kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Thinking

  • Thinking with asterisks

    William Zinsser says, “To write well about your life you only have to be true to yourself.”

    I knew that.  It doesn’t make it easier to choose to delve into something I don’t feel like delving into, however, and I recognize all the signs of avoidance — like grabbing my broom to rid the stairs of the dust bunnies that have taken up residence since we got rid of the carpet.

    They’re huge, shadowy puffs that seemingly morph from one corner to another, gathering cat hair and our life’s dentritus with each pair of passing feet.

    I see them as I trudge up and down to refill my coffee cup or half-heartedly perform some chore and marvel that they appear so quickly.  They’re fascinating until they become a larger mass, swept to the bottom of the stairs waiting to be scooped into a dust pan and into the trash along with my determination.

    * * *

    I’m tired of thinking about food, about writing about food.  Tired of organizing my life around the planning and shopping, organizing and preparing of food.  If I needed just one scapegoat for my lack of productivity, it would be that, and yet the amount of time it takes contradicts any lack of productivity.

    I’m tired of thinking about food.  Tired.  But that will most likely change at lunchtime.

    * * *

    I’ve been trying to decide whether it’s better to classify myself as a procrastinator, or dreamer.  Drifty is more like it.  Drifting like those dust bunnies from one point to another with little or no substance or anchor.  Well, not quite that dramatic, but puffing along from one whim to the next and incapable of moving of its own volition.  Lacking initiative.

    Meh.

    * * *

    It was foggy outside this morning when I woke up and the residual dampness has given the air a smell that comes only when raindrops first hit the asphalt.  I stand on the patio in the slight chill, my not so willing to be outside this early in the morning toes curling against the flagstones, and I breathe deeply.  The trees rustle with the slight breeze and I’m surprised to hear a bird’s call I don’t recognize, wondering where it’s coming from and why I haven’t noticed it before.  Happy thing.

    * * *

    I just finished Blessings by Anna Quindlan.  It’s about identity and the effect family can have on it — or not. It’s about quite a bit more than that, but when I talk about a book I’ve read I somehow find myself feeling like I’m completing a book report and have to supress the urge to run screaming from the room.   I’ll find myself later picking this one up to read parts of again because Quindlan’s writing has that effect on me, most likely because I can wallow in long passages of description and deep delving into a character’s thoughts to a level not unlike that of my dust ball analysis.   Unfortunately, I read just before I go to sleep each night and not many pages at that these days.  Any influence her words have on me is lost in the jumble that has been my dreams recently, and since I still can’t quite give myself permission to read during the day, my thinking is lost and with it any inspiration to write.

    Why a person needs to give herself permission to read during the day is fairly stupid.

    * * *

    You’re wondering about the silly asterisks right?  Me, too.  But it’s the only way that I could actually sit down and write something today.  Anything.

    And so I did.  I’d call that being true to myself.

    Or avoiding being true to myself, which is probably more the case.

  • Being Thirteen

    I was ugly when I was thirteen.  I don’t remember if I thought so then, but sorting through old photos proves it:  I went from innocent beauty to zit-ridden adolescent in three short years.  Add chubby to that as well, and the image is complete.    It was no wonder that Peter McClueless didn’t know I was alive.  What boy would be interested in returning  the unwavering admiration a fat, ugly girl beamed at him every single day of most of his eighth grade year?

    No boy would, except for someone like Paul, who lived across the street.   He tried to shove a note at me once while we were in the library in Seventh Grade.  He was much shorter than I, weighed more, and had smooth, round cheeks.  A year later, I’m sure he was counting his lucky stars that I refused to take his note, relieved that he wasn’t burdened by the stigma of being associated with a fat, ugly girl.

    A tow head, I’d had long hair and braids for years but always wanted it cut.  The lure of something different was more important than having shorter hair, and it was never a matter of wanting to look a particular way.  My hair was thick and more coarse than fine — not quite like a Brillo pad, but similar.  There were no glossy curls that bounced when I tossed my head, but uneven waves that turned under on one side, and not the other.  When I finally got my hair cut short, it was a relief to not have to worry about it any longer until my father bluntly mentioned that one of his friends had asked if I was his son.

