Friday, December 30, 2016

Relentlessly Resolute

I try not to make resolutions, because as soon as I put a title on something (like “resolution”), or make it a conscious decision, BOOM!, the possible becomes impossible. I can be going along just fine, eating healthily, but as soon as I decide to eat healthy, suddenly I find myself surrounded by mountains of empty Oreo packages.

I do much better at doing better when I have no idea what I'm doing.

Which is how I came upon the happy realization that I have, of late, become Relentlessly Positive. Or Annoyingly Optimistic, depending upon your perspective.

This is a rather blatant rip-off of Furiously Happy, a hilarious (yet serious) book by The Bloggess, Jenny Lawson, in which she details her efforts to combat/confront her mental illness by setting out to have as much fun as possible. In my defense, being Relentlessly Positive does not always mean that I am Furiously Happy, only that I am Less Frequently Stressed, and quite often Not As Grumpy As I Could Be.

My accidental descent into Relentless Positivity was an act of self-preservation. Faced with Persistent Pessimism, Wanton Negativity, and Bitter Outbreaks of Generalized Anger – triggered at least in part by contagious political partisan poopy-ism – I decided to focus on the good that is, rather than the bad that might be.

The seeds of positivity were planted last year in a chance encounter at the gym. As I was leaving after a 5:30 am class (still grumbling about hating mornings), a cheerful young man was coming in for his 6:30 am workout. He told me that he made a conscious decision every morning to be in a good mood (even at 5:30).

I found his attitude wonderfully refreshing!

Actually, I thought he was a complete nut job – because it was 6:30 in the morning and I had not yet decided to be Relentlessly Positive. But now, now I see the method to his madness.

When I focus on making the best of a bad situation, or when I stop borrowing trouble by anticipating the worst, or when I ignore things that are just none of my business, I am a lot happier.

Unfortunately, Relentless Positivity does have its drawbacks. In the first place it is exhausting. There are a plethora of Cockeyed Pessimists out there just waiting to harsh your mellow or steal your parking space. And sometimes I get so caught up in ignoring the Negative Nancys (and minding my own business) that I speak without thinking (not an entirely new situation).

For example . . .

I recently took a bread-making class, and as we were mixing our dough the discussion turned to celebrity chefs. Someone mentioned that they used to like Chef FancyPants (not his real name), until they read that he had sex with a bride – not his own – in the kitchen while catering her reception.

Caught up in the powerful Zen of dough kneading and Relentless Positivity, my lips started moving before my brain started working. (See: “I do better when I don't know what I'm doing,” only not so much.)

“Well, these things happen,” I said.

A hush fell across the kitchen; the kind of hush usually reserved for statements such as “I eat kittens for breakfast,” or “I voted for Donald Clinton.”

Still not entirely cognizant of what I had already said, I never the less felt compelled to say more. Unfortunately, I still did not feel compelled to think prior to speaking.

“I mean, Eww!” I continued. “Not in the kitchen!” (For the record, this celebrity chef neither asked for nor received my approval for his actions. But really, the kitchen?)

Just like that, I officially became the Unofficial Craziest Lady in the room. As such, my classmates took to treating me the way people usually treat the extremely socially awkward – speaking slowly, using small words and avoiding eye contact when possible.

Which is all a long way of explaining that as we approach a new year, I (unconsciously) intend to continue to hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and keep my mouth shut about things I can't control.

Unless I don't. In which case I will most likely say things that are Incredibly Inappropriate.


And I am Relentlessly Positive about that.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

Christmas in Stitches

 “We don't have to do this, you know.” Clarice reached across the car's center console and gave Randy's hand a gentle squeeze. Randy sighed, his breath fogging the windshield. They had been sitting in the driveway for 10 minutes, and the cold was starting to seep through his dress pants and thin loafers, chilling him to the bone. He was anxious to get going, but he knew better than to rush his newly minted fiance.

Randy returned her squeeze, hoping he used just enough pressure to be reassuring. It was hard to tell. His fingers were starting to go numb from the cold, and her mittens were thick. They had been a gift from his mother. They were giant, frightening, furry things, that made it look like Clarice was wearing dead rabbits on her hands. Bizarre, but warm, he thought, wistfully. He had received a pair as well, but had buried them at the back of the coat closet after the neighbor's dog nearly took his hand off.

“Is it too early to start drinking?” Clarice mused aloud.

Randy raised an eyebrow and gave her a sideways glance. He knew this was a rhetorical question, but felt compelled to answer anyway.

“That was the first thing you asked me this morning when the alarm went off.”

“Heh, heh. Just checking.”

“Besides, I know you filled your water bottle with white wine before we left the house,” he said.

“So?”

“It held the whole bottle of wine.”

“And?”

“And now it's empty.”

“Oh!” Clarice tipped the bottle up and held it there, hoping one last drop might accumulate and roll out onto her tongue. When that didn't happen, she licked the inside of the bottle neck.

“Well, that explains a lot,” she said. “Maybe we should swing by a store for a refill. Maybe we should swing by a store, get a case of wine and a roasted chicken from the deli and go back home and hide out until Christmas is over.”

“I'm pretty sure everything is closed by now, honey. You'll be fine.”

