Your Custom Text Here
There is so much I miss
But there is so much I don’t.
I had no idea that I would be thinking now
Of the tiniest of moments then.
Life today consists of strangers
Full of polite and random encounters.
I wonder what would make me belong again
And how long this will last.
Everyone needs attention, affection, and supportive love
Or hope.
I don’t know what’s going on but, for the past four evenings, strangers with badges and clipboards have knocked on my door. One will come by, then another about every 15 minutes. It must be their attempt at divide and conquer, but they obviously don’t communicate about what houses have already been ambushed.
Nothing (well, almost nothing) makes me madder than people I don’t know invading my personal space, in which I include all house entrances.
I only open my door to either someone I recognize or someone less than 4 feet tall (they’re cute and sometimes have candy).
The last one got a little snippy that I wouldn’t open the door and communicated my lack of interest and frustration at the multiple attempts at solicitation to the peephole. I guess he felt like he had every right to invade my privacy and that I was being rude. As usual, the nutty situations boil down to degrees of dumb.
My life has slowed down considerably in the past year and I still haven’t shaken the feeling of being unproductive. Austin’s in Atlanta visiting his grandparents and cousins and having a great time. He actually called me today, which I’m still not over. He’s usually hard to keep on the phone for more than about 30 seconds when he goes out of town.
I can’t wait for Saturday. I get to meet the Alliance for Democracy crew here in Indy. They’re ramping up public campaign funding efforts in the state and working on a summit in September. I hope they like me and let me help! I really do think public funding is the key to a better, more populist, democracy. I just finished an introductory Clean Elections DVD hosted by Bill Moyers (love) that the Director lent me after a quick (I actually rambled for two hours – poor Stevie!) hook-up at Wild Oats last week. I’m in that high-hope phase, until told otherwise.
I have four books ready for pick-up at the library and ten more on hold. Nobody told me Joy Fielding came out with a new book in April. My favorites are JF, Jodi Picoult, Elizabeth Strout, Elinor Lipman, and Fannie Flagg. I surely thought I kept up well with their book release dates, but the years do seem to be spinning by faster these days. Or maybe I’m spinning slower.
I’m working on my class presentations and content and enjoying every minute of it.
I placed my monthly Amazon order and can’t wait for my 3-CD-set of Federico Mompou music!
I think we finally have a nice, reliable, reasonable lawn service guy arranged for one of the three widows who live behind and on either side of me. I hate to hear the stories about service people who have overcharged them, failed to show up for appointments, or just treat them badly. I hope all goes well tomorrow. This guy did some work for me last fall and he went out of his way to do a great job.
I’m reading through Austin’s college workshop material and learning a lot about the process. It sure has changed since 1980 when I was putting stamps on my applications!
I enrolled in a Writer’s Weekly class that starts in July, a day before my birthday. I thought it would be a nice present to myself.
I successfully gave the evil eye to a rude and ridiculous woman at my day job. She looked shocked that someone would look at her so coldly. It was a happy moment and I couldn't help but walk away and smile. She has to be my age and tries so hard to be cute. She spends hours upon hours on personal calls every day, laughing at her own cute comments, and flirting like she wasn’t married with three children. Have I mentioned she has two first names? Ruthann. Nauseating. She should have picked one at age 25.
I’ve organized a plea/plan/proposal that I will submit to a Director at my day job tomorrow, since their direction and finances have changed (rumor has it). And in preparation for an outcome that involves less or no work, I have updated and consolidated an “Opportunities Listing” spreadsheet of contacts I’ve made over the last few years.
I tried a new scallops recipe. It wasn’t great, but a nice try. Sabrina enjoyed a lot of them.
So, even though I feel unproductive, maybe I’m just productive in a new way. I may not be out driving the roads constantly carting my kid to and fro or attending school and extra-curricular activities on a daily basis anymore, but I’m still getting things done. Just less parental and a whole lot slower.
After months of carrying the brochure around and re-reading the schedules, I have decided not to pursue this year’s Midwest Writers’ Conference at Ball State. I’ve thought about going since 2003, but I have yet to sign on the dotted line.
And I think I’ve finally figured out why: it’s just not for me.
The three-day session with hotel would cost about $600. There are scads of workshops to choose from, but none really jumped out at me. There is only one author I’ve heard of and he’s not exactly my niche. The only manuscript evaluator with whom I felt an online connection was Heather Sellers and she’s only reviewing five manuscripts. But the real reason behind my decision is that I have to admit my own weaknesses. I’m not a networker, I’m not an initiator, I’m not a seller - especially if I’m flying solo – and I know that I’m not ready to fight 200 people for a five-minute session with an agent or publisher. I don’t know that I ever would be.
