I ALMOST Saw "World War Z"

It's very hot and as I said in an earlier post, while the tenants of our rental property are enjoying the benefits of a brand new air conditioning unit, we are not.  I have a fan.  So to beat the heat, in spite of fatigue from a stressful week and a very full weekend, I went to the movies with Bob to sit in a cool building with comfortable seats.

I had wanted to see "World World Z" because it looked like a fun alien film, ala "Independence Day" from years ago - with action, humor, a slew of heroes, and an appropriate amount of suspense.  Naturally, Brad Pitt was a draw as well.

This was not that movie.

You should know that I have some sort of issue with the muscle under my left shoulder blade.  This is turn is causing tension and achiness in my left bicep and ultimately, my fingers.  Its sort of a "knee-bone's-connected-to-the-leg-bone" kind of phenomenon.  And really is starts with my neck and I am working like mad to remember to relax my shoulders and willfully release my muscles from a general flexed state.

This movie was counter-productive to that goal.

I cannot tell you much about this film.  Apart from a scene where Brad Pitt is making pancakes for his kids, there is little about this film that gives you a break.  And because that scene comes in the very beginning of the movie, I didn't really need a break yet.

This movie was like "Jurassic Park" meets Michael Jackson's "Thriller" (without the cool choreography).  

Mostly, my eyes were closed but I peeked often enough to see that the CGI was pretty good.  Too good.  One scene made me fairly nauseous.  Early on, I leaned in to Bob and said "I may not make it through this movie.  If not I'll just go sit outside".   But in thinking it though, the record heat today made this option nearly as terrifying.

I used be able to sit through a suspenseful movie or TV show with the best of them but I have noticed a gradual inability to cope.  My  internal "Anxi-o-Meter" starts going ding-ding-ding-ding-ding at the first hint that a restful, peaceful scene is about to be corrupted by an unexpected, sudden entrance of evil.  It doesn't matter that I know it is coming - when it does I nearly pee my pants.

So I just counted my Raisinets, looked at my fingernails, the seat in front of me, Bob, the ceiling, and in all that free time, I realized that the reason we could endure the suspenseful and frightening in films at a younger age was that we didn't have the filter that now keeps us from ruining the experience for those around us.  We were free to scream back at the screen, warn the hero, carry on, and not give a whit about the old guy sitting in front of us.  And I think if I had been able to scream at the Israeli people safe behind the walls (for those of you who have seen it, you know) to stop their singing and shut the hell up, I might have been able to watch the scene unfold.  I understand it was pretty spectacular - as zombie acts go.  I did get a glimpse of a female zombie in a shredded pink dress gyrate and take off toward the action to get her share of human flesh.  I will say too that there was one line in the movie I loved: "Mother Nature is a serial killer".  Great line.  But as a hypochondriac, I will no doubt play it over and over again in my head - everytime I feel the need to see a doctor.

So at the end of the film, I walked away with muscle spasms in my arms and neck and it hurts to type this.  But I am safe now, at home.  And Bob is on the roof with the hose.

And maybe that's what we should have done in the first place.

Post Birthday Reflection

Celebrating my many years...

I worked yesterday, on my birthday.  I was taken to lunch and given gifts.  I was given a lovely red velvet cake and I was pleased.

When I got home - there was a card and a balloon and a cake in the refrigerator.  Bob immediately told me he had been all over all day looking for something to get me but gave up.

Really.

In fairness, I don't even know what I want for my birthday that doesn't cost several thousand dollars.  And it is also true that I will return something I don't want - which I have been known to do.  But after nearly 21 years of marriage, I thought it was fairly unimaginative of him.

What he did bring though was a chocolate cake that he crammed 72 candles on (nearly 20 too many) and lit them all for a "make-a-wish-and-blow-out-the-candle-inferno" photo opportunity.  In spite of it being a horrifying reminder of how flammable my cumulative years have become, I thought it was kind of funny.  I was well lit, anyway.

But there would be a penalty for having brought no gift.  So when we chose a movie to watch and got comfortable and ready to be entertained, I handed Bob my brush and he and Grace took turns brushing my hair.  For the duration of the movie.

Happy Birthday to me.  Best damned present I can think of.

But I'm still going to buy myself something.

I Am NOT 56. I Am NOT 56. I Am NOT 56.

Ready for my closeup...

Yes I am.

Actually I am 55 years, 51 weeks, and 6 days old.

But who's counting?

All I can say is that if 50 is the new 30, 56 is...

... the new 56.

It isn't that I feel 56 (whatever that means).  It certainly doesn't  feel like I thought it would feel when I was 25.  It was inconceivable.  I thought it would feel old.  And I don't feel old.

It isn't that I don't feel "cool"  anymore - although my soon-to-be 14 year old can't resist an opportunity to tell me that I'm not. (But what the hell does she know?)

It isn't that I don't feel relevant.  Who cares that I don't know the names of 20-year-old movie stars who make careers of playing vampires with issues.  Or that I don't know what "My Chemical Romance" is or how a chemical could be romantic - or owned - let alone sing.  (Though I understand that the romance that was chemical belongs to no one any longer.)

It isn't that I'm spending time figuring how many years fewer I have to live than I have lived already.  (Although I am.)

It isn't about maybe becoming a mother-in-law.  (Although that is pretty weird.)

I'll tell you what it is.  It's gravity.

Its about actually knowing just how high and at what angle to hold my head in order to hide the three (yes, count 'em - three) chins that clearly are going to require surgical intervention.  

It's about eyelids that have drooped so low that they now resemble foreskin.

Its about just-above-the-knee skirts that aren't long enough and not being able to wear sleeveless.  Its about fat around your knees, and not being able to walk in heels anymore.  It's buying hair color in bulk when its on sale.  It's about the line of your mouth dropping from neutral to frown.

Its about finally seeing what my parents saw when they told me I looked like my grandmother.

But you know what?  Its also about having a story.  And I've had a pretty good one.  And as they say, "It ain't over till the fat lady sings".