Clarice and Randy sat in the car a while longer, watching the snow fall. It had been snowing all afternoon, a magical, storybook, Christmas Eve snow. Marshmallow-sized, fluffy flakes glimmered in the headlights and swirled crazily under the streetlights. Randy guessed a good eight inches had fallen already – three of that while they had sat waiting in the car. He sighed again. If they didn't get going soon, they'd have to climb out through the sunroof, he thought. If they could get it open.

“I could call Ma and tell her we had a flat,” Clarice said softly. “Or that the roads are bad and we just don't want to risk it. Or that the dog got out and we have to look for it.”

“We don't have a dog, Clarice.”

“We'll tell her you got me one for Christmas. Adds to the drama.”

“I'm allergic. Your mom knows that. We had a long discussion. A long discussion that somehow segued into gallstones, hemorrhoids and colonoscopies. In great detail.” Randy shuddered at the memory.

“She might have forgotten. She's old.”

“Not that old.” He squeezed her hand again. At least he thought he did. All feeling was gone in his hands, and his teeth were starting to chatter. “Clarice, honey, it will be fine.”

“It will be a nightmare,” Clarice said.

“I've met your family before. Many times. I like them.”

Clarice rested her head on the passenger side window and stared out into the gathering darkness.

“You've never seen them at Christmas.”

Randy cupped his hands in front of his mouth and breathed heavily onto them. It sounded almost like a sigh, he thought, and Clarice didn't seem to notice.

“I survived the Fourth of July party.”

That got her attention. She looked at him and snorted. “Yeah, it only took what, 10 stitches?”

“I didn't realize it was full-contact yard bags,” Randy said, shrugging. “Or that the first rule of Dasher family games is that there are no rules.”

“I told you my nephew threw overhand.”

“But you didn't tell me he had such bad aim.”

“He doesn't.”

“Oh.”

Randy sighed again, for real, and tried to slip his hands under his thighs to warm them up. That only made his legs colder.

“Mu-mu-mu-maybe I cu-cu-could just run the heat for a mu-mu-mu-minute.” He reached for the ignition. Clarice shot her hand out to stop him. Randy winced at the sudden contact, certain that at least one frozen finger had shattered.

No!” Clarice hiss-whispered. “Listen to that.”

Randy tilted his head and listened. “I don't hear anything.”

“Exactly. We must respect the quiet.”

It was quiet, Randy thought. Quiet and peaceful. And he was so tired. But that might have been caused by the carbon monoxide or hypothermia.

I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CAN NOT LIE . . . . Clarice's phone shattered the silence. Randy knew that was the ringtone she reserved for her mother.

“How long you gonna sit out there in the driveway? Dinner's almost ready.” Clarice held the phone out between them. She didn't have it on speaker. Her mom was just that loud. “Tell Randy I've got a special surprise for him. Hi, Randy!”

Randy looked up. Mrs. Dasher was standing in the front window of the house, next to the Christmas tree, waving at them.

“Hi, Mrs. Dasher,” Randy said towards the phone, while waving back at her through the windshield.

“Ah, geeze, Ma. You promised, no surprises . . . .”

“Pish. I called his mom. She shared one of their favorite family traditions. She's a pip, that one. I invited her and the family down for dinner, but she said they already had plans.”

Clarice put one mittened hand over her face. When she peeked out around the fur, she saw Randy staring at her, his eyes open wide with shock. He silently mouthed My family?

“We're gonna get together after the first of the year. But we can go over all that when you two get in here. Hurry it up. I need you to make the green bean casserole. Your sister's no help. She's been drinking since she got here. At noon.”

Clarice looked at Randy and mouthed I'm already behind! Randy shook his head and tried to suppress a giggle. Clarice punched him in the arm. Randy watched it happen, but didn't feel it. His arm was numb now, too.

“What about Aunt Jan? Why doesn't she help you?”

“She's got her hands full keeping Uncle Jimmy away from all open flames. He's been in the bean dip all afternoon. Your dad and your brother are arguing over the NFL highlight game from '84 – but it's still not changing the outcome. And your nieces and nephews are holed up in the old toy room, 'burning incense'.” Randy and Clarice saw that Mrs. Dasher made air quotes as she said that. Then she snorted. “As if. Little bastards. Think I was born yesterday? I know what frankincense and myrrh smells like. Your brother's latest wife . . . .”

“Shandra. She has a name, Ma. Shandra.”

“No, Shandra was last year's model. This one's Melody, or Melissa, or something. Anyway, she's downstairs with the cousins playing cards. I just hope it's not for money or clothes. You know how your cousin Donnie cheats. And Mel-whatever wasn't wearing much to begin with.”

“You invited the cousins?”

Mrs. Dasher sighed. “Your dad let it slip when he ran into Angie down at the gas station. What could we do?”

“I dunno, Ma, sounds like a houseful. And the snow's really piling up. Maybe we should just head back home.”

“Clarice Lorraine. You live ten minutes away. You could walk.”

“Yeah, but . . . .”

“You are not leaving me alone with this house-full of crazies!”

She's the Queen Crazy, Clarice mouthed at Randy

“I heard that young lady.”

“Ma, I didn't say anything!”

“I read lips.”

Clarice rolled her eyes.

“I saw that, too.”

“Fine.”

“Get in here, or I'm bustin' out the slide projector . . . .”

Randy sat up and smiled brightly.

“I said fine. Just gimme a . . . .”