Though, I imagine someday, under different circumstances, this conference might be a treat to attend, I think I would be better served right now by more of a retreat environment, a community college class, a couple of critique/editing/validation partners who might constantly remind me to ignore the gremlins, as Cynthia Morris would say. I thrive in supportive, non-competitive environments.
I’ll never, ever, ever forget my first writers’ conference in 2001. It was the Welty Symposium at the Mississippi University for Women in Columbus, MS, where attendees listened to readings from authors and participated in a panel discussion about these writers’ lives and experiences. So it wasn’t a conference at all, really.
Regardless, it was a spiritual awakening for me. This sounds strange even to write, but I felt like I became my God for a moment – I left my body and was looking down at myself as though I were my own child. I smiled at me and welcomed myself home. Floods of tears (hidden as well as could be expected in an auditorium) and waves of contentment.
I was surrounded by history and academia and like women and Southern writers, past and present. Mississippi is the best place in the world to connect with spirits and ghosts and I was moved and changed by the experience.
Maybe the MWW has intercepted a call home. It might be time to go sit with Ms. Welty again. Take a week or so to listen to her and reconnect with the Spirit she stirs in me. Then, maybe she'll give me some pointers on our next steps.
11am. The best night’s sleep I’ve had all week. The dog is beside herself about the possibility of the day. I’m at home. Austin’s at home. The porch is sunny and warm already. Perfect for lying down and sniffing in the wind. One bowl full of food and another full of fresh water. I fix turkey pitas with Trader Joe's Hot and Sweet Mustard (yum) and let Austin move my office radio to the screened-in porch. I can see him reading the directions (good boy). He bought a grill yesterday and is almost as happy as the dog. To be fair, Sabrina also got brushed today, so the bar is pretty darn high, but with no school and all A's and B's and a good clothes shopping trip, he's up there. I can hear him singing along to music from the 70’s. That always cracks me up. Cycles. I start my third book of the weekend. There must be ten neighborhood kids across the street at the house with the only pool for miles around. They’re riding big wheels and directing each other in their outside voices. A baby squirrel gets closer to us each time we go outside to turn the potatoes. It makes his mother mad and she squeaks at him. He runs back to her. I've never seen so many green leaves. I will miss summers in this house. Steak. Talk. A window. Information. Respect. Love. He let me put gel in his hair. He checks it and redoes it, but he let me. June is traveling month for Austin as well as most of his friends. Possible g-bye grill party tomorrow. I will need to leave the house. List of possible activities to keep me busy. A check in the mail. Vacuum and Windex and Clorox Swipes. Febreeze. Austin goes out till curfew. Check Web and e-mail. Neighborhood settles in. Dusk. Candles. Two old movies on the DVR to choose from. Sabrina snores and dream-twitches beside me. Heat lightning. Blessed. A little prayer for the world.
I just read Lee Iacocca’s new book, Where Have All the Leaders Gone, tonight and I have to say that there wasn’t anything in there that screamed insight to me. There were facts and information, but all easily google-able. He spent most of the 250 pages bashing Bush. Okay, rightfully so. There is a bandwagon rally now, futile and way too late as it might be. There are countless wrongs that this administration has committed: ignoring the Geneva Convention, ignoring that whole Saudi 9/11 “thang”, Iraq, Halliburton, crimes, crimes, crimes, oil, oil, oil. But it’s all old news. Hell, if all Lee Iacocca can do is gripe, what can the rest of us do?
The one argument the former CEO made that pulled me to his corner (for another minute) was that voting should be a DUTY in a democracy, not just a RIGHT. We should be required to vote and penalized if we don’t - we don’t get to use the child credit on our 1040’s if we didn’t vote in the last election. Something along those lines. I like that idea. We should be responsible. Accountable. I like that idea. But, wait, then there’s that whole popular vs. Electoral College voting dichotomy. 2000, wasn’t it? Popular vote sure didn’t mean much in that election (and I’m not a Gore fan). Even our Dancing With the Stars votes mean something.
Then he turned on me. He had a revelation fairly early in the book that Congress should take a year off and meet at a convention center by a lake to review each bill they have passed in recent years to evaluate its performance. Then, they could cut what isn’t working in favor of those that are.