And I'm only humming.

Lost Dogs

Toby and Bob

I am very used to the dogs not getting excited when I get home.  They know better.  I do not respond in kind.  So when I came home today and saw that Bob's car was gone, I expected that they would be in the backyard and that I could walk through the door with relative peace.  And that is just how it went.

Bob returned home half an hour later and a half hour after that we realized that the dogs had not reacted when he got home.  Usually, they go running through the house, barking like maniacs, jumping at the door and then all over him when he walks through it - as though they'd been worried sick that they would never see him again and then, had just been returned safely by the police.

Jack

Something was wrong.  We knew they were gone when we realized that they hadn't reacted to Bob's arrival but we went through the motions of looking through the house and yard.  They were not there.

Bob got in the car and and started to search.  Grace went with him.

I stayed home and pondered life without Toby and Jack.  My feelings were very mixed.  The thought that "nature" in the form of coyote, rattle snake or other predator taking them was really unbearable.  I could see their doggy eyes in my head and picture how they loved me even if their love was unrequited.  If I ever cried, they'd come to me as if to ask "what can we do?"  If I ever did reach down to pet them, they were always grateful.  Toby learned that I would laugh when he would smile (baring his teeth), so he would often come up to me and do his trick.   Just for me.   Without being asked.  Jack caught on that I don't like to be licked.  So he doesn't do it.  He will just sit at my feet and resist the urge to do what dogs do to show affection.  Gross as it is.

On the other hand, it would be the end to pee stains, and furniture with holes chewed in it, incessant barking when they want in or out - a million times a day - muddy paws, bad breath, humping the legs of visitors, dragging their butts across the carpet to deal with an itch (aaaarrrrgggghhhhh!), and general disobedience.

Bob and Grace returned from their search without the dogs.

The full impact of loss felt followed them into the house.  Especially Bob because while he sucked it up, Bob was devastated.  He had resigned to them being gone and while he sucked it up, shrugged his shoulders and said "well, whaddaya gonna do?", he paced the floor and wouldn't look at me.  I knew he was beside himself with grief and he was mad at me.  Mad because he had to be mad at someone.  Mad at me because I didn't love them.

I asked him if he wanted me to make a poster.  He said "I guess".  But in his heart he knew they were gone.  For good.  And my heart broke for him.  I knew the girls would cry and be upset, but I actually worried about how Bob would get over it.  He loves those dogs nearly as much as his kids.  And they give him the constant affection he craves.  There have been many times I have awakened to find him sleeping on the couch with the dogs all over him.  He always makes an excuse ("I couldn't fall asleep", "you were snoring")but I know it is because he loves the cuddling.  When I sleep, I need my space.  I like to cuddle too but when its time to sleep, you go your way and I'll go mine.  They are never angry with him.  They adore him.  And so, he loves them.  Completely.

I always talk about how Bob is a boy.  And it is really true that there is a lot of "boy" in him.  But I was witnessing a man.  My man experiencing sadness I hadn't seen in a long time.    And I knew I couldn't comfort him and I also knew that while he knew it wasn't my fault, he didn't like me very much.  Because he knew I didn't feel what he felt.

Bob and Grace decided to take a walk and look for them one last time.  Then Grace saw a sign on a lamp post.  It said "Two white dogs found.  No tags".  So convinced were they that our dogs were gone forever, Grace's first thought was "How weird that someone else lost two white dogs too!"  And of course, the reality washed over them and I wasn't there but I can only imagine the relief.

It turns out they had been found hours ago.  Somehow their absence had escaped everyone.  Hard to believe.

But I am much relived as well.  Because while it is true - I have no deep affection for them, my husband does.  So I will be happy to put up with all I can't stand about them, and hold them dear besides.

Upgrades

Clean, neat, and no longer embarrassing

We bought this rental property with my 401K a couple of years ago and it has proven to be a good investment.  After having spent a lot of money for upgrades initially, we now find we have to replace the air-conditioning unit.  It's okay though because as with any investment, money needs to be spent for upkeep.  Unless, it appears, it happens to be the investment I live in.  The house can be falling down all around us and Bob will say "it's  fine."  So I am extremely jealous of my tenants because they have new carpets, new granite counter tops, new window coverings, new lighting fixtures, and now - new air-conditioning.

Bob hates spending money.  Hates. It.  We need a new couch.  Really.  The leather couch, after 13 years, has a hole in the cushion (thanks to my horrible dogs).  It needs to be replaced.  Ain't gonna happen.   When our dishwasher broke down he did dishes by hand rather than spend $700.00 on a replacement.  We finally got a new one when a friend updated her kitchen and gave us her old one.

On the other hand,  I do spend.  Within reason, I have never had a problem spending money on vacations or things that I want for the house.  But these days I am inclined to try to get by without if I can.  Still, with the air-conditioning going into the rental, I wanted a present too.

So yesterday, I got a call from the young man who is coming to stay with us for the summer while he completes an internship here in Southern California.  (We had a really good experience with our intern from France last year so we thought we'd do it again.)  But he called yesterday and said his mother was coming out with him for the first three days and would that be okay.  Weeeeeelllllll... suuuuure.  We do have another spare room.  But that room is a complete disaster having housed a messy daughter for many years.  It is the one room who's door is always shut.  So when I told Bob that our intern's mom was going to stay for three days, even he jumped into action.

Within ten minutes of the call we were in the car headed for Home Depot to buy carpet and paint.  And I have ordered bedding.  And new lamps.

He is painting as we speak.  And I am so happy I could cry.  We have a reasonable guest room.  One room in the house down, eleven to go.

Emailing With the Big Guy

To:  God@Heaven.net
From:  Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
Subject:  Gotta Minute?

Dear God:

I was hoping you could spare a minute and just hear me out as I have a few issues that I am grappling with and and I was hoping you could give me some perspective.  Is this a good time?

Valri


To:  Valri@dumpinmypurse.com
From: God@Heaven.net
Subject: Gotta Minute?