“And the pictures of you as a sheep in the church Christmas pageant.”

Randy's smile grew. Clarice's shoulders slumped, defeated.

“We'll be right in, Ma.”

“Love ya', hon. You too, Randy!” Mrs. Dasher waved one more time, then disappeared from the window.

“Save yourself, Randy. Take the car, drive around the block a couple times. Gimme 10 minutes. Then just pull up to the curb, flash the lights, honk the horn twice and I'll come running out.”

“Maybe you're getting a little carried away, sweetie. It looks pretty quiet from here. No visible flames, no SWAT team, no disco lights.”

“Oh, sure. On the outside, this is just another quaint, cozy, happy family home. That's how they do it, you know. They lull you into a false sense of normalcy, them BAM! Total. Fucking. Chaos. I bet John Wayne Gacy's house seemed pretty normal from the outside, too.”

“Nah, I think there was always something . . . off there. I mean, look at the other houses in your neighborhood.” Randy pointed at the houses around them. “One creepy, dark house, still in Halloween mode – I think, at least I hope; one tacky, over-decorated house testing the endurance of the electricity grid; one giant, hippie, peace-sign – which stays up all year round, by the way; and one yard covered with frightening, jiggling, inflatable decorations. What is that one supposed to be, anyway?”

Clarice tilted her head sideways to get a different perspective.

“I think Mrs. Snowman fell over and pulled Mr. Snowman with her, but he's still . . . . Oh, dear, sweet baby Jesus!” Clarice started laughing. “We're gonna be over-run with snowbabies!”

“And then there's your family's house. Tasteful wreath on the front door, soft glow from the Christmas tree in the window. An oasis of calm.”

“When we were little, Dad would put a Santa on the roof. That stopped after Bobby added a string of yellow lights to make it look like Santa was taking a leak. We had a plastic nativity scene, but Dad put too big a bulb in Joseph and he melted and slumped over. Looked like had gas pains. Then Ma switched to those lighted deer. Until the cousins repositioned them . . . not unlike our neighbor's amorous snowmen. Last year they hung one deer from the tree by a hind leg, like they were gutting it. Ma. Freaked. Out. She said no more outside decorations. Ever. I think she underestimates the rest of the family. Mark my words. By the end of the night, somehow these modest decorations will be re-arranged into something obscene or sacrilegious. Or both.”

“I dunno, Clarice, your mom can really lay down the law.”

“Dad says she keeps a loaded Supersoaker by the door. She's on hyper-alert. She's already accidentally doused the newspaper boy and the mailman. Dad gave them each a bottle of whiskey to apologize.”

“A thoughtful man.”

“Not so much. The paperboy is 12.”

Randy coughed to cover his laughter. He sensed Clarice didn't see the humor.

“We should have gone to your folks',” she said.

“No way! I put you through that hell last year. You deserve a respite.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about crazy, as in my family.”

“They're not crazy. They're . . . quiet. They just sit there so politely. And they talk. Quietly.”

Randy snorted. “Yes, they are quiet, but no, they don't talk. That's how crazy they are. No one talks to anyone about anything. Anything! As if that's not a recipe for misunderstanding! Just because they're quiet doesn't mean they're not crazy. The Donners are the poster family for dysfunctional. It's a quiet dysfunctional, but it's still dysfunctional. And crazy.”

“I'll take quiet crazy over loud crazy anytime,” Clarice said. “And I bet they never throw stuff.”

“That's a bet you would lose, sweetheart. Believe you me. Besides, I don't think dysfunction is a competition.”

Mrs. Dasher flashed the porch light on and off. Then she appeared in the window holding a slide carousel tray.

“I guess we'd better get inside.”

“Darn, I was really hoping to see the sheep show.”

“You know she'll show that to you anyway,” Clarice said, wearily. “I'd just like to explain ahead of time: I was five, the costume was hot and itchy. And it smelled. And Ma should have made me wear something under it.”

Randy chuckled, then leaned over the console and kissed Clarice gently on her nose. “I can't wait to see how our crazy, dysfunctions combine.”

Clarice pulled him closer and kissed him. It was a long, slow kiss, full of promise. Randy felt his extremities begin to thaw.

“Maybe we should head back to our place,” he whispered in her ear.

The porch lights flashed urgently. Randy and Clarice looked up to find both Mr. and Mrs. Dasher standing in the doorway. Clarice's brother and sister and her husband were all standing in the window. Clarice's brother was dancing inappropriately with the tree.

After shucking their coats and adding their presents to the pile surrounding the tree, Randy and Clarice joined an assortment of Dashers in the kitchen.

“Oh. My. God! You win the ugly sweater contest, hands down!” Clarice's sister Karen said to Randy. “That is hideous!”

“That was my Christmas gift to him. It's cashmere,” Clarice said, gritting her teeth.

“Oops! My bad. Still . . . .” Karen shrugged, then tried to change the subject. “So, what were you two doing out there? Workin' on a last minute Christmas gift?” She winked at Randy and elbowed him in the ribs.

“Christ! They were out there long enough to conceive and deliver a Christmas gift,” Clarice's brother Bobby said.

“Not everyone is as quick at . . . wrapping as you are, darling,” Mel-whatever said, exiting the kitchen.

“Oh yeah? Well, I got a Yule log with your name on it, right here, baby,” Bobby shouted after his wife.