    What kind of father tells his daughter something like that?

    A fat, ugly girl’s father.

    None of my girlfriends seemed to notice I was fat and ugly.  We were all awkward victims of fashion then, wearing granny skirts and peasant tops, or ribbed sweaters and plaid A-line skirts in brown and ochre, avocado green or rust.  Our shoes were clunky and dark — not the best way to end legs without nylons, and often still unshaved. On some days, we donned giant sunglasses with lenses tinted yellow or purple, thinking ourselves cool.  We must have seen other girls at school who wore them, because none of us had a clue about what was in and what wasn’t.  We didn’t have subscriptions to teen magazines, or older sisters, and outside of what we saw on television, we had no idea about what we should wear.  Most of us made our own clothes.

    The world seemed just as much in transition as we were, our bodies changing whether we wanted them to or not, and forcing us to think of ourselves differently than we had before.  The Vietnam war had three more years of lives to waste before it would end, drug education at school was relentless, and the new Hollywood was no longer a fanciful escape.

    I had my head inserted firmly in the clouds, reading books and watching old movies on television, or wasting afternoons with Susy, who lived next door and made me laugh.  She was fat, too, but didn’t seem to notice, flaunting her legs in Levi cutoffs with seams split so high, the pocket linings showed.  Strutting around in our back yard, she talked about being Racquel Welch, clasping her nonexistent breasts, and pushing up as if to fill her tee shirt, laughing the entire time.  She loved vampires and roller derby and would have killed for a boyfriend.

    I don’t think I ever told her I was madly in love with Peter McClueless because I knew she was the kind of person to blurt it out during lunch in front of everyone.  It wouldn’t have been to hurt my feelings or embarass me because she didn’t know I was fat and ugly either.  In fact, I’m not sure anyone knew, but if my secret got out about Peter, then I’d see  judgment on their faces, and have to acknowledge it myself.

    No, I’d be 15 before I actually thought I was ugly, and 15 was miles and miles from 13 if you were me.

  • Making a plan for myself, maybe.

    Yesterday, I avoided coming up here to sit at the keyboard, to sort through emails, to sip my coffee while scrolling through the early morning cacophony that is Twitter.  I’ve been doing this for more time than I like to acknowledge.  Instead, I straightened things up around the kitchen and the rest of the house, started some laundry, and pulled a stool up to the kitchen counter to make a plan of sorts.  It was a scary concept, but I was armed with a pad of paper, stickies, and a sharp pencil.  It was going to happen, or else.

    I also silently vowed to get in the car to get groceries before noon — something I resist doing like one might resist jumping into an ice cold pool buck naked just because it was there.

    (more…)

  • 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.

    Son's 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.

    Old Trophies

     

     

    Old Toys

    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?

    Old Bunny

    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.

    Junk Yard Bottles

    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.

    Career in a Bag

    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.

  • Sunrise and Musical Cars

    I’ve spent some time going back through what I’d written at this time last year.  In much the same way that I can go through photos, which always tell a different story than words, it helped me understand more than ever, two things.

    Some things never change.

    The sun will always rise in the morning and when it does, I will always be distracted by the light cast and shadows created by its brilliance.  I will struggle with wanting and needing to go outside, but probably won’t even though I truly want to.  The neighbors I’ve tried to be friendly with will have yet another car in their driveway, flaunting their strange obsessive compulsiveness to my complete fascination.

    Remember Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun? Each day from her balcony, she observed an old man in black placing flowers in a vase in the wall, and each day he ignored her smile as she watched him.  That kind of fascination.  Except mine isn’t as fascinating, and the last time I looked, I wasn’t Diane Lane.

    Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about the sunrise, and I work at changing my determination to exercise my body consistently, but when the sun does rise, I’m mesmerized, then spend countless minutes wondering why that black SUV is centered perfectly in the neighbor’s driveway instead of one, or both of the silver sedans normally parked there.  I wonder why they don’t greet me when I’m outside, or worse, hesitate to respond to my greeting without making eye contact.  Nothing to lose sleep over, but it keeps me occupied so I don’t have to exercise or write about something constructive — like the body that has changed so much in the past two years, sometimes I feel as if I’m wearing someone else’s.  It would be nice to be Diane Lane.

    It hurts, and it doesn’t matter whether I’ve exercised or not, whether I’ve had a busy day around the house, or a long day of sitting at my Mac.  It hurts.  I don’t understand the abdomen that was once so taut, and now is anything but.  It’s soft and pudgy, and feels like it did after I gave birth to each of my sons — empty, a bit lumpy, and sore.  My shoulders hurt, my back aches, my arms sting, and my hip bones throb nearly all day long, every day.  Some day more than others.

    I’d say this is quite a bit of change, but to some extent, it’s normal. All I have to do is trawl through the message boards and forums on women’s health websites full of complaints like mine.  Words like “debilatating,” “excruciating,” and “chronic” permeate the comments. Most come from women my age — some have had hysterectomies, and some haven’t.

    Like I said.  Normal.  I can obsess over trying to fix it or deal with it.

    I’m dealing with it.  Sort of.

    Everything changes.

    I’ve noticed the neighbors spend quite a bit of time moving their cars around.  Their garage is meticulously organized, but there’s only room for one of their cars, so often, the second is parked in the driveway.  Other days, they’re both in the driveway, side by side.  Perfectly.  Although they recently bought a new car — no, make that two — they’ve kept one of the older cars.  Three cars for two people.  Some days, I’m not sure where the old car is, and other days, after they’ve opened the garage, I notice it’s parked inside the garage, with each of the others parked in the driveway behind it.  Should one of them want to drive the old car, both of the others have to be moved in order to back the old one out of the garage.  Sometimes, all the cars are gone and I wonder where three cars have gone with only two people.  I wonder why the lady backs her car out of the driveway, pulls forward to circle around the cul-de-sac, and then swings widely before pulling back into the driveway.  Musical cars.

    Some things never change.

    The sun is exceptionally bright today, this first day of the new year that I’ve been alone in the house.  The RTR is back to school, the MoH at work.  House guests back to their homes and lives.  The old doggo is on her bed downstairs, and the Yack Star curled on a pillow near me.

    My coffee cup is empty.

    There’s work to be done.

  • 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.

  • Is it Christmas yet?

    As I think of the weeks that lie ahead, many things cross my mind.  Yes, Christmas is upon us again, but it hasn’t quite descended upon our home life yet. I know it will in a week or so, and have spent much of today feeling the beginnings of worry I’ve grown accustomed to over the years related to “getting ready.”  But I’m thinking I need to get rid of the worries, and know that everything always works out.

    I head outside for my nightly visit with the sky and am surprised by the wind.  The palm fronds are tapping insistently against one another, and I inhale, expecting the slightest scent of the ocean, but instead, it’s someone’s late night dryer load filling the air, making me think of the laundry I didn’t do today.  The sky is a ceiling of clouds tonight, so there will be no gazing or counting of lucky stars.  The air is lovely, and not what you might expect on an early December night — even here.

    That means the windows will be open again tonight, and at some point, one of us will get up to silence the clacking the blinds make against the window sill.

    It probably won’t be me.

    .

  • It’s Dark at 3am.

    Sometimes at night I wake and am not exactly sure how long I’ve been so, my eyes open and staring at patterns the too bright light across the street makes on our bedroom ceiling. It’s so quiet, even with the windows still open to let the cool Fall night air in. Everything is still.

    I have no reason to be awake at this hour. No worries, no dreams to think about. And assuming I’ve had enough sleep for the night, I feel my way into the closet for my slippers and a sweatshirt and head downstairs, my dog following me as she always does. The stairs aren’t easy for her anymore.

