I have my limits

I thought a walk in the woods with my dog was SUCH a good idea...until she found the dead squirrel. (I'm still not talking to my dog.) As it happened, she lagged behind, presumably wrestling some tree or another. I kept walking. Once she fell in step with me again, I noticed the bloody grey squirrel balanced in her mouth. Every time I tried to grab her, she lunged out of reach. Keep-away. I knew she would win her favorite game. I was disgusted - yelling, pleading, and intermittently hoping she'd remember her manners. Finally, she stopped being soft with her Labrador Retriever mouth, and I heard her start to crunch that poor dead creature's bones. By the time she caught up with me at the car, her mouth was empty.


I just got off the phone with the vet. I can't say that I was really worried about the health of my dog, but I do think I wanted to assuage my guilt. I didn't try very hard to get that squirrel. It was too gross. I didn't want to touch it. Of course, Ella is locked in the mudroom now. Her stomach is rumbling already, and her backend stinks.  

Tears?

The other night, while watching a movie at home with my husband, I began to cry. It wasn't a drama, or a suspense film. No, it was just one of those formulaic date movies. It was late, the movie was nearly over, and I was grateful to slip into bed without having to compose myself. And while it wasn't that unusual for me to shed tears over a movie of this genre, it was unusual to give it any degree of follow-up thought. In fact, something clicked for me the next day. I reminded myself that in my day-to-day life, things come up all the time. In any given moment I may be temporarily rattled, angry, frustrated, overwhelmed, or all four at once. But in almost every situation, these things have short, manageable up and down cycles that rebound to a state of wellness, almost without effort (well, maybe a little effort:). This cycle plays out countless times, and occurs daily during arguments with my spouse and challenges from my children.

As for the movie, it wasn't sad, but it depicted a woman for whom things weren't quite coming together. So why did I cry? I understood that I cried for all those things in my life that I wish weren't so. For the most part, these things are outside my sphere of influence, otherwise I would label them regrets. I cried because I wish my parents hadn't divorced, and that I had no first hand knowledge of extramarital affairs and their aftermath. I wish that my mother hadn't died when she was 61 (and I was 22). I wish that my siblings wanted to know me in a meaningful way, and that all my attempts at closeness over the years actually led somewhere. These aren't exactly the sorts of things I like to spend time thinking about. I imagine most of us feel this way. But if a mediocre movie has to be an emotional trigger now and again, then I'll just go with it.

Living With Awareness

Today I 'm reminded that I continue to develop a keen awareness of my personal context within a much bigger picture. I learned that a dirty look can still go the distance, even when cast from my 5 foot 1 inch frame. I learned that it was the right decision to pass on the t-shirt printed, "I'm not short, I'm fun sized". And finally, I realized just in time that my act of ripping page after page from a magazine while waiting for my child at the hair salon caused the grey haired woman beside me to admonish through a punishing sidewise stare meant for me. Of course, why would she ever assume that I had bothered to bring a magazine from home? 

Sort of Sounds Sort of Smart

I listen to NPR a lot. But it only speaks to the fact that I hate pop music and there is no alternative on my car radio. Even when I have the foresight to tote around a collection of CDs, I tire of them quickly. Heck, I thought I loved PRINCE, but after one listening and skipping through most of the tracks, I am BORED! So I listen to National Public Radio. Usually I hear a program with some experts responding to callers - sound familiar? Don't get me wrong, I really do love it. But I've noticed that many of these super smart experts have developed a habit. I'm convinced it is learned. It had to have started when they heard someone smart, talking about something intelligent, and they noticed the speaker pepper their discussion with the phrasing "sort of".  (After you read this, you will notice it everywhere.) So, because they want to sound smart, they adopt this phrasing habit and throw it in like an overzealous dash of cayenne. But what ends up happening is that they don't sound bright at all. Instead they sound like they haven't developed the vocabulary to express the nuances steeped in their area of expertise. Whatever their reason, they lose me immediately. Like a flash in the pan, I'm once more rocking out like it's 1999. 

Middle Finger

photo credit: Rowan O'Connell

As usual, most of my inspiration comes outside of myself, and sometimes from someone I've actually spawned. Luckily, my children continually offer a rich variety of writing material. Last week, I sat beside Nora (my seven year old) and waited poolside for her swim class to begin. As we sat side by side on a bench, I took her hand into my own and admired the slender fingers topped by her long fingernails. As she named her fingers for me, she took me by surprise when she reached the middle one. She actually called it her spare finger. Whoa!!! "The what?", I interrupted. I couldn't imagine where she might have picked up the reference, and I didn't bother to ask. My guess is that someone, somewhere decided that it was just too dangerous to refer to something exactly as it is. By default, the odd-numbered five digit configuration positions that tall boy smack dab in the middle of all the action. But spare? What the hell is spare about a finger. Just try holding a pencil without the rock steady, ever-present middle finger to lean on. And after you try that, see how far you get with Cat's Cradle. 

Birth Order

Your moment of zen - you can buy happiness, one laugh at a time.

There is much to be said with regard to birth order. Being the youngest child with siblings who peaked the decade before is strange. What I feel (and have felt for many years) is an oppressive state of regulated status. I am the youngest, the little one, the overlooked. I seek attention. I want to please. And I have never been inducted into adulthood, parenthood, or any hood for that matter, feeling like I have access to the  same degree of privilege as my older brothers. I know that some of it comes from the fact that I have never been the first in the family to do ANYTHING. I graduated last, I was employed last, I married last, I had children last - all those last places add up to one big "you can't relate because we are ten years ahead of you". Honestly, it's gotten to the point where I don't ever discuss my personal achievements with family for fear that they might fall on deaf ears, with my audience preoccupied with the next phase - something I'm certain not to reach for another ten years. 


And because I had practically equal doses of company (until I was 9 and my youngest brother went away to school) and alone time, I am most comfortable bridging the gap between crowded and alone, never knowing ahead of time which state I prefer in the moment.  On the one hand, I crave alone time. Picture a forty something woman turning up the volume on music from the eighties, and dancing like she's got something to prove. And yet being with people, all people, and relating in an honest and open format, excluding pretense all the while...well, there's nothing better.  


I know that my experience isn't all that unusual, but I happen to have a circle of friends that are rich in a way that I am not. Their relationships with their siblings are lovely, and while not always perfect, they generate and embrace kinship as a rule, even when it doesn't come easily. As they rally together with support and respect, I admire them. I feel lucky to know them because they treat me like family, and they let me know that "it ain't no thing" to include me. Thanks guys!

Pulling an All-Nighter

Around my house things get done. And by things, I mean things that really should get done. For instance, we always have something clean to wear. And we always have something good to eat. We practice decent hygiene (with the exception of the ten year old who still believes that the shower is akin to a torture chamber). We clean dishes and put them away. We exercise our bodies and read books. Collection agencies don't call, so it seems that the bills are actually being paid on time. Outside the lawn gets a regular trim and the pool gets a granular diet. Yet occasionally I fantasize about pulling an all-nighter. Although I haven't actually done this yet, doing this once a month might be a good starting point. I could stay up all night and pay bills, organize files and receipts, edit and order photos, fold MORE laundry, mend things, clean out the refrigerator, and research our next vacation. The reason that I haven't yet incorporated the all-nighter as a means to diminish my to-dos is that I'm afraid of the day after. The next day could materialize the nightmare I skipped by cheating sleep and that would suck.