Mrs. Dasher, Clarice and Karen shared a look.

“This is why we don't bother learning their names,” Clarice whispered to Randy. “He'll have a new one next year.”

“Yule log? That gives me an idea!” Karen's husband Eddy said, grabbing her by the waist.

“Oh, please. Yule twig maybe,” Karen said, rolling her eyes.

“Twig? What? I'm talking lawn ornaments, here,” Eddy said. Two of the cousins nodded in response.

“We got just the thing for superior exterior illumination in the truck,” the cousins said.

“What are you talking about?” Eddy said to Karen.

“What do you mean, 'lawn ornaments?' There will be no 'exterior illumination'!” Mrs. Dasher shouted.

Clarice pulled Randy into a corner. “Let the holiday chaos commence,” she said.

“Twig? Twig? What are you talking about woman?”

“Oh, please. It's not as if . . . .”

“No decorations! Do I make myself clear?”

“I remember my high school sweetheart,” Aunt Jan said. “Talk about a Yule log.”

“What the . . . .”

“None! No lights, no inflatables, no nothing!”

Ka-Chang!

A heavy, metalic thunk cut through all the yelling and shouting and planning, and the normal clattering of plates and silverware and dishes heaped with food. The hand-held can opener rocked slowly on the tile floor, beneath a hand-held can opener-shaped indentation in the drywall. An indentation that had not been there just moments ago.

The fighting stopped. An uneasy quiet settled over the room.

Each member, soon-to-be member or soon-to-be-ex-member of the extended Dasher family looked sheepishly at each other, trying to determine who the appliance-thrower was. The dent in the wall had appeared in the small gap between Mel-whatever and Bobby's son Rocky. Another couple inches either way, and one of them would have been impaled. Or at least bruised. But who had thrown the unwieldy manual appliance? It had been years since Bobby had raised a finger to help with food preparation. Would he even know which drawer the can opener was stored in?

THAT'S. IT.” Mrs. Dasher's voice was strong and clear. She smacked the counter with a kitchen towel for emphasis.

Clarice looked at Randy, her eyes filling with tears. This was a new level of crazy, even for her family. She wouldn't blame him if he asked her to return his engagement ring – which she had only received that morning.

We have . . . .” Everyone in the room held their breath.

A winner! Ladies and gentlemen, check your lottery charts!” A happy shout went up.

“What? Ma? What the hell is going on?” Clarice looked on in astonishment as the rest of her family pulled papers out of their pockets, unfolded them and compared notes.

“Who had 'something gets thrown' and 'kitchen'?” Mrs. Dasher asked.

“R.D. – Randy Donner!”

“Alrighty then! The winner of the first annual Dasher Family Lotto is Randy! Now, help me get this food to the table before it cools off. Get! Go! Let's eat!”

“Congrats Randy, my boy. And welcome to the family,” Mr. Dasher said as the rest of the family carried dish after dish laden with food to the dining room. All traces of bickering had been replaced by teasing and laughter.

For the moment.

“I'm gonna need you to repair that divot in the wall, you know,” Mr. Dasher said, as he hoisted the platter overflowing with turkey. “I didn't know you had such bad aim.”

“I don't.” Randy grinned.

“What just happened here?” Clarice asked him.

“That's my nice, quiet family's favorite tradition,” Randy said. “Christmas Lotto. Typically accompanied by lots of egg nog. Heavy on the bourbon, light on the nog.” Randy showed Clarice his lotto chart. It was a grid of squares – ten wide, ten deep. Along the horizontal axis were written a variety of times and places; the vertical axis was labeled with random events, including “something gets thrown,” “someone requires stitches,” “a punch is thrown,” “tree is knocked down,” and “someone gets naked.” The initials of each family members were scattered throughout the grid.

Clarice looked at Randy in astonishment.

“This is your family Christmas tradition?”

“Like my mom always says, 'it's not Christmas until someone throws a can opener'.”

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

It's Still Morning in America

In a surprise move, the sun came up this morning.

The same as it would have regardless of who was elected President of the USA. The same as it does every day.

Suck it up, Buttercup.

Do you really believe that one person can change the nation over night? Or in four years?

You're right.

YOU CAN.

Quit whining, quit gloating. Roll up your sleeves and get to work.

Wondering what to tell your children or grandchildren?

Tell them to be honest, be kind, be fair, be considerate, be polite. Tell them to have good character. Respect others. Don't be a bully. Tell them to be nice to people even when people are not nice to you. And maybe, once in a while, you should try to figure out why those people aren't being nice to you. Because maybe, once in a while, it's YOU who is not being nice. And maybe, once in a while, it's YOU who needs to change.

And maybe not. Life is not fair.

Tell them “ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." Tell them to be one of “a thousand points of light.”

Worried about the homeless, the poor, the hungry? Volunteer your time at a homeless shelter, donate your money to a reputable charity. Want to make college affordable? Establish a scholarship or donate to a scholarship fund (or adopt my children). Worried about the environment? Reduce your waste, recycle, plant a tree. Worried about gun control? Don't buy a gun, be a responsible gun owner, enforce the laws that are already in place, restrict access to your own guns. Worried about American jobs and American wages? Support American companies, buy local, support businesses that support their workers, start your own business. Worried about affordable health care? Become a doctor or a nurse, volunteer at a clinic, stop going to the emergency room for a hangnail, eat less, exercise more, get vaccines, wash your hands, promote healthy living. Be PRO-active, not RE-active.

