Wishes

I wish I could suck in my upper arms like I can suck in my gut.

I wish that I could have that wish for my "upper knees" as well.

I wish I had a caramel apple.

I wish that I knew tomorrow would be OK.

I wish I could remain in the present and not have the above mentioned wish.

I wish that big hips equaled fuller breasts.

I wish I never heard the song "We Built This City on Rock and Roll".

I wish my brothers lived closer.

I wish that french fries tasted like what I fear the green stuff in lobster tastes like.

I wish my neck would never change.

I wish there was a real dinging sound that would go off when I made the right decision.

I wish pets didn't shed.

I wish I would read more.

I wish the end of life would always be easy and peaceful. 

I wish bugs didn't want to come inside my house.

I wish babies could talk from birth and say "Thank you, Mom" with a milky, gurgly voice at 3:45am.

I wish I had a mini fridge of cheese that was on wheels, and no one would think it strange.

I wish the mini fridge would come with a cheese melter attachment because...come on. Melted cheese.

I wish that I could eat a Confidence Fortified banana some mornings.

I wish we didn't have to lose hours of daylight just because the seasons change.

I wish that my two oldest nieces lived next door so I could braid their hair often. 

I wish I could see the animal that makes the porpoise noise from underneath my porch in the Summer.

I wish chocolate was good for you. Wait.....win.

I wish I could drink and get brilliantly tipsy and then push an off button and be sober to go home.

I wish that my children loved to clean. Insisted on it, even.

I wish the contentment I feel right now will linger through the chaos of the week.

I wish my job title, since I have to have one, sounded as important as the work I do.

I wish sad things wouldn't happen. And I know that they do have to happen. With sadness, we also know joy.

I wish everyone a moment of joy, at the very least, at some point today.

No, Quiero No Slub

I used to teach with a woman who could speak Spanish and loved to sing. We would spend our prep periods singing Cher, Monkees, Elton John, and a favorite song, No Scrubs by TLC, sung in spanish. No, no quiero no scrub.

Why do I tell you this? (To begin a rant)

Because I no longer want, nor did I ever desire, slub clothing. For those not up on the lingo, slub in fabrics means having an irregular appearance caused by uneven thickness of the thread/yarn.
Por ejemplo:

Maybe a single shirt like this in one's arsenal is fine. However, I can't get away from them. I see a shirt I like, look closely.

SLUB.

Such a perfect sound effect for the disappointment.

No, no quiero no slub.

The word is giving me a rash and heartburn. The word is every bit terrible as moist.



Slub is not to be confused with burnout!

This material will have see-through parts. It will cling to every roll on your person. I can see it as workout wear because you either don't have rolls or you are working on your rolls. Go ahead.

And while we are on to the cling factor- every shirt this day and age is made with 1/3 of the material it once was. I remember cotton shirts being soft and yet had a thickness so that it fell away from every nook and cranny my local creamery has gifted me. Must we see the bra wedgies and edgies? Why do I now have to do the thing with my arms inside my shirt acting like two struggling squirrels running about before I slip my arms through the sleeve holes and finish dressing? Do you know of which desperate dance move I speak? Stretching out the front of my shirt to give myself a little "me" space from the material.

Hey, also- if I want to buy a white shirt these days, the clothing industry has the bonus of my also buying a cami to wear under it, thereby doubling their sales. They are obviously spending less on every piece of clothing we are buying because 2/3 of the material is reserved for more clothing manufacturing. Why must I buy two tops to count as one?

I just want to buy a shirt.

I. Want. To. Buy. A Shirt.

That covers.

That flatters.

That fits.


¿Es que tan mal?

My last words on the subject: Now that we know that none of these shirts cover us properly- if you wear a dark shirt, wear a dark bra. And with light goes light. Unless you are trying to make a statement. I thought that went out in the 90s, but that means nothing because I am no fashion icon nor genius in this realm. What I am saying is, if you aren't making a statement, match as best you can because if someone takes a picture, the bra color always shines through. Just look at all the pictures on social media. Your bathroom mirror isn't telling you this! (And if you are a man and are reading this, disregard. Unless you wear a bra. Then heed. Unless you are making a statement.)

