swill-tasting second cup is growing on me, because let’s face it. It’s coffee, right?

5. Lots of people were out walking and jogging this morning and as I approached each person walking in the opposite direction, I looked up, got ready to make eye contact, and say, “Good Morning,” with a smile on my face. Now you could argue that I’m full of shit or just plain phoney, but I’ve learned that I’m the one that gets the perks from it. It makes me feel good.

6. Mostly women don’t return the eye contact or the greeting. And I don’t think it’s because I look like some perky idiot. I’m fairly reserved and pleasant about the whole thing. The men respond. They smile pleasantly whether they’re jogging, or on a bike, hell, even the guys setting up for their day’s work responded pleasantly. What is up with women anyway? How hard is it to be friendly? Pretend, okay?

7. Is it just me, or does “LOW-FAT HOLIDAY MENUS” sound like an oxymoron?

8. I’m reading a piece by Frank McCourt in William Zinsser’s Inventing the Truth and he writes:

“You were made conscious all the time, for instance, of how you had to prepare to go to confession. You had to examine your conscience. This was a form of introspection that was imposed on us. But it was valuable. It forced us to think, “Were we good?” or “Were we bad?” and to think about our various transgressions. Before you went to the confession booth you would go over the seven deadly sins to see if there was one you ought to mention. The one that always confused me was pride. How could pride be a sin? In America you hear, “Walk tall, be proud of your heritage.” But we were taught that pride is what got Lucifer kicked out of heaven because he thought he was equal to God, if not greater. You were supposed to think little of yourself. Get rid of that evil.”

Actually, demonstrated pride was totally smacked down in my family. [Yes, it was.] Thinking about it now, it relates to the idea that perhaps we weren’t as good as others, so shouldn’t act as if we were. We didn’t deserve anything and weren’t worth anything, so shouldn’t act as if we deserved more than what we had. It sounds pretty awful writing it, and even more awful reading it back to myself now. But yes, that just about sums it up.

9. I’d love a small, old house close to the beach. *waiting for thunderbolt* Maybe that cute one I saw this morning with the shiny garage floor I’d totally trade in for the grungy carpeted floor in my house and the chic framed vintage travel poster hanging on the wall. Or maybe the house with the walled patio topped with bright fuschia bougainvillas. On second thought, maybe the one with the weathered flagstones leading up to the bright red front door and the large paned windows…Clearly, I’m over the not feeling like I deserve things. I was never that good at it anyway. Ever.

10. Must go iron hair. Have to meet with contractor today about remodel that will most likely not happen now since no one is lending money to anybody, regardless of status as bonafide tax-paying stalwart American middle class “we can shoulder everything, so just stick it to us baby” diehards.

Can’t quite figure out whom I should thank first:
- all the realtors who talked people who couldn’t afford a house on a particular salary into that house and made off like bandits with their commissions;
- purple kool-aid drinking I don’t feel sorry for you people who actually believed the crap they were fed; or
- the mortgage company that approved the loans and then passed them off as soon as they could.
Wait. Perhaps Richard Fuld, the now defunct Lehman Brothers’ former CEO can front us. Surely someone who made that much money while his company took a swirl down the drain has a dime to spare. Okay, so maybe a million dollar painting he doesn’t need anymore? Just a drop in the bucket, doncha think?
October 7, 2008
You, too can enjoy life past 30
Today is my birthday. And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.

I’m 52 years old. Not 52 years young, or 52 years better. It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.

Fifty-two.

The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.

I beg to differ.

Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television. Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”

Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.

I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over. Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity.

Um, no thanks.

I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:
1. The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly. A bottle of wine can help.
2. Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
3. It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
4. It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
5. Good friends are priceless.
6. Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise. Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
7. It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth. Well, mine is.
So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me! Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better. It’s all about attitude.

And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.
September 3, 2008