Quit whining, quit gloating, quit assigning blame. Quit telling me why you can't. Tell me how you did it. Quit mocking, ridiculing and name calling. Put on your big girl/boy pants and deal with it. Be an adult. Be better than most adults.

Quit looking to the government to solve our problems.

Roll up your sleeves and get to work. Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way.

Be a force for POSITVE change. Work to BUILD not to DESTROY.

Wondering what to tell your children or grandchildren?

Tell them you love them.

Don't tell them anything. Show them. Set a good example.

Monday, October 31, 2016

Night of the Living Brocco-tot

Once upon a time, in a quiet home on a quiet lane in a quiet town, something happened. Something so horrible, so terrifying, so unnatural, that even now – nearly four days later – it is referred to by shocked locals as ...

The House on Brocco-Lane.

It was a peaceful evening, like countless others in this unassuming home. The tranquility was broken only by the frenzied racing of a wild-eyed grey cat, running his nightly crazy-laps up and down the hallway with all the grace and elegance of a drunken zombie horde.

The mouth-watering aroma of cheesy chicken casserole filled the cozy home, luring the Little Prince and the King of the Castle from the dark depths of the basement, up the creaking staircase and into the kitchen. A solitary figure stood by the oven, waving a hot pad over a steaming cauldron and muttering an ancient incantation:

Double, double, toil and trouble;
Casserole's not browned, but at least it's bubbled.

It was … The Mom-ster! A toxic health-food spill in the freezer section of the local grocery mart had turned this normally mild-mannered housewife into a veggie-pushing mad chef!

“What's ... that?” the Little Prince asked cautiously, peering into the 9x12 baking dish.

“Chicken casserole,” The Mom-ster replied. “Mwaa-haa-haa!”

“What's on top of the casserole?” The Little Prince asked, suspicious of The Mom-ster's maniacal cackling and creepy hand wringing. “They look like … undercooked sausages.”

The Mom-ster hesitated a moment too long before replying.

“Yes! Yes, they are!”

“No they're not.” The Little Prince was not fooled by The Mom-ster's overzealous enthusiasm. He crossed his arms in a classic Picky Eater defensive move.

“You're right! They're …” the Mom-ster paused dramatically, waiting for the ominous music to play. Duh-duh-DUHHHH! There was no music, of course, because this was real life, not some horror movie. It was much, much more frightening than any movie could ever be. This was ... dinnertime! And those strange, grey-ish green blobs on top of the casserole? 

“They're Brocco-tots.”

The Little Prince gasped. The King of the Castle looked up from his magazine in shock. Even the cat screeched to a stop and hovered protectively over his food dish.

“Oh just eat them. They're good for you. One bite won't kill you.” Duh-duh-DUHHHH!

Before she could dish up steaming plates of chicken casserole with proportional amounts of the some-what healthy, albeit odd-looking, garnish the Mom-ster was called away to a meeting. She returned to find a decidedly dis-proportionate amount of brocco-tot leftovers.

“Curses! My attempts to foist somewhat healthy eating habits on my family have been foiled again!" the Mom-ster cried out in anguish, but not surprise.

When the brocco-scarred Little Prince related his tale to his sister The Princess, at first she reacted with mild disappointment.

“Sounds like a waste of perfectly good tater-tots. And broccoli.” She did not share his aversion to all things vegetable.

“But... but you don't understand!” The Little Prince protested. “There was no tater in these tots! Just broccoli!”

The Princess fixed The Mom-ster with an ice-cold glare.

“That's just … wrong.” The Princess said. “If she tries that again, let me know. I'll call protective services.”

They say that when the moon is full, and the wind whistles through the trees, and the weather calls out for the comfort of a home-baked casserole, if you listen carefully you can still hear the siren song of …

The Cauli-tot!



Sunday, October 23, 2016

Deep(ish) Thoughts

Last summer I ran. A lot.

OK, so maybe not a lot, but quite a bit. Or at least a lot more than I have this summer.

My point it, there's a part of me that still thinks I should be able to go out there and pick up right where I left off. OK, so maybe not right where I left off, but somewhere in the neighborhood of “not dying after three minutes of running.”

It's the same part of me that thinks I can still skateboard, climb a tree or do a cartwheel.

Everyone's a critic.
The same part of me that overestimates my piano skills, or thinks that I could jam out on the ukulele.

Or thinks that I will remember how to take a screen shot on my computer or my phone, drop out the background on an image in Publisher, or remember how to insert the formula to calculate the sum of an column in Excel. Because, No. I can NOT always get the magic “sum” icon to magically plug in the “sum” formula.

That part of me that thinks I can still hop right back up after sitting on the floor, or that I can fall asleep on the couch and not wake up with a stiff neck. Or that I can eat an entire Big Mac Extra Value Meal without feeling sick, or eat pizza after 7:30 at night without getting heart burn, or drink caffeine after 3 in the afternoon without being wide awake half the night.

It's the same part that thinks I can still walk in high heels without turning my ankle. OK, so this has never happened, but there's a part of me that thinks it still might happen some day. And that part always ignores the part of me that knows I can barely walk across a flat surface in tennis shoes without tripping or turning my ankle.