Are we supposed to believe these people would sit in a room and accomplish anything so good, so beneficial, so logical, so black and white? The same people who spend most of their 97 days (the least amount of time served in US history, by the way) voting for their own raises and pension increases and pork projects in the dead of night? Puhhhleeeez. These people would be comparing hairstylists and drivers and the number of buildings or wings named after them before the first day’s $1,000 lunch was served.
About mid-book, Iacocca touted Joe Biden and John Murtha as his personal friends and high moral examples. Strike two for me. And I thought I’d like you, man.
And then, close to the end of the book, he riled me most of all. He droned on and on about the trillions upon trillions of national debt we have now. Debt to other countries as a result of our government’s shameful, ill intentioned, and completely orchestrated Iraq War. We know, we know.
Yes, I’m pissed off. I believe most of us are pissed off. But if Iacocca has no pull other than to publish a “we’ve heard it all before” bitch fest of a book, what can be expected much from us lowly working class folks?
Apparently a great deal. He then had the gall to call upon Americans to “get off the golf course and do something”. His effort at sounding like a leader was to tell us that we need a leader to tell us that we need to be willing to give back to our country and pay for the rewards of living here.
For something as wonderful as universal health care, for example, we should all be willing to sacrifice - to give up a tax deduction or the cost of a gallon of gas a week or a pothole repair this month. All for the common good of the good ol’ UsofA.
Capital B Bullshit, Mr. Iacocca. Strike three. You’re out. Go ahead and retire (he talks endlessly about how he can’t retire). Nobody will really mind.
Enough. I give more than enough. And what do I get for my investment? Daily, make that hourly, stories of the bazillions of dollars blatantly wasted by my government and its corporate bed buddies. All as some politician or CEO is going to tell me to cut back?
So, to Mr. Iacocca, I say this: Bazillionaires first, Mr. Iacocca, bazillionaires first. And thanks for the book. It oozed leadership.
Leave it to Hope Clark to put it all in a nutshell. Her latest formula:
For every hour you email, read, network and conference, you owe your writing a like hour.
One of my favorite characters ever written is Dwight in Elinor Lipman’s Then She Found Me. I just read that Colin Firth is going to play Dwight’s part in the movie written by Helen Hunt due out later this year. I could not be happier! Understated, peaceful, content confidence. I can’t wait for this one! I missed Dwight the minute I closed the book and I still miss him. His name in the movie is Frank. I’ll have to get used to that.
Tomorrow, most folks go back to work. I'll go to Lulu’s Electric Café. I’m going with my laptop and my notebook and I’m going to finish a User’s Guide that’s due June 1st. I'm behind, but with a little focus, I think I can get it done tomorrow and make a dent in a Tutorial due the same day. It's my own fault. I'm a practicing procrastinator.
My brother would be 47 years old today. He’s been gone for 14 years now. Hard to believe how fast that time has gone by. I remember the funeral, if you could call it that, like it was yesterday. My ex kept my son and my father, grandmother (mother’s mother) and I drove to Memphis to bury him with my mother. My grandmother and grandfather had bought four plots decades before. They were meant for the two of them and their daughter who died in 1980 and her husband, my father. But my father remarried years ago, so it was a perfect fit for his plot to go to my brother. I’m not sure why I didn’t fit in the space, but it made sense and still does.
I remember my father looking at his only son lying in his coffin, holding his hand and shaking his head with incomprehension. My brother died in jail and was sent to the funeral home with his belongings, which all fit into one trash bag. Granted, it was the larger lawn and garden size, but it was still one trash bag. The only words my father said were, “How can someone be in their thirties and die with one hefty bag of stuff?”
What he was really saying - what really stumped him - was that his son had died with so little when he had been given so much. Money, that is. My father had spent thousands upon thousands of dollars trying to get my brother on the right track in life, and in his mind, Pat was the only thing blemishing his appearance as a complete success.
While I didn’t know my brother as well as I should have because he didn’t live at home full-time after the age of 13 in an effort to make him be a better person, I really just felt sadness. I still do. Sadness about a boy who just wanted to be good, but couldn’t. He wanted to make people happy, make people proud of him, make people love him, make people be who they could never be. He used to draw beautifully. He created things for everybody. He sent our grandmother homemade cards, because she asked him to draw for her. It was the closest he got to someone being genuinely proud of him. He was forgiving, trusting, and a considerate, sensitive soul.