Hi Valri:

Seriously?  "Is this a good time?"  I'm juggling a lot of balls at the moment.  Some pretty intense stuff going on these past couple of thousand years.   But honestly?  I'm pretty good at juggling so listening to you it isn't a problem.  Shoot.

Love,
God


To: God@Heaven.net
From:  Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
Subject: Gotta Minute?


Thanks.  I didn't think it would be a problem but I didn't want to assume because everyone knows "whenever you assume..."


To Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
From:  God@Heaven.net
Subject: "Gotta Minute?"

"...It makes and ass out of you, but never of Me."  Go on.


To:  God@Heaven.net
From:  Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
Subject:  Gotta Minute?

Okay.  I'll dispense with my lame attempt at an ice-breaker.  I guess I'm just wondering, what's it all about anyway?  I mean, I'm looking down the very short road to another birthday, I can't believe how old I am and suddenly I am wondering, have I blown it?  Was there something I should have done, something I should have seen, something I missed along the way that was right in front of me that I didn't grab onto?


To: Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
From God@Heaven.net
Subject:  Gotta Minute?

I thought you were going to ask me something hard.  The answer is - yes, you have blown it, yes there was something you should have done, yes there was something you should have seen, yes there was something you missed along the way that you didn't grab onto.  Anything else you need to sort out?


To: God@Heaven.net
From:  Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
Subject:  Gotta Minute?

Seriously, God?  That's all you got?  I am really freaking out about all of this.  I look back at a life, here in my middle age and see such an average, milque toast story.  And I am ashamed of a lot of my behavior over the years, and such a lack of gratefulness.  I see years of time wasted in jobs I didn't like, that wore me down, just to pursue some kind of security that I thought I could own.  I abandoned the theatre - something that gave me great joy.  I gave more pursuit to personal comfort than I gave to my family.  We rarely even had dinner together.  I watched too much TV.  I read too little.  I didn't take risks.  I got fat.  I lost touch.  I gave more time to the wrong things and less time to you.   I feel so lost.


To:  Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
From:  God@Heaven.net
Subject:  Gotta Minute?

Hang on a minute.  BRB...

Okay, I'm back.  I had to get the Master Schedule.  I'm looking over your life right now and yes, it looks like you're due for another birthday.  Goods days.... bad days.... way off track over here.  A little closer there.  And yes.  Here you are.  Not all bad but yeah, a lot of wasted time, leaving you... right... here.  Yes, confused and discouraged.  And seeking answers.  Yup.  Looking for purpose and joy.  So what do you want to know?


To: God@Heaven.net
FROM: Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
Subject:   Gotta Minute?

God, with all due respect, what do you mean "what do I want to know?"  I need some counsel.  What heavenly and eternal words of wisdom can you impart that will change the trajectory of my life?


To:  Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
From:  God@Heaven.net
Subject: Gotta Minute?

Okay.  Here it is.  You're not dead yet.

Love,
God


To: God@Heaven.com
From:  Valri@dumpingmypurse
Subject:  Gotta Minute?

Uh... I'm not sure what to say to that.


To Valri@dumpingmypurse.com
From: God@Heaven.net
Subject:  Gotta Minute?

Really??  Did you expect the mountains to crack open and heavenly voices to sing you the answers to the universe?  It's simple, Valri.  And of course, as always, you can take it or leave it.

Thanks for checking in, though.  I invite you to do it more often.  I really love all you guys - more than you know - but y'all do make me laugh.  An eternity of entertainment.

XOXO
God

P.S.  I like your recent FB photo.  I've got it on the refrigerator.

My Own Fred Astair

When Bob and I were first talking about getting married, I had a fantasy of our future together.  My fantasy included three perfectly adjusted, beautiful daughters, happy family, and Bob tap dancing on the kitchen floor.

Well, in spite of me, I now have 4 beautiful, seemingly well adjust girls.  And I believe we all have some measure of happiness most of the time.

And Bob tap dances on the kitchen floor.  And the foyer floor.  And the carpet.

There is something so extraordinary about it.  I listen to the sounds his feet make and marvel.  I sometimes dream I can tap dance.  But he can.  And I so love it.  To me it is like magic.  How can you make your feet move like that?  It is such a joyful form of dance.

Some women dream of candles, wine, and flowers.  Some dream of music and sonnets.  I dream of syncopated rhythms and clicking beats on the floor boards.

I am never more in love with him as I am when he is dancing.

Bank Love

Recently banks seem to be going the extra mile to make us feel comfortable with them again (as if that will ever happen) by trying to be all neighborly.  Following the questionable strategy and success of WalMart, my bank has hired "greeters" for all of their local branches.

It is very weird to walk into the bank toward the teller line and be intercepted by a man in a suit who enthusiastically and somewhat desperately asks: "How are you today?"

"Who, me?  I'm fine".

But he is so earnest that you feel guilty if you don't engage.  Frankly my guilt cup is overflowing so okay,  I'll play.

"And how are you?"

Gratefully he replies, "Great, great.  Thank you so kindly for asking!"  Who says kindly in everyday language anymore? I mean, unless you are saying "would you kindly get out of my way??"  His conversation definitely smells of memorized script.  The kind corporations write to make sure their employees sound natural.  And they never do.  And this guy is really trying.  It's awkward so you hope this is the end of it.

But no.

"Would you like some coffee?"  I notice his stiff arm moves stiffly in the direction of a tray of coffee that has been set up for customers.

"No thank you", says I, "I'm fine".

"How about some water?"

"No I'm good", I say.  "But thanks anyway."

"We have some delicious cookies as well".

I feel like I'm at Costco.

"No really, I'm good.  I just need to make a deposit".

And then I'm off the hook because the next victim just walked in.

I watch this poor guy for the next few minutes.  He is dressed for business but acts as if he hadn't seen me since high school.  I don't greet my own family like this.  It is really awkward to know how to be with my bank greeter.  You don't want to be rude but...  You know what it's like?  It's like when you're at the theatre and the actors come off the stage and pick you out of the audience to interact with.  You have to smile and look like you enjoy the unexpected encounter but you're really thinking "if I wanted to be a part of this play I would have auditioned for it".