    The early morning sky is still dark, and I stand just outside the patio door while the dog takes care of her business, not quite wanting to venture too far away from me. She worries that I’ll leave her out there alone, and I know that if I could see her eyes, they’d register that concern. The stars are bright and I can see the Big Dipper hanging heavily, nearly touching the shadowy horizon in the East, each star twinkling weakly. I take my usual count and notice the Small Dipper as well, more brightly than I have in some time. And there’s the star that’s red and most likely long dead now, its light still traveling to us from so far away.

    The dog and I quietly go back inside, she wagging her tail for the expected Milkbone she’s gotten since she was a puppy for not peeing in the house, and I to risk the beeps of the microwave to heat up a cup of stale coffee.

    It’s Monday, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter so much anymore, but this Monday the RTR begins his week off school for the holiday, and we take on our third week of construction. Maybe that’s why I’m sitting here instead of falling back to sleep. It’s quiet, and I can sit in the glow of my screen and not see the shambles my house is in. There are no hammers or saws, nor questions to answer about decisions that will cost more money.

    So here I sit. Thinking about nothing in particular and waiting for the sounds of the day to begin so I can make a real pot of coffee without waking the others up.

    In the meantime, I’ll listen to the hissing of the refrigerator, and the snorts my cat is making, chewing on her fleas.

  • Piggy Banks: I’ll bet Warren Buffet had one.

    Cute Piggy Bank If I remember correctly, my sister got a piggy bank for her fourth birthday.  She is the youngest in our family, so it’s never been quite clear as to why my younger brother and myself were passed up on the piggy gifting.  It was a cute little pig — fat-bellied and pink, just like she was when she was little.  She’s thin as a whip now (smart, too…) and no longer has her piggy bank (thanks to the bottom-dwelling loser who crawled through her bedroom window and broke it, stealing her money…), but I’m thinking that owning one while she was growing up must have put the idea of saving into her brain in a fierce kind of way.  By the time she was 20, she had a nice little nest egg in the bank, a flashy sports car, and her own condominium.

    Yes, she did.

    My brother and I have never been as thrilled as she has been to save money, and I’m thinking it’s because we didn’t have piggy banks.  You know, tainted at an early age?  Marked and doomed to be spend thrifts?  We must have thought that money grew on trees, or that we’d make excellent tax payers when we grew up.  You know, sort of simulate the economy single handedly?  I know Uncle Sam probably has a special place reserved for each of us some day…

    …AFTER we all survive the financial doom and gloom that continues to unfold before us all.

    I recently bought a very cute piggy for one of my nieces who turned two, thinking not only that it was the cutest thing I’d ever seen, but that maybe I could accomplish a few thing with my purchase (since I never bought one for my three sons or any of my nieces or nephews except the youngest…):I love this Piggy Bank

    1.  Say Happy Birthday to a real cutie pie (and give her the gift that will pay big rewards later in life…SAVINGS, a sense of self-worth, independence, moo-lah — wait, that would be a cow bank…)

    2.  Stimulate the economy by doing more than just clicking ads…(I’m extremely good at this…Ask me how to S.P.E.N.D.)

    3. Support the talented blogger, Lynn of Korff Ceramic Originals who makes these incredibly cute and well-made banks (plus a whole lot more…)

    4.  Out class those who are burying their savings in Folger’s coffee cans in their back yards (which is what my mother would have done if she still had a back yard to dig in…)

    Think about it.

    Piggy banks can be excellent for those of us well beyond toddlerhood, too, right?  It’s never too late to save.  They can be used for incentive:  money for every mile you run, or sit up you complete, or pound you lose. You can save loose change from the washer or your teen aged son’s bedroom floor — your husband’s pockets.  Set a goal and insert the coinage or paper.  It works.  Little by little.

    Hell, if I used one to deposit the money I saved for each glass of wine I didn’t drink, I’d have a nice little nest egg in about a week.  But I worry about the future of all those wineries I stimulate.

    Ask Warren Buffet.  He knows. I’ll bet he had a piggy bank when he was growing up, too. Think about it.  The holidays are around the corner, and Lynn personalizes…How cool is that?
    I’m thinking I just may need more piggy banks…Piggy Bank

  • 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?