And he should get credit for trying so hard to be a good boy. Unfortunately, the only people left who knew him are me and my father, whose viewpoints on everything about the past cancel each other out.
“First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win.” -– Mahatma Gandhi
The media talk about there being too many choices in the presidential race, to which I scream:
Too many choices!?!?!?! Are you kidding me?
I’ve never seen a group of more identical people. A vote for one is really a vote for another.
There may be a lot of pre-candidates, but there’s not an individual among ‘em. And certainly not one who’s running for us, the people.
Save one. One who stands, not for himself, but, out and alone, and 100% for America.
I’m standing at the gates of Nirvana. And its name is Ron Paul.
An Ode to Ron Paul
Integrity, loyalty, and fortitude.
The way it was, the way it should be.
Sincerity, responsibility, and logic.
All wrapped up in an impeccable voting history.
One. Ron Paul.
Rejects his own congressional pension.
Lowers his bills to avoid patient assistance claims.
Voted against the Iraq war the first time.
For smaller government, more liberties, and NO corporate games.
One. Ron Paul.
How many candidates want to solve illegal immigration?
How many want to get rid of the IRS?
How many want to leave some issues to individual states where they belong?
How many refuse corporate campaign money and everything that suggests?
Only one. Ron Paul.
I feel like I did when I found Joyce Meyer, giddy and twinkly and tingly.
I think Ron Paul might just be Hope for America, like his campaign slogan says.
Because I do feel a little sliver of hope that Americans might finally be fed up.
If we don’t begin to demand more, we don’t deserve more than another bought and paid for prez.
The one for me. Ron Paul.
I’m going to go contribute now. Even though it may just buy you some paper clips.
Today, I thank you. I appreciate your record, your character, your service to us.
Just to be near and feel the residual rain of Hope for America,
I wish I could drop everything and hit the road following you and your campaign bus.
A dream. Ron Paul. Check him out. And VOTE.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_Paul
===========
I also dream about asking these questions. If only I could.
To Joe Biden: Why must you start every sentence with “Look”? You might want to LOOK around you. There’s a big world. And it’s round. And it’s offended. By you.
To Hillary: Why? Just why? (This is rhetorical, of course, because I do know I’ll never understand.)
To Edwards and Kucinich: Seriously?
To Rudy: You’re kind of who we talk about when we say “men suck”.
To Barack: Hmmmm. You said you would support public funding if Hillary would. Sounds awfully safe. I’m still watching you, though. And hoping.
To Mitt: Oh, come on.
To Mike: Step it up, man. Or just call it a day.
To John McCain: God bless ya. How do you feel today?
To The Others: You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
To the always lurking Gore: Please stay in Tennessee. I can’t afford you.
To Dr. Ron: HOPE for America. God knows we need it. And more people like you!
This picture was in Sunday's Indianapolis Star accompanying an article touting the city's Talbot Street Art Fair. Where's the art? Where are the happy faces?
I can't figure out what kind of person would get there, see the crowd, and join it!
Every single person in this photo - even if just a blurry, distant head - should be taken to a lab and studied....and then caged.
I had no idea how Mother’s Day started. But I’m still in procrastination mode, so I had to research. According to da wiki:
The woman famous for writing the Battle Hymn of the Republic, Julia Ward Howe, attempted to declare a Mother’s Day for Peace to unite women against war after the Civil War. She got the idea from England, which had already designated a day for giving thanks their mothers. She wrote The Mother's Day Proclamation of 1870 to call for peace.
Though Howe’s efforts were unsuccessful, Anna Jarvis tried again and her daughter of the same name eventually succeeded. In 1914 President Woodrow Wilson declared the first national Mother's Day, as a day for American citizens to show the flag in honor of those mothers whose sons had died in war.
We Americans turned it into something that stood for absolutely nothing but the biggest commercial holiday of the year in less than a decade. To this day, Mother’s Day is the biggest day for restaurants each year. Anna Jarvis was enraged about what the holiday had turned into back then; I bet she’d be particularly proud of us now.
There. That’s researched. And, as usual, American history has embarrassed and angered me to no end.
I’m proud to report that my Mother’s Day wasn’t commercial at all. I avoid restaurants at all costs and we don’t spend much money on gifts and cards that get thrown away or put in a box, so it wasn’t that much of an effort.
I feel especially blessed this year, though. One of my son’s grandmothers made a few special points to get him to do something for me for Mother’s Day, stressing that he wouldn’t be home all the time that much longer and throwing in some other grandma-guilt, I’m sure.