I don't need my bank to treat me like a person they'd like to throw a party for.  I don't need coffee or cookies at the bank.  Or water.  I don't need a bank buddy.  I need to make a transaction that I can't do at the ATM outside.

But then it occurs to me that this new "greeter" position at the bank is a post-economic-meltdown created job.  And they are probably judging his performance by how many pots of coffee they need to make during the day.  I do not want to see this young man unemployed.  If a better, less annoying job could have been had, he would have taken it.

And so, I grab a cup of lukewarm coffee and a boring cookie on my way out.  And thank him.  Kindly.

A Haiku (sort of)

new exercise equipment

sits in a corner where dust settles

and my dog
leaves his mark

bob brought cheesecake

Okay - it's not 5-7-5 but I'm a beginner.

It Happens to the Best of Us

I have this friend.  She is younger than me - but again, that isn't so hard to be these days.  Still, she is of a certain age.  She's not a "cougar", but she looks fabulous and she looks young enough to be her daughter's sister rather than her mother.  She takes great care of herself, has good genes, and is just beautiful.  Period.

But today...

Today I saw her at the market - sans makeup and hair and I have to tell you.  She totally looked her age.  

I have never considered myself a petty person, but the sight of her at the check out warmed my heart.  I'm in excellent company.

Stormy Weather

Hmmmm.  Life is funny.  Or not.

So much of what I would typically put down on paper as been obscured of late because of work.  I think all of us have this idea about how our "life plan" is going to work out.  For people my age, we've been driving toward the end zone, navigating the bumps and pitfalls but hopefully, keeping within the width of the road.  However, the epic fail of the economy in 2008 and 2009 threw so many of our plans to the wind that we have had to claw our way back to the road, sweep up the debris, and try to get the car started again.  Even if it only has three wheels left.

I was fortunate.  The crash cost us my well paying job and our savings but in the end, we were blessed (genuinely) with what was happening in Bob's career at the time.

In total, between a job with an ill-fated magazine, I spent two years unemployed before landing at my current position.  And I thought to myself, this is it.  I will be here until retirement.  And my current position, while paying far less than anything I have made in a long while, suits me fine.  The operative word, apparently, being me.

The industry I am currently in is in crisis.  Government funding that sustains it is severely cut and so our little company is evolving.  But it does not have the luxury of a normal evolutionary process - it must take place a warp speed.  I liken it to having to turn an ocean liner 180 degrees on a dime.  And so, everything, and everyone is under the glass.  And this scrutiny adds additional weight to an already stressful situation.  Still, I am grateful for work, and I like the product that I sell.  It is important and it adds value to the industry.

Recently however, I was given, completely out of the blue and with no warning whatsoever, a written warning.  It was the first time I had ever experienced such a thing in my life.  I have sat on the other side of the desk before.  I know the seriousness of such a thing, now in my employee file.  The charges confused me.  They were three one-time incidences that were, at least in my mind, minor and forgettable - certainly not notable.  But here they were - in writing - and I was devastated.  Apart from the blot on my record and the feeling that I am being squeezed out, my feelings were hurt.  Really hurt. I couldn't help but feel "why are they doing this to me?"

So here is what I have learned.  The workplace can be a war zone.  There is no room for feelings on the job.  

In all of this employment turmoil since being laid off from Disney four years ago, I am finally beginning to really understand something about being employed that I believe everyone needs to learn in order to survive unscathed.  We spend so much of our lives in our work that we often define ourselves by what we do.  The is our first mistake,  The second mistake we make - and a much graver one than the first - is believing in what our employers think of us.  Whether wildly successful or just clinging on, we are not who they think we are and we are certainly not who they say we are.  That is not to say that proactive reaction to what they say is not necessary.  It is.  If we want to keep our jobs, we must address what our bosses tell us to address - even if we don't understand or agree.  But to keep grounded during such a time we have to hang on to what is actually true - that being that who we really, truly are can be found in God.  Alone.  And with that unwavering knowledge fueling us we can stay on course, regardless of the storm.

So it appears dark clouds are looming.  I have no idea what is next.  I am working my tail off to do a superlative job, but who knows what decisions have already been made, and for what reasons - regardless of my efforts.  It feels weird.  It is weird.  But as I heard in church this past week, we must be content with much or with little.  God is enough, whatever comes.  That is a promise.

He has not let me down.  Not once.

Terms of Endearment

I am finally getting back to normal after having been stricken with the flu from hell.  I will never go without a flu shot again.  But coming out of the fog for the first time in a week means facing the following:  an inch of dust everywhere, the vacuum is desperately needed for some major work, loads of laundry await, and bathrooms need attention.

So naturally, I wish I had the flu again.

Really, it is now 8:30 p.m. and I have been contemplating "getting started" for the past 12 hours.  But at 6:00 p.m., as I was watching the last minutes of natural light - enough to be able to still call it "day", I stumbled upon a great idea:  Netflix.  What movie had I not seen in a long time that Grace would really like?  Browse, browse, browse and finally: Terms of Endearment.

Oh my gosh, what a perfect movie.  So wonderfully written, directed and acted with such an amazing cast, you absolutely cannot watch that movie and clean at the same time.   So we put it on and I was not able to do anything for two and a half hours.  Sorry, but what can you do?

Grace had never seen it and she was immediately caught up with Deborah Wingers wonderful character.  Personally, I loved Shirley McLaine - I appreciated her performance in a way I couldn't have possibly appreciated it the last time I saw it - about 20 years ago.  And of course, there is Jack.

When Jack Nicholson came on screen my jaw dropped to the floor and I thought "how old is this movie?"  Well guess what?  It is 30 years old!  This was a fact unfathomable to me.  But I had to concede it when I realized that when I first saw this move - in 1983 - I thought Jack was old and out of shape.  I did not swoon.  He was a "bad boy" who never grew up.  Unattractive.  This time however, I thought how young and gorgeous and sexy Jack was -  a real "bad boy".  Extremely attractive.