And that part is closely related to the part of me that thinks that I can play disk golf without spending most of my time searching for a lost Frisbee, or without loosing a Frisbee at all.

Which has spawned a part of me that thinks that one day I'll be able to watch a political ad – for any party and any candidate – without rolling my eyes so hard I get a headache.

But what I've really learned from that part of me which is so clearly disconnected from reality is that it's good to know your limitations.

But it's even better to not let them stop you from trying.

And that's why next weekend I'll be running(ish) up and down the hills surrounding the Village of East Davenport in the Lagomarcino Cocoabeano 5K, and (hopefully) standing around afterward enjoying a cup of cocoa and a piece of Lagomarcino chocolate candy.


Because the part of me that likes chocolate is bigger than all those other parts combined.

Friday, September 30, 2016

Why Can't We Be (Facebook) Friends

Dear Potential Facebook Friend,

Please don't take this the wrong way, but, who are you?

I'll be the first to admit that I have a terrible memory for names, and lately my facial recognition skills are starting to slip, too. I already have some (four) FB friends who I thought I knew because we have so many friends in common, and because their name sounded familiar (or kinda sorta did), or their profile picture looked (vaguely) familiar. It took me months after clicking “Confirm” to realize that I don't, in fact, have any clue who these people are.

Not that it's a problem. I've never unfriended them because, quite frankly, their lives are so much more exciting and fun to read about than mine. And they share the best jokes! I have no idea why they haven't unfriended me, but I'm glad. I'm sure there have been times when my posts came across their newsfeed and they thought “who the heck is she and why did I click Confirm?”

I also have several FB friends who are friends of friends, or with whom I share a common interest – like running, writing or our community. Again, love reading their posts and reposts! Because, like I said, we have something in common.

But you.... You are an enigma. Quite frankly, I find your lack of personal information intriguing.

First of all I'd just like to say how honored and surprised I was to receive your friend request. Honored, because apparently I will be your first Facebook friend (Yay me!). Surprised because, let's be honest, you are some kinda hot. I mean, like, male-model hot. And single. And, apparently, friendless, which is kinda sad. And not at all suspicious.

I get it. You're from America, but you recently moved to Afghanistan or France or England and you haven't had time to make friends among the locals. Hey, you've been too busy to post any information in your profile, let alone meet people. In person, or on-line.

Quite frankly, as a proud American, I am a little concerned that we seem to be exporting such a high number of extremely attractive, middle-aged, single men lately. And you all are sending friend requests to little old me! I'm honored. And surprised. Again.

It's charming how you all seem to pose for the same style photos. What are the odds so many of you would own convertibles and speedboats, or that you would all be pilots or businessmen or part of such a large, large crowd? Not that I have anything against your profile picture or your cover page photo. They are stunning. And obviously not photoshopped. Not at all. Nope. Nope-er. Nope-est.

OK, I'll admit I was starting to get a little suspicious, especially when I received so many similar requests in such a short amount of time.

Then I received a FB friend request from Billy Joel. (True story.)

And? He used the same photos they used on the Billy Joel FB page I'm already following.

And? And? He only had one friend and no profile information.

My flabber was gasted.

Unfortunately someone at Facebook must have removed his request before I could click “Confirm.”

ConfirmConfirmConfirmConfirmCONFIRM.

So.

Obviously this means all you other 2-photo, 1-friend, no-info Friend Requesters are totally legit. Not that I ever suspected any of you were scammers or hackers or ne'er-do-wells.

And I realize that I may have hurt your feelings when I denied and deleted your friend request. I'll totally understand if you do not send me another friend request.

Really. It's OK. Don't do it.

Unless you're Billy Joel.

In which case....



Monday, September 19, 2016

I Spy(der) With My Little Eye

Temperatures are cooling off in Eastern Iowa, signaling the start of the annual great spider migration into our humble castle. The castle is currently undergoing renovations and siding, thus disrupting the lives of all inhabitants – including spiders. This has resulted in a drastic increase in the number of Queen (me) V. Spider (them) throwdowns.

I am happy to report that yesterday's incident report has me ahead 2-0. Unless you count the little black spider near the front door, who is trying desperately to pretend he is just another dirt speck on the wall. Then the count would be more like 2-0-1. He is small, and plucky, and I have decided to grant him pardon, for the time being. I am a benevolent dictator, after all.

Make no mistake. One wrong move on his part, one sudden scurry while I am sitting on the steps tying my shoes, and he will be spider schmear. Benevolent and mercurial.

I try to give spiders the benefit of the doubt. I know they are an important part of the ecosystem, doing their part to keep the insect population in check. If it appears they are busy little bees – er, arachnids – meeting their bug-capture quota, I typically (occasionally) leave them alone. I like to think I only put an end to the dead weight – the slacker spiders who just hang around in their webs waiting for their tiny, little welfare checks to arrive. These lazy bums would probably starve to death anyway, so really, I'm just speeding up the inevitable, letting them die with dignity (and a crunch). Benevolent, mercurial and merciful.