My mother always said that all my taste was in my mouth, and yet I still wrote an essay on clothing. Ta-daaaah!

Changed

I'm not sure what came over me, but I seared tuna and changed the oil in my car. On the same day. Both firsts.

I felt like knocking some stuff off my "I wonder how...?" list. I was inspired by my friend Vanessa who is always tackling a project that involves spread sheets, poison ivy (or some such repulsive outside stuff), and a tool. (This week's tool was a sawzall and her repulsive wildlife was a family of snakes.) She just goes at it with the best attitude and I find it so bad-ass that I, too, wanted the bad ass.

With seared tuna, the worst thing I could do was actually cook it rather than sear it. Not a nightmare. Definitely keeping my health and that of my family's in tact. Probably the hardest part was driving an extra distance to a fish store to purchase it with 3 kids in tow who just had ice cream. And they had walkie talkies.

It was just very annoying.

I got home and double checked the recipe and the steps.
Then I did it.
One a wee bit over cooked.
Delicious.
Rockstar status with my middle child.
Moving on.
Shot a text out to my husband

 

(Now, no one get bent out of shape about the line if I "could do it physically"- my car is big and pretty low to the ground, and that shit was awkward with parts being screwed on tight. The man's arms have about 4-6 inches on mine, each.)

The Change Oil Soon light was ablaze in my car and I had a mini road trip planned. In order to not explode my car on the side of the road, I wanted to change my oil and feel accomplished. (I would also learn that needing to change my oil was not synonymous with car explosions on the side of the road.) After assuring my husband I would still love and need him in my life... and that I understood I would be on the garage floor and dealing with dirty car oil...and that, yes, I know he would be happy to do it for me as he loves me and I seared tuna for him...we got down to work. (My badd-assness almost waning during the negotiations because the alternate choice, reading and not being dirty, started to appeal to me as well since it was going on 8pm when I can tantrum more easily.)

Under my kitchen sink, I had the choice between purple or neon green rubber gloves. (Duh. Purple!) Once I shimmied under the car- a process that started with my trying not to lie on the garage floor at all which made shimmying along the floor impossible- I was in. Old dried leaves in my ponytail, a dead bug in my line of vision.
Fine.
Fine.

Rob gathered all that I would need, pointed the parts out to me under the car, and sat back on the stairs to let me get to work, talking me through it. He is a very good teacher (as long as he isn't helping anyone's mom with a computer and/or tablet. That goes wrong, fast.)

(Use the force, you will, with leftie loosey)

Besides almost ripping my right arm out of my socket while over extending it with a socket wrench, all went smoothly. The oil was warm and oozy and messy. At one point it was running down my arm. It was enjoyable, even at 8:20pm. Enjoyable because I had accomplished something I wanted to and because I knew I never HAD to do it again. But could. I also added a new air filter after examining how BAD it was, just like how the Jiffy Lube people loved to present me with my filter. Good times.

(The gloves were the perfect shade of I Am Woman)

Up next....A little web savviness? If we refer back to my text with Rob, he didn't even touch that part of my inquiry. Why? Refer back to his working with moms and their computers/tablets. He wants to pretend I never said a thing....

Oh, how a little bit of learning gives so much.

Where have I been?

I am feeling rusty, but if I don't write something, I am not sure when I will start again.

I wrote two important pieces about my college. Yes. That college I don't shut up about. One was to be read at an assembly held during reunion weekend, and one to be placed in the college's quarterly magazine.

The speech came to me at 9:15 one night and I just wrote it and sent it to my Class President and my Co-Reunion Chair for their review. Would either of them like to take parts of it to use when either of them gave our class speech? They decided to use the whole thing and for me to read it instead. This was a body numbing big deal to me.
One fraught with the emotions of fear, pride, and sadness.