But I digress.

I sat watching the movie but with one eye on Grace.  I loved seeing her buy in and come to love the characters - knowing full well what was coming.  She was silenced when Shirley McClaine was banging on the nurse's station demanding her daughter get her shot, her eyes welled with tears when Deborah Winger said good-bye to her boys (I can't breathe watching that scene!), and when she finally reachers toward her mother, smiles wistfully, and dies, from next to me I hear audible, wracking, sobs.  But not from Grace.  These from Bob.

I had forgotten.  At a chick flick Bob is certain to be the biggest girl in the room.  He has cried like this at uncountable movies - "Heart and Souls", "Forrest Gump", "The Notebook".  And both Grace and I looked at him with empathy.  He needed a kleenex.  He needed a hug.  It took him very little time to recover and he always laughs at himself afterward but his heart is extremely tender toward such sentimental, heart-tugging movies.  And while many people might think it strange or awkward to be in the presence of a man who cannot control the flood of emotions within, I see his tenderness in very different terms.  In fact, you might call it terms of endearment .

(You knew that was coming...)

Nurse Mom

I am never really sick.  But today I am.

Yesterday morning I woke up a little stuffed up.  By the time I got to work, I had a tickle in my throat. It turned into a cough that, over the next several hours, gained momentum.  By 6:00 p.m. I was in bed. Then I experienced the fever and the chills, the horrible muscle aches - that actually woke me several times during the night.

So how am I coping?  Actually, extremely well.  In fact, I'm enjoying it  little bit.

Now I know this sounds crazy but it is a real "treat" to be able to stay in bed all day and nurse my fatigue; know there is laundry and dusting, and vacuuming to do and have no choice but to ignore it.  Without guilt.

Prince Bob stepped up and cleaned the carpets, made me a berry smoothie for breakfast and home made vegetable soup for lunch.

I had to bow out of obligations this weekend but I am bundled in a warm and comfortable bed and frankly, I am so loving that.  Even though I am hacking up a lung and fighting the chills.  And wondering my my muscles hurt so badly.

It is times such as these when I really miss my mother.  She was a wonderful nurse.  Her soft hands would be all over my face and neck checking for temperature.  She would have brushed my hair.  But then something kind of weird and wonderful happened.  As I was flipping through the channels, I saw that "The Lawrence Welk Show" was on PBS.  I would never watch it for entertainment value but seeing it takes me back to my great grandmother's house in Sacramento as a little girl.  When ever we were there with our parents we had to watch it with Grandma Florence.  I used to make fun of all the saccharine of the show - even as a 9-year-old.  But tuning in tonight took me straight back there, to Grandma's wonderful house on "Q" Street, with my mother.  Sitting on the foam green nubby couch.

And I can feel her with me.

Wunerful, wunerful.

The Problem with Secrets

Yesterday, as I was catching up on work I had brought home, Bob and I watched a documentary on Netflix about "The Secret".

You all remember "The Secret", right?  It was a wildly successful book and philosophy that everyone was talking about a few years back.  It basically says that we live under the laws of attraction.  That consciously or not, we draw to us what we get - whether positive or negative, and that by focusing on what we want, believing that we will get it, and living as if we already have it, the universe will reorganize itself to give us what we want.  That Mercedes you see yourself in?  Its yours.  That 500K job you long for?  In the bag.  The house in Malibu?  Start packing.

I don't wish to poke fun of people who believe in this.  In fact, it is seductive.  If I can think it, I can have it.  Who wouldn't love that?  But here's a secret about "the secret".  There may be some power there but  be careful what you wish for.  And how.

First of all, there is no secret about living with positive thinking.   In fact it is scriptural.  "A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones", Prov 17:22.  Further, "Finally brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things" Phil 4:8.  Of course our attitude makes all the difference in how our lives are going to go.  And yes, if you live with negative thoughts, you are likely to be a negative person and you are not going to enjoy your life.  On the flip side, if you are positive,  you focus on what is good and when things go wrong you will work to take the negative and use it for positive.  That is scriptural as well. "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose" Rom 8:28.

The Secret also speaks a great deal about gratitude.  Again, no secret.   "Be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances" Thes 5:16-18.

There is a lot said about "believing" you will get what you want in the philosophy of "The Secret" as well.  Believing is not a new concept.  "Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it will be opened to you.  For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.  For what man is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent?  If you then, being evil(*), know how to give good things to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!" Mat 7:7-11 (*) evil , meaning with an imperfect nature.

So all of this has been around forever.  But here is where it falls apart for me.  In this entire documentary, I heard nothing about contentedness, nor did I hear anything about anything other than personal desire and agenda.

There is nothing wrong with wealth.  Certainly life can go smoother without financial concerns.  And I'd be lying if I said I didn't love luxury.  I wish I had more.  Who doesn't love the idea of sailing on a beautiful yacht or traveling the world first class, or just a kitchen renovation?  But if the means are to those ends specifically, there is no real happiness.  And that, is probably the real the secret.  Contentedness must come into play for there to be joy and fulfillment.  "Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content.  I know how to be brought low and I know how to abound.  In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need.  I can do all things through Him who strengthens me"  Phil 4:11-13.

And if we ask for and believe that the universe will give us all that we want, we have to consider that the "universe" is everything.  Space, galaxies, planets, suns, moons, black holes, earth, all living creatures - including us - we are all part of the universe.  If we believe that the universe has the intelligence to coordinate everything in its endless capacity and bend the "collective will" - including mine - to grant you what you want, someone, at some point is going to be disappointed.  Because I am part of the universe and what I want and what you want may collide.  But if we believe that God is not the universe but instead the creator of the universe, we can see how He alone can work things out for His own purposes, and that lining up with what He wants will bring you complete fulfillment.  Because, after all, you are His idea.  And the true desires of your heart were planted there by Him.