For instance, right now I'm considering a bold spider social-science experiment, which would involve intense insect redistricting, and the busing of the aforementioned little spider from the front door area to the kitchen window area. The ants have established a ghetto on the window sill and are gaining a foothold (or six) on the counter top, which has for years been an exclusive fruit-fly resort area. The fruit-flies have attempted to build a wall to keep the undocumented ants out, but they have the attention span of gnats and are easily distracted by fresh fruit and sound bites.

Yesterday's death toll was the equivalent of spider-suicide. The creepy-crawly departed willingly violated my second rule for peaceful spider/me co-existence: If they don't move (there is a slight chance) I will ignore them. (Good advice for tiny spider by the door.)

Dead Spider 1 – a fairly good-sized brown house spider – could have lived. At first I mistook him for a dead cricket. That is, until I flipped him over with my duster and discovered that what I assumed was his violin and bow (Remember A Cricket in Times Square?) was actually two additional legs.

Still, he could have survived. But no. When I turned to get the dustpan (to facilitate the removal of his corpse, which was not actually a corpse) he made a run for it. Really, I had no choice. Death came swift and sure, delivered by a carefully aimed steel-toed work boot.

Dead Spider 2 was masquerading as a shiny green beetle, vacationing on the dryer's lint screen. (The lint screen for goodness sake! Is nothing sacred?) He too, made a run for it and was summarily flicked onto the floor and squashed. Repeatedly. With enthusiasm. And swearing.

This year's infestation has been a little unique, in that the number of spiders seems to have increased, but the top size of the spiders has decreased (So far. Knock wood.). In the past, there have been a few spiders I've threatened to put a saddle on and break to lead. (They were very carefully and quickly squashed, accompanied by much high-pitched screaming.)

I can't say as that I blame the spiders for their nomadic tendencies. Things are pretty higglety-pigglety here at the castle, what with all the construction, destruction, and spiders (but mostly the spiders). I've considered packing up my web, too. Then I consider the effort required to pack, stack, move and unpack (and meet new spiders) and I realize I'm just too tired to start over. Besides, I was here first and I have seniority – the average lifespan of a house spider is only about one year. (Yes, I Googled that as well as the spider ID and yes, I will have nightmares for the rest of my life.)

The sheer number of spiders this year (inside and out) has lead me to consider renting a flame-thrower, for some good, old-fashioned, extermination of biblical proportions. But that seems a little excessive at this point.

At. This. Point.

I'm leaving my options open.

Benevolent, mercurial, merciful, and amenable.

I rule with an iron hand in a velvet glove.

And steel-toed boots.

I Spy(der) With My Little Eye

Temperatures are cooling off in Eastern Iowa, signaling the start of the annual great spider migration into our humble castle. The castle is currently undergoing renovations and siding, thus disrupting the lives of all inhabitants – including spiders. This has resulted in a drastic increase in the number of Queen (me) V. Spider (them) throwdowns.

I am happy to report that yesterday's incident report has me ahead 2-0. Unless you count the little black spider near the front door, who is trying desperately to pretend he is just another dirt speck on the wall. Then the count would be more like 2-0-1. He is small, and plucky, and I have decided to grant him pardon, for the time being. I am a benevolent dictator, after all.

Make no mistake. One wrong move on his part, one sudden scurry while I am sitting on the steps tying my shoes, and he will be spider schmear. Benevolent and mercurial.

I try to give spiders the benefit of the doubt. I know they are an important part of the ecosystem, doing their part to keep the insect population in check. If it appears they are busy little bees – er, arachnids – meeting their bug-capture quota, I typically (occasionally) leave them alone. I like to think I only put an end to the dead weight – the slacker spiders who just hang around in their webs waiting for their tiny, little welfare checks to arrive. These lazy bums would probably starve to death anyway, so really, I'm just speeding up the inevitable, letting them die with dignity (and a crunch). Benevolent, mercurial and merciful.

For instance, right now I'm considering a bold spider social-science experiment, which would involve intense insect redistricting, and the busing of the aforementioned little spider from the front door area to the kitchen window area. The ants have established a ghetto on the window sill and are gaining a foothold (or six) on the counter top, which has for years been an exclusive fruit-fly resort area. The fruit-flies have attempted to build a wall to keep the undocumented ants out, but they have the attention span of gnats and are easily distracted by fresh fruit and sound bites.

Yesterday's death toll was the equivalent of spider-suicide. The creepy-crawly departed willingly violated my second rule for peaceful spider/me co-existence: If they don't move (there is a slight chance) I will ignore them. (Good advice for tiny spider by the door.)

Dead Spider 1 – a fairly good-sized brown house spider – could have lived. At first I mistook him for a dead cricket. That is, until I flipped him over with my duster and discovered that what I assumed was his violin and bow (Remember A Cricket in Times Square?) was actually two additional legs.

Still, he could have survived. But no. When I turned to get the dustpan (to facilitate the removal of his corpse, which was not actually a corpse) he made a run for it. Really, I had no choice. Death came swift and sure, delivered by a carefully aimed steel-toed work boot.

Dead Spider 2 was masquerading as a shiny green beetle, vacationing on the dryer's lint screen. (The lint screen for goodness sake! Is nothing sacred?) He too, made a run for it and was summarily flicked onto the floor and squashed. Repeatedly. With enthusiasm. And swearing.

This year's infestation has been a little unique, in that the number of spiders seems to have increased, but the top size of the spiders has decreased (So far. Knock wood.). In the past, there have been a few spiders I've threatened to put a saddle on and break to lead. (They were very carefully and quickly squashed, accompanied by much high-pitched screaming.)