He got up early (before noon) this morning and told me to make him a list of things he could do for me. And I did. And he did. And we hugged and were kind to each other. And it was a good, good day.
He’ll be 18 in a year and one month and I pray that I never have to think about the honor intended for mothers on the original Mother’s Day. But I’m glad I researched and have a new perspective on the holiday. I pray today (especially) for all the mothers with sons serving in militaries all over the world.
Procrastination. Check. Learned something. Check. Perspective, gratitude, and prayer. Check, check and check.
I’ve been home for three days now from my long-weekend getaway to Tulip Time in Holland, Michigan and I’m really regretting not taking pictures. Not because it was beautiful or memorable, but because it’s already funny.
I want to remember the hotel in the middle of a strip mall parking lot. I want to remember the hotel room next to the elevator (it was in the wall in front of the bathroom). I want to remember the yellow laundry baskets that the housekeeping staff continuously banged against my door at 7am. I want to remember the Dutch Village, which was advertised as a quaint little shopping and learning experience of all things Dutch, but was actually a refurbished putt-putt golf place. The castle towers on each side of the driveway connected by an arch with paper letters. The highway on one side. The tire/muffler shop on the other.
And the Art Fair in the downtown postage-stamp-sized park. It was obviously the only thing to do in the entire state of Michigan that day, because I’ve never seen so many people. And they appeared to be folks who had saved their loose change all year, brushed a tooth or two, and donned their best overalls just for the event.
Ahhh, and the tulips. Couldn't see any at the Art Fair - too many bodies. Saw a few driving by the putt-putt-dutch place, but I see more in my neighbor's flower beds. I saw a few lined up single file on the edges of a few downtown streets, but I didn't find any beds or fields or congregated tulips anywhere. I tried again Monday thinking I had to be missing them. But it was trash day in Holland, so there they were again - single file and at attention - but this time separated by big city trash cans. Ten little tulip soldiers…..big city trash can…..ten little tulip soldiers…...big city trash can, after another, after another, after another. This vision I want to remember most.
I have to give credit to a few positives, though. I was given a free rental car upgrade because they were out of the cheap model I had reserved, so I enjoyed playing with all the buttons and gadgets. I drove (figured staying in the car as much as possible was the best option) to Grand Rapids, which was the nicest and cleanest downtown I’ve seen in a while. I saw Lake Michigan and got a much needed, but too brief, Cancerian water fix. And I did dine alone three times peacefully and proudly, until lunch at the last restaurant where an old man stared at me over his wife’s shoulder the entire time. I tried to eat with my mouth open, I tried blowing my nose at the table more than once, I tried staring back to make him look away first, which he never did. I thought about unleashing a boob and plopping it on the table, which as luck would have it was at just about the right height, but he was eating his lunch and I didn’t want him to lose it over my naked boob. That’s how I am: still trying to be kind even when staring old-rude-man adversity in the face.
This was my second and, I feel confident saying last visit to the West coast of Michigan. It will just have to carry on without me from now on. So, so long Michigan!! I know you’ll miss me as much as I’ll miss you.
“Ian and I are going tea shopping, so I’ll be home after that,” my near-17-year-old son called to tell me after school today.
Say whaaaaat???
After some investigation, I found out that Austin and Ian and a few other boys are going to Allen’s house tonight for an SAT study party and they’ve decided that the tea stands for the “T” in SAT. So they're going to drink tea and study (between video games, I suspect).
Ian was the obvious choice to go tea shopping because he’s British. And Austin’s on the rugby team which made him worldly-guy runner-up.
My contribution to the evening was the Applause-O-Matic Happy Meal toy I got today at McDonalds. It’s a pair of clapping hands they can use quizzing each other and doing what the “S” in SAT stands for: STUDY!!!!!!!!
I’ve been on a discouragement downward spiral since a couple of writing rejections earlier this month. Rejection is a strong word when your writing is just disregarded. I didn’t get a letter from anyone saying, “We reject you”. They just assume I’ve figured it out by now.
On top of that, a current project has been too slow for my liking, so I’ve felt pangs of uselessness. And, on top of even that, a decades-long friendship ended on principle and with a telephone hang-up. But, I have felt sorry for myself long enough.