The "secret", although it really isn't a secret, is a reliance on God, an attitude that is positive and affirming, grateful and contented, prayerful and expectant, seeking of purpose and understanding for God's design, direction, and fulfillment.  Because in the end, our own desires fall short of fulfilling us.  "You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand there are pleasures forevermore" Psalm 16: 11.  And truth be told, that while you may find yourself blessed with riches, God is not terribly interested in those.  He made them, he understands the benefit of them, but they are not eternal things.

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."  If this is indeed from the creator of the universe, can it possibly be any better that that?

Of course, we are free to visualize personal prosperity, material wealth, large houses, boats, cars, money - all of the things we long for that we feel will make us complete and happy.  I remember so many times in my life, praying fervently for stuff - the right apartment, the new car, that some guy would like me, for a bigger paycheck, on and on -  and found that the contentedness in having them was very short lived.  There was nothing wrong with wanting those things.  There was nothing wrong with getting those things,  There was nothing wrong with praying for those things.  There was something wrong with thinking those things would fulfill me.  There was something wrong being so focused on the stuff I wanted to make me happy in my life that I had no interest in lining up with what God wanted for me.

"For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"  Mat 16:26.

Milwaukee, Doan'cha Know

Looking at a three day weekend with at least a day's worth of work to take home.  No matter.  I am still so grateful to be employed - even if this is the most stressful sales job I have ever had.

My company is in change mode.  We are introducing a lot of new product which should go far in changing the trajectory of our business, but transition is always tough.  Like trying to turn a ship on a dime.  Still, I get to travel a bit.  To far off and unknown places.

Like Wisconsin.  Preparing for the trip was easy.  I have packing for business down to a science now.  It was depressing to see how beat up my beautiful, expensive, not-yet-a-year-old suitcase is.  It does not pay to buy attractive luggage.  By the time I got to Wisconsin, the airline had further damaged my bag by breaking the collapsible handle - offering evidence to support my suspicion that airlines are cutting corners by employing monkeys to handle the luggage.  By the way, airlines won't guarantee wheels or handles.

Anyway, I was in Wisconsin for a literacy conference - taking place at the same time that major snow storm was blowing through on its way to Boston.  Having been warned that I couldn't possibly imagine the cold I was about to endure, I brought my black wool car coat, my heavy-duty London Fog trench coat to wear over it, and even borrowed a good ski-coat from a friend.  As it turns out, the hotel I stayed at had a skywalk to the convention center so the only time I was outside was the 10 seconds from airport terminal to cab to hotel to cab to airport terminal.  The only time I needed my coat was to roll it up and use it on the plane as a pillow.  True, I missed much of what Milwaukee has to offer - which I'm certain is measurable - but then again, you know, so what?  I was able to see the snow from the skywalk and from my hotel room - and it was glorious, but I also saw scores of people, heavily bundled with oversized shovels doing what looked like the very hard work of clearing the sidewalks.

Better them than me (she said selfishly).

I did not have to walk outside to get a bit of Milwaukee native flavor though.  I was there representing my company, one of many vendors exhibiting to educators attending.  Exhibiting from one of the universities, right across the aisle was a very likeable woman named Pat.  Pronounced "Pey-at".  It is spoken in nearly two syllables.  Pat told me she has "lived mii whohle life in Wiskahnsin" (lived my whole life in Wisconsin).  She had a delightful Wisconsin accent and was very friendly.

"Whey're ya frahm?" she asks me.

"Thousand Oaks", I tell her.

"Ooh.  Wheyre's that?"

"Between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara - just over the Santa Monica mountains from Malibu", I explain.

Immediately she crosses over the aisle laughing.  "Ooh mii gaad", she says.  "Heh-av yah ever seen the Caalaforneeons" on Saatarday Niight Liive?  They aare sooooooooooo funnee."  And then, in her heavy Wisconsin accent, she attempted a California surfer accent and I won't even try to spell it phonetically.  Hilarious.  

And don't think that just because I never left the confines of the hotel/conference center I didn't experience some real Milwaukee pride.  The hotel (Hilton) offered the the kind of experience that many travelers are looking for - comfortable rooms with enough old-world luxury to make you feel you were somewhere special.  But lest you forget where you were, among several places to dine in the hotel, they offered "The Miller Time Pub".  I had forgotten it was brewed in Milwaukee.

But the most noteworthy experience of my trip was walking through the austere hallways of the Hotel, with its lush red and gold carpeting and beautiful crystal chandeliers to one end of the sky walk, across to the other side where an escalator ran, taking you to the convention center.  Along the wall of the escalator, as you descended, were large, framed black and white photographs (circa 1970s) of Milwaukeeans - large and small, young and old - reveling in the Polka experience.  And because, to the foreigner, these images alone might appear ridiculous - even eliciting a condescending chuckle at the sight of joy with beer and accordions, those responsible for the choice of decor installed a sign at the top of the stairs which read "Push to Play Polka".

So, of course, I did.

And for the short ride down, looking at the photos and hearing the rousing sounds of a professional polka band, I let me feet go: one, two, three - and, one, two, three - and..." on my step - all the way down.  And it felt just great.

Indeed, I think I would like to visit Milwaukee again.

In the Spring.

Oh-kee Doh-kee, then. 

Christopher's Visceral Art

By my cousin, Christopher Roberts

I've never been really drawn to abstracts.  My taste has always tended more toward the soft focus, soothing images of impressionism.  Monet, Manet, Seurat.

Things are changing - mostly because of my cousin, Christopher Roberts.

Chris is my cousin Lynn's oldest son.  I used to baby sit him.  He was a blonde and beautiful child.  Then I moved.  Then they moved.  And I saw him very infrequently.  He was simply my second cousin, Lynn's kid (although he calls me "Aunt").  I loved him but I did not know him to be extraordinary.

Chris had trouble in school.  Not that he wasn't smart.  I am told he tests "brilliant", intelligence wise.  But Chris was gay and he was the first gay person in our family to "come out" (there have been more since).  Evidently the bullying in school was brutal.   Chris was a little misdirected early in young adulthood.  Trouble with substance abuse led to some bad decisions and some of his experiences have been extremely painful.  But ultimately, all of that led him to make a big change and he packed up and left Tucson to move to Portland where he went to school and I don't really know what else.  He started over.  Then, about a year ago, he took up residence in an artists' loft with other artists and they paint and create all day long.  And I thought: "Really, Chris?"

You see, Chris' grandmother was my Aunt Barbara.  She really was an artist and I secretly thought: "Just because Barbara was an artist doesn't mean..."  Nothing that I knew of Chris or his life ever gave me a reason to think he was an artist.  

I am an idiot.

When Chris first started posting his paintings, they reflected deeply personal feelings and experiences he had had in his life.  I appreciated them, but I couldn't feel them myself.  I didn't understand it.  But as his paintings continued to evolve, so did my interest.  His work is absolutely extraordinary.  He is brilliant - and not just intelligence wise.  

I am now a true fan.  And very strangely - it is his abstracts that I am absolutely in love with.  I am saving money to commission hopefully more than one piece from him.  Happily I get a "family discount" - but his work is truly amazing and worth a great deal more than he charges.  I look at the painting above and want to live there.  I think it is just spectacular.  (If you click on the picture above, you will see the entire painting.)

Chris did not ask me to write this.  He doesn't know that I am.  But if you are into art collecting, I would bet on him and buy before you can't.  

You can find him on Facebook by searching "Christopher's Visceral Art".  

The New TV

Um, did my room just get smaller?

I clearly have a spacial problem.

Fourteen years ago, when I was pregnant with Grace and building another bedroom onto the house, I looked at the original floor plans and indicated to the architect the rough size I wanted the new room to be.  I was basically choosing the size of another bedroom we currently had.  It was a nice size, all the furniture fit and there was room to move around and play on the floor.  Fairly standard.

When the contractor came to stake out the space before laying a foundation, I stood in the center of the roped off area and felt as if I was in a closet.  The contractor assured me that is was, in fact, what I had requested and was, in fact, the same dimensions of the bedroom I requested it match.  I knew my contractor was both smart and trustworthy but it looked so small.  I just couldn't imagine how a crib, a dresser, and a "Diaper Genie" could fit where I was standing.  Let alone a rocking chair.  So right then and there I told him to make it bigger.  By about about forty percent.  

The walls went up, the carpet was laid, and we painted.  Then we started moving the furniture in.  I needed more furniture.  A lot more.  Grace's room was a football field.  

I had a similar experience today.  I was at Sears, looking at new flat screens to replace a TV that has needed to be replaced for a while - and in time for Super Bowl.  There I was, wandering the aisles of uncountable LCD and plasma screens, passing up the screens that were clearly too small and looking for sales.  Finally a sales person came to help me and I told him the size I was looking for.  Roughly the size of our current flat screen - what I believed to be 42".  He showed me to the aisle that had 42" screens.  Clearly I had it wrong.  Our screen was not nearly as small as what he was showing me.  We must have a 50" screen.  I told him so.  We moved to a new aisle.  This seemed about right.  He pointed me to a screen that was on-sale and it was 52".  Two inches bigger than what we currently have.  Bob would like that and it was affordable.  I purchased it.   It took about 15 minutes to get it in the car.

That should have been a big clue.

Getting out of the car proved impossible.  We had to cut through the box and pull it out.  Once we got it into the house and brought it to the credenza that still held our other TV, I gasped.  We did have a 42" screen after all and it was plenty big enough.

I now have a room that is all about a television.  Even Grace remarked: "was that really necessary?"  Of course Bob is delirious.

I'm wondering if there is any relation to the great chasm between the size on the labels of my clothing and the size I see in the mirror.

I'm guessing I should start trusting the labels.

32 Days In

Beautiful Winter View of Manitoba

What day is it?  I swear, life is so chaotic I feel like I'm in a perpetual hangover.

So I guess it's February first (seriously, I was thinking it was some sort of "Fool's" day - uh no, that would be April).  Nonetheless, I have had a brutal work week and now I am staring down a 36 hour tunnel to Super Bowl Ex-El-Vee-Eye-Eye (and if memory serves me correctly that would be 47??) It's hard to believe that I knew 8 years before the first Bowl.  And yet - the world turned.  I know the San Francisco 49ers are playing against a team that starts with a "B".  And we are hosting a Super Bowl Party.

Backing up, this past week - I was sent to a three-day sales training that was fairly fun and a nice respite from the grind of trying to hit my revenue numbers which requires regularly scheduled prayer.  The stress of it has brought on relapse of hypochondria - taking the form of whatever "disease du jour" catches my eye first when my computer opens to Yahoo.  A special call out to Dr. Bukont who renewed my prescription to anti-anxiety meds.  

But it was a tough week too since we welcomed a new very senior level account manager to our staff who has been in the industry quite a long while and brings what we used to call a "meaningful rolodex" to the table.  Unfortunately, her rolodex is comprised of names and numbers from the territory I have been working my ass off in all of last year and was finally seeing some traction on.  So, good corporate citizen I, with a well rehearsed smile, handed all my files and pipeline to the new girl.  Not that I had a choice.  I did not.  And I am now starting over - again - in Canada (yes, all of it), the eastern seaboard, down to New Jersey (minus New York), Maryland, Massachusetts, Delaware, DC, Virginia and West Virginia.  

Can anyone spell s-n-o-w-b-o-o-t-s?  

I visit Manitoba next month and so far, anyone I have mentioned this to has burst into laughter.  Something tells me it isn't because they are known for Comedy Clubs.  I am terrified.  I don't believe I have ever been in sub-zero temperatures.