I can't say as that I blame the spiders for their nomadic tendencies. Things are pretty higglety-pigglety here at the castle, what with all the construction, destruction, and spiders (but mostly the spiders). I've considered packing up my web, too. Then I consider the effort required to pack, stack, move and unpack (and meet new spiders) and I realize I'm just too tired to start over. Besides, I was here first and I have seniority – the average lifespan of a house spider is only about one year. (Yes, I Googled that as well as the spider ID and yes, I will have nightmares for the rest of my life.)

The sheer number of spiders this year (inside and out) has lead me to consider renting a flame-thrower, for some good, old-fashioned, extermination of biblical proportions. But that seems a little excessive at this point.

At. This. Point.

I'm leaving my options open.

Benevolent, mercurial, merciful, and amenable.

I rule with an iron hand in a velvet glove.

And steel-toed boots.

Monday, August 29, 2016

Billy Joel (Traffic) Drives Me Crazy

That I totally enjoyed the Billy Joel concert in Chicago Friday (August 26) goes without saying. He is an incredible entertainer – as are all the musicians in his band. Of course, I have such a huge crush on him that it would take something truly horrendous to dampen my enthusiasm.

That I totally hated driving (by myself) through Chicago traffic to get to the concert also goes without saying. You know that “something truly horrendous” I mentioned earlier? The drive from West Branch to downtown Chicago nearly did me in.

I thought maybe getting lost cruising past the Quad Cities (again), a construction-zone traffic standstill, AND a closed exit to the last rest stop for 30 miles (!!!) might have used up my bad traffic karma before I even got close to the Windy City.

I was wrong.

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to the residents of the greater Chicago area, and anyone else hindered by my poor traffic-coping skills. Again.

After the potty/exit closed emergency, the drive was pretty uneventful until I reached the outskirts of Aurora, Illinois. (Although I did cuss myself for not purchasing an I-Pass. Frickin' tollway.) Traffic had just started to pick up, and I had just started to practice my deep breathing exercises, when I realized that in Chicago, 5 o'clock rush hour traffic starts at 4, and 4 o'clock rush hour traffic starts at 3:30, and it was currently 3:20. I began to wonder if delaying my departure in order to clean the kitchen counter had really been worth it.

My deep breathing turned to deep cursing when I noticed an Escalade riding my tail. I glared as he finally passed me, then realized that I was riding the tail of the Lexus ahead of me. Ooops.

Remember my love of frickin' tollways? I had just traveled across three lanes of traffic to reach the far left lane, when I had to make my way back to the extreme right lane to prepare for yet another cash-only transaction.

But wait! Six successful lane changes later I realized the toll was only for the exit. Which I was not taking. I decided to stick to the middle lanes from then on, just in case.

Up ahead, an electronic sign offered a helpful traffic update: Downtown 37 min. Really? Already? That long?

Yeah, no. Not so much. After another toll booth – for reals this time – and a good 20 minutes, the next electronic sign announced Downtown 30 min. Time. Had stood. Still.

Eventually I reached the I-290 exit, keeping to the left, as my Googlemap directions said. But I was the only one. After being in 4 lanes of heavy traffic, it was a little eerie suddenly seeing empty lanes. Had I made a wrong turn?

Then traffic stopped. Obviously I was right where I was supposed to be.

Good news! According to the next electronic sign, it would only be 10 more minutes to what I thought was my exit.

Ten minutes? On Venus maybe. I could have read War and Peace in the time it took me to get to the next exit. Heck, I could have written War and Peace.

I decided this was good news! As slow as we were going, I shouldn't be able to miss my exit. Then the traffic clog broke free and we were flying! Or going 25 mph, whichever.

Then we were stopping. Again.

This was still good news, because I had finally reached the exit to Lower Wacker Drive. And – get this! – “lower” doesn't refer to north or south, but “lower” than street level! (Who knew?) Suddenly I was driving through a narrow, 4-lane tunnel, which was really cool, but it was kind of dark and there were stoplights and traffic and I couldn't find the cross streets and I didn't know where I was and then WOW! A boat! I was next to the Chicago River and now I was turning onto Lower Michigan Ave (also lower than street level) and the next thing I knew I was turning onto Grand and I was at street level and then I was pulling into the parking garage and checking in to the hotel and getting ready and walking to the corner to catch the red line L-train to . . . .
Trust me. We shared a moment.

OH CRAP! I couldn't remember where Wrigley Field was!

Officer Posey of the Chicago Police Department very patiently explained how to buy my train tickets (return trip, too), and which train to get on and I practiced more deep breathing as I waited in line for 30 minutes to buy my tickets and then I was on the train, and chatting with all these other nice, middle-aged women, and we all got off the train at Addison and we were at Wrigley Field!

The lights went down, the lights went up and there he was! Billy Joel, center stage, sitting at his piano, hands flying across the keyboard, singing and joking. And that grin! Oh gosh! I swooned because I'm pretty sure I made I contact with him. And gee, isn't he just adorable?

And all that anxiety about traffic and getting lost and Lower Wacker was forgotten, because, wow, what a great show!

Sigh.

Then it was time to head home, and I headed out of Chicago for Iowa.


Via Milwaukee.