I finally put my confidence and effort and time where it should have been initially. It’s a wonder to me how every single stinkin’ time I watch Joyce Meyer’s television show, her topic is custom-made for me. On a recent show about attitudes, John Maxwell defined discouragement (you talkin’ to me?) as the difference between expectation and reality. I know I’ve always had high expectations and it has always caused me unnecessary grief. If Joyce has told me once she’s told me a hundred times to put my confidence in God, not in people. I’m like her (and God’s) unruly toddler. The one they would just shake their heads at wondering why I don’t understand that the stove is hot already.
So, I prayed and prayed for a new attitude and a new local friendship or two and received so many gifts in return.
My full-time project is moving again. I’ve been asked to do some work for a client I worked with last year and am enjoying the renewed relationship. I’ve accidentally (ha) reconnected with a local friend with whom I had lost touch. I’m going on a long weekend trip to Holland, Michigan by myself, which Miss Hazel, my replacement Mom, thinks is “just grand”. I’ve found two new blogs that I love and love. I’m a late adopter, so probably the last to know Ross and Heather. They don’t know me, of course, but getting to know them makes me happy. And the JELCC summer catalog is out.
I may even write some more on my novel soon. I’m officially on UNSHUN (Dwight reference). I hope RESHUN isn’t in the offing. I guess that’s up to me, though. I’ve been given the gifts, it’s up to me to receive. Stove. Hot. Yay. Cookie.
Speaking of Miss Hazel, she’s moving to a senior’s retirement apartment complex and I’m excited for her. She knows some folks who already live there, she won’t have any homeowner worries, and she’s going to have free cable TV for the first time in her life! She’s a news and PBS show junkie on the air (antennae? I don’t remember what to even call this situation) channels, so she may never leave her apartment. I can’t wait to visit her this summer! We’ve discussed sneaking out to the casino. What a hoot.
I regularly visit Cynthia Morris’ Original Impulse blog because I love her writing and her coaching. I won a Daily Impulse Writing competition last summer and got the chance to talk to her on the phone for a few complimentary coaching sessions and it was the best experience ever!
Anyway, she’s always discovering interesting websites and passing them along to her audience. Recently, she mentioned www.52projects.com, so I had to investigate.
I’m not sure I support some of the author’s suggestions (like using work time for play time, calling in sick to take advantage of holiday weekends, things like that), but I did like him enough to get his book from the library.
And I did one project last weekend: write down how you feel about your job, all the good things and the bad things. Then watch the Japanese film, Ikiru, and write it down again.
The film was like a train wreck from which you can’t look away. It was horribly Japanese – overly dramatic, drawn-out (almost 3 hours, if I recall correctly), and just weird. But the cinematography was haunting and the point was poignant.
The main character learns that he has stomach cancer and six months to live after wasting thirty years as a city clerk doing just enough to get by, partly because it was all that was expected from his superiors and partly because he had become numb from the low expectations over the years.
When the mothers in the community come to the clerk’s office for help with a sewage problem in their neighborhood, they are given the typical bureaucratic run-around and get stuck in the mire, literally.
In the end, the man decides to forge ahead and do whatever it takes to fix their problem, regardless of the nonsensical bureaucratic loop. He ends up, not only fixing the issue, but building a park for the community children as well.
Loud and clear. We can make a difference. We all have what it takes to rise above status quo and arbitrary rules. Unfortunately, sometimes, it takes knowing we are going to die to start living.
How did I feel before and how do I feel now?
Before: Tedium. Just a couple of IT attitudes. The rudest of the rude cubicle dwellers love me.
After: I could be focusing on what's important to me. I could be helping and initiating more. And I could be doing something more rewarding, more contributory and participatory.
I didn’t need a Japanese movie to tell me that.
I pore over the relationships that have dissolved since I moved to Indianapolis five years ago. I realize that I am the common denominator, so I have to look inward to place blame. Maybe I wasn’t nice enough. Maybe I wasn't entertaining enough. Maybe I wasn’t supportive enough. Maybe I was, in fact, around too much. Or maybe I'm just aging and going through changes.
I can’t really find the part of me that is so hard to love, to be around, or even to like. But, with the demise of a long-term relationship each year for the past five years, I sometimes struggle not to feel that I am worth only a click of a telephone.
Five years ago, my father’s wife told me that she would appreciate it if my son (who was twelve at the time) and I didn’t visit as often because we were causing a strain on her relationship with my father. She offered no further explanation and I was unclear on what questions I could have asked. That Thanksgiving, my father’s wife was asked by a friend of mine to chip in on an airline ticket that she, along with four other friends, were surprising me with to fly my son from Memphis to Indianapolis to see our new house (we were broke and temporarily separated due to the move). My father’s wife declined and sent a scathing reply email about how rude it was to even be asked. They have scads of money and the amount requested was $40.