But possibly more terrifying is the fact that 23 of our friends are coming to our house on Sunday.   Bob keeps saying the house is in "pretty good shape".  He must be referring to our house from the parallel universe.  I am gearing up for a day of ammonia solution cleaning because it is not in pretty good shape at all.  What it is is picked up.  But it is dirty and all the bedroom doors are shut and behind them are monsters.

Plus there is - the food.  And I can only imagine Costco the day before Super Bowl.  I will be there tomorrow to experience it first hand - after sticking needles in my eyes...

Add to all of this the guilt I feel for the friends we love and cannot invite.  Not that they are grieving - they're probably having their own Super Bowl Party - but I would have liked very much to invite them - and in many cases, we owe them an invitation.  Over owe in fact.  Like its been our turn to have them over for over a year.  Or two.  But we really don't usually have more than a couple of people at once - which is why, as Bob excitedly picked up the phone to continue inviting people I had to scream: "Noooooooo!!!"

"What?" he asks me.

"Look around you Bob.  How big does this room look to you? Does it look like it will accommodate 23 people?"

"Oh I can fit them in."

"No Bob we are not having 23 little boys in their PJs who will be comfortable sprawled all over the floor.  Nor can we set up chairs in front of the couch.  We can fit 10 to 12 maybe. So we are going to have to  spread this out into the living room as well. And we will fill that room with the rest of the group.  And that will work fine.  But do not invite anyone else. They will only be irritated that there is no place to sit and have a view of the game."

This new development (that being the realization that we do not live in a 4500 square foot, open concept floor-plan home), presented us with a new problem.  While it was fine to split the party into two rooms, the TV we have in the living room is a 10-incher hidden in a small console because I don't want to see a TV in my living room. Clearly that will not do so Bob brought out the big, old fashioned 36" TV that lives on shelving in our bedroom closet, and set it up in the living room.  But I am guessing that no one wants to come to our house to watch Super Bowl Ex-El-Vee-Eye-Eye on a 10-year-old color "TV set".  I could be wrong - no I couldn't be wrong.  So tomorrow I have to go to Sears and do the best I can on getting another wide screen flat TV - one that will ultimately replace the dinosaur in the bedroom.  And I suppose its time.  But there are other things I could spend my money on.

Like a down coat for Manitoba.

How Many Smiths Does it Take...

Unbelievably, its January.  Moreover, its January 24th.  Which means its been a full month since I checked in.  Not that there hasn't been anything to say, its just that January just begs for procrastination.  I mean you have a whole year...

Anyway, though I have some things in the pipeline, I will start with what happened today.

Actually it starts in August when I bought this 7-cup capacity Cuisinart.  I have started making soups and it takes hours to chop all the vegetables.  The Cuisinart was a complete god-send.  It cut prep time in half.  For a non-cook, this discovery was like a miracle from heaven.  So anyway, since August, just about every other week, I pull out the Cuisinart and chop, chop, chop, blend, blend, blend, shred, shred, shred.  My new best friend.  This goes on regularly until December - when the girls come home for the holidays and Christine decides she wants to bake cookies.  I tell her to pull out the Cuisinart because it is going to make the task so much easier.

Christine, measured and poured into the bowl.  I told her to lock the bowl into place for it to work.  She did.  It didn't work.  I got up and checked it.  It was like the thing died.  It was weird, she pressed the little button and the light went on but the blade wouldn't move.  Silence.

I moved it to a different outlet.  I tried a different blade.  I gave it 30 minutes and tried it again.  I turned it upside down to see if there was some sort of default switch.  I juggled the cord at the base.  It cost me $150 and I was very upset.  I only had it for 4 months and now it was broken.  I got a lemon and I had no receipt or anything.  So we put it back in the cupboard and forgot about it.

But then, call it New Year resolve, last weekend while at Macy's (where I bought it), I stood in line in housewares until my turn, whereupon I told my whole sad (but true!) story.  She said to bring it back for an exchange.  I didn't need the receipt.  Unbelievable!!

So the following day, I stood in line again, this time holding my un-boxed Cuisinart and all its attachments and exchanged it for another one.  But this time, it was on sale so I had a $30 credit which allowed me to purchase - for only $16 - a little mini-Cuisinart that works for smaller jobs.  (Actually it replaced one we can no longer find - oddly since the girls went back home after the holidays.  Something tells me it has found a new home in the Bay Area.)  Anyway - it was a two-for-one win/win - for me!!  This never happens!  Joyfully, I skipped back to the car with my new toys.

Monday night, Bob decided to bake a pie.  All the ingredients went into the bowl.  Bowl locked into position.  Press the button.  The red light goes on.  The blade doesn't move.  How is this possible??  Again we go through all the checks and this time I call Cuisinart who tells me to take it back to Macy's. So today, we did.  Bob packed up all the blades and accessories and we stood in line again.  The very nice lady behind the counter said she has never heard this before.  She suggested that we may need an electrician.  We told her no - the red light went on and other appliances worked in the same outlet, so she shrugged her shoulders and gave us a brand new Cuisinart.

We got it home and and unpacked it and put it together and plugged it in.  The blade would not turn.  Again.  Okay, now this was really weird.  We did everything short of take it apart.  I wondered aloud if we had an electrical poltergeist.  And then, Bob stuck a pen in this little hole in the front.  Whiiiiiiirrrrrrrrr.  The blade takes off.  What the...???

We scratch our heads and try to figure out what is going on and suddenly Bob realizes that we have locked the bowl in backward.  It worked.  And so did the last one.

And so did the one I originally bought.

And both of those perfectly good machines are being sent back to the manufacturer as defective.  Because I am an idiot.  After 4 months of using it regularly,  I failed to notice we had been putting it together incorrectly.

Stupid only barely scratches the surface of how I felt.  But Bob did a little dance when he remembered that  we got a free  mini Cuisinart because of it.  Alas, his dance was short lived once he realized that he returned the blade for the mini Cuisinart - the only blade, along with all the other blades we just handed back to Macy's.  So now we really do have a Cuisinart that won't work.

Stupid.  Mr. and Mrs.