I am not a public speaker, save the 3-4 toasts I have given at weddings/anniversaries. I think I gave a quick one at my own 40 1/2 birthday party and was told to just cut the cake already.

I was proud to have made two very intelligent and creative women writers content with what I had to share. That they believed in me to deliver it to a crowded auditorium on behalf of the Class of '95 was overwhelming to me. I overwhelm way easier than most which can be embarrassing. And that is just me.

I was sad that this moment came without my father, a speech writer, around me. I rocked on my porch and kept whispering in my head, "What do you think? My dear ol' Da, what do you think?"

As I tweaked the speech, another wowing writer friend and editor emailed me and asked if I would submit something to the college magazine.

I wet myself.

She had an idea of what she was looking for. It perfectly fit with the point I was making in the speech. It would be seamless! It would be an honor!

It would be a literal and literary ass kicker.

I started with something I had already written and tried to tweak it. Dad rushed in my head and said "Throw it out. Start again. What matters will stick."
I then tried different angles.
I was then given suggestions I tried to incorporate.
I lost my voice we were both looking for.
I then had to edit out about 200 words.
I then didn't like the whole flow.
I then had to edit about 60 words.
I am sure margins were altered a bit to save me.
I felt like an ass.
I felt like I didn't know the first thing about writing.
I felt challenged and inept.
None of this due to my thoughtful and clever editor. She told me she loved working with someone who knew how to write an essay.
I thought I knew how to write an essay...

I was being asked to approach writing differently than I had for 21 years. I was so challenged by that. In my heart I knew I needed to be challenged. Growth is hard and growth hurts. I had to embrace it.

When I submitted the last draft, I felt as if I had run a marathon in 550 words. I was glad I had done it. I was embarrassed by whatever was dripping down my legs by the last miles. I never wanted to do it again.

I stopped writing for a while after that. I watched my writer self from afar and noted that I just needed time to grapple with what taxed me: Parameters. I'm thinking that was what stumped me. Also a fear of disappointing the editor, my classmates, and through all that, myself. 

Oh, the ego.
The ego.

I started writing again one melancholy evening. Unfortunately it is about something sad that I will eventually share. As I turned to look at what was welling in me, I was so grateful that the words began to flow again. I don't think it is the sadness that inspires me as much as feeling. Finding perspective in feelings. 
Writing seems so selfish for me. I am grateful when someone reads it and indulges me a bit, though.

I have been here this whole time. Just rocking and thinking instead of rocking and typing. Watching hummingbirds. Petting a cat. Waiting for a breeze.

Den Talks

My father gave Den Talks. They were sometimes in the sunroom or on a porch where he could look out at the birds. They could be on a plane, or in an office. They could be in the car or in a hallway alcove in the Senate. I don’t know what they were called in all those other places, but we called them Den Talks.

They happened when report cards came. They happened when mom had it up to here with our behavior. They happened when a major decision needed to be made. One entered these talks a little sweaty or, in my case, a little teary. They were never harsh or angry, really. But you were going to have your rear-end handed back to you, and it was terrifying because leaving there, you had to step up your game. Nothing is more frightening than that.

I am the only girl, the baby, after four boys. We were raised full on by our fiery little mom who dealt with our day-to-day needs, hijinks, problems, and absolute good times. Dad would come home in the evenings, would be in his den or, later, when we took over his den, the sunroom all weekend. He was present, but more of a sideline guy. He spent his days running so much at work that he loved his back up role at home. At least that is my theory. And we were plain chaos, but in a good way. 5 kids, 4 of whom were born within 5 years. My mom would tell us that she was the boss and Dad the giant. He would come in and say, in a hard situation, “What did your mother ask you to do? Why in God’s name have you not done it yet?” All very calm and yet all very, very business; his voice so deep and full. We did what she asked in her name, his name, and God’s name. Whatever name it needed to be done in.

His Giant moments were rare that I can speak of. My brothers may have