Four years ago, my son and I met my father and his wife at a restaurant for a 90-minute holiday dinner on December 27th. That holiday season, my father’s wife had asked me in email where my son was going for Christmas. I told her he was going to Atlanta with his father and she told my father that he was going to Memphis. I didn’t know about the “miscommunication” until my father mentioned it at dinner, because he had not asked us about any plans. This was the first year I stayed home alone on Christmas. I have to say I kind of enjoyed it.
Three years ago, a ten-year friendship ended. I visited Atlanta for a week-long Christmas holiday and called my friend, who I had talked to regularly but hadn’t seen in three years, to have lunch or dinner. She never called back. I assumed she didn’t get the message and kept trying to reach her. When we finally did connect on the phone, she explained that she had just broken up with her boyfriend (she is fifty years old) and could not stop crying. He would call periodically to check on her and she really needed to be at home in case he wanted to stop by. It hurt my feelings, but I got over it. The next year, I would find out that they were back together and he was married with two small children and, when the wife had found out about them right before Christmas, he had chosen to break off the relationship. But because of her pitiful behavior, they had reconciled and she “was never so happy”. This front-row Christian had total disregard for the family or the children. We broke up when, as a parent, I couldn’t stop myself from expressing my opinion that her age (and history of doing this before) should indicate that she should know better. She hung up. Click.
That same year, my father invited us for Christmas - I thought in an effort to make amends for the year before. He told us to come any day and stay as long as we could. A few days later, his wife emailed to tell me that he must have forgotten, but that they had plans for Christmas. My father called to confirm, and I quote because I will never forget, “I didn’t know. We are going to visit family for Christmas, but you guys could still come after Christmas and stay for a while, if you still can.” I could but I didn’t. One more click would come.
Two years ago, my father called at Christmas (he has impeccable timing for ruining this time of year) to let me know that he had updated his will to include two executors. For years, his will has declared that if his wife survives him, everything goes to her. And then, after she dies, my son and I get a percentage (she has two grown children) of what is left. I only had one question. “Why do you now need two executors for one joint will?” To which he replied, “Look. I don’t think you want to open up that can of worms. She has been nothing but good to you.” I will never understand and my heart screamed in agony. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was DONE.
Click. This leaves me with no family at all, but I will never deal with this relationship again. It was a momentary relief from a life-long injury.
Last year, a ten-year friendship ended with a fizzle. This friend and I had been growing apart for over a year anyway. She had not asked me anything about myself or my life in months. It took a long time, but I did finally get the hint. In our last conversation at Christmas, she didn’t remember several major life events that we had discussed at length earlier that year, including my son getting his driver’s license and getting a car. I knew then that this was to be our last conversation. Click.
And just last week, a twenty-five year friendship ended with my friend hanging up. I have always known that one of the rules for anyone to be in relationship (including her husband) with this friend is to never question or disagree with anything she says or does. I’ve worked around it for years. She and her husband, after years of financial difficulties, are expanding their advertising agency by selling web ad space and award plaques to businesses who are “Rated Best Of” in the city in which they live. I was extremely excited and supportive, until I eventually figured out that there is a catch. They cold call potential customers from a mailing database they purchased online. These businesses aren’t rated at all. When I asked for clarification – thinking I must have something wrong - she said that she was asked that all the time and, at first also thought it was wrong (she is a front-row, Bible thumpin’, self-professed “born-again” Christian) until her husband explained that the advertising business just works this way. “It’s all a scam,” she explained. I asked where the term “false advertising” came from, but she didn’t hear me. She said she had to go and hung up. Twenty-five years. Click.
I know I’m sensitive. And maybe I'm just being pitifully dramatic. I know all human relationships are conditional and they can come and go with changing circumstances. Relationships end. Friendships end. Lots of families suck. Life goes on. We move on. We change. We make new friends who fit us better and stay for the season in which they are needed. Perhaps I made bad choices in the first place. To be honest, I know I would not choose these relationships (especially the one with my father) now, in this season of my life. I'm actually proud of my principles.
But it still hurts. I am sad for the loss and will grieve for a while longer. I know Time will show me what was my fault and what I should have done differently. I hope Time will teach me to be a better friend and to make better choices. I know I will always have a tendency to think myself unworthy, but I hope Time changes that and has new friends for me. In the words of The Rain King: 'cause I've been here before and I do deserve a little more.
Well, anything posted this week feels more insignificant than ever before. My numeroscope promised one of the best weeks of the year. And then, VA Tech happened. My losses last week – a friend to principle, a couple of writing rejections, money to healthier food, etc. – just don’t add up to a hill of beans. All I can do, though, is, like everyone else, pray for the families who, while never making sense of it, can hopefully find gratitude and comfort in the time they had with their children.
It’s prom week in our house. It doesn’t have the same connotation when it’s your SON’s prom, though. I don’t really get to do much. I was asked for my advice about corsage flowers and I did get to pick up some fancy dress socks at Wal-Mart while I was buying Lipton Green Tea and dog food. But when I proudly presented them for the cause, I was told that a complimentary pair was given with the tux rental. Hmmmph. Unnecessary again.
It actually has been a positive week and included a call about a new project from a company for whom I did some work last year (teaching me to never delete anything again) and a call from the perfect friend who sounded happy and loved, whether she likes to talk about it or not. I also have no writing rejections to report, but that's only because I have no writing submissions to report either. Note to self: suck it up and get back in the game.
I am no sunflower this week. I’ve been mad and sad all week. No real explanation or maybe too many explanations.
Yes, too many explanations. Maybe next week will be better. I hope so! Hope. There it is.
The best way I’ve found to pin my son down alone for an hour or so is to make sure he and I meet for dinner somewhere once a month. I had been unsuccessful convincing him to go anywhere with me this week for Spring break, because, come to find out, most of his friends were staying in town. His social schedule was especially packed, but I managed to at least guilt him into our monthly dinner Wednesday.
(And next year, if I have to drug him, we’re going somewhere for his Senior Spring break. I am pretty well known for picking places and times that include some sort of festival. For example, this year I had tried to sell a visit to Washington, DC, which would have coincided with their Cherry Blossom Festival. This would have been fine two years ago, but not now. In a thoughtless moment, I mentioned the Festival and all bets were off. “You want me to do what?” I’m convinced that just the word is the deal breaker, not the week with the mother, so I’ll have to consider that in our plans. Or just use a different word.)
Anyway, Austin loves Red Lobster, so that’s where we went. And, as luck would have it, when we sat down, the waitress handed us our menus and singsonged, “It’s the last week of Lobsterfest! Order it while you can!”
A festival, after all. I win again. He was unaware and didn’t laugh when I explained what I was smiling about.
Then I thought of the time, years ago, when a cashier at Burger King told my ex-husband that they were out of Whoppers. The proclaimed Home of the Whopper was out of Whoppers? And now, Red LOBSTER won’t have LOBSTER? I swear - the longer I live, the more confused I get. What will replace it? Talapiafest? I’m betting it’s Shrimpfest, but I like the sound of a Talapiafest.
The marketing worked, because the frenzy was upon us. The last week! Now, I do know that Red Lobster doesn’t catch its fish from the same part of the ocean as the finer seafood restaurants, but I had no choice – we would order lobster. The $62 bill to come, after dinner, drinks, tips and taxes, was a small price to pay for such an occasion anyway. It was a festival, after all.
We try to eat before 5 pm here in Indianapolis, because of my disdain for crowded restaurants and people with unruly toddlers who should eat at home. This early dinnertime typically puts us in the respectful company of seniors and lone or coupled diners, with whom I love to be.
And this time, I noticed three women around us, each sitting alone. No books to read, no restless eye movements from not knowing where to look, no hurries. They were content and comfortable, just sipping their drinks and savoring their meals.
I mentioned that I wanted to be just like them. Austin assured me, “Oh, you will be. Don’t worry.” I took that as the complement it wasn’t meant to be.
So, $62 and an average seafood meal later, I had been comforted by my son’s company, these women, and the fact that we hadn’t missed the “fest” after all.
I got to go home and think of my future trip alone to the Smithsonian and the Cherry Blossom Festival. And, I plan to enjoy dining alone, thinking of the ladies at Red Lobster.
Austin got to leave and go hang out with his friends for yet another night.
A nice Spring break was had by all.
CNN.com initially posted Lou Dobbs’ weekly column this morning with the following tagline: “Corporate Lobbyists Threaten American Dream.” Before noon today, it was changed to “Trade Policy Threatens American Dream”.
I can only hope other people noticed and, if just for a moment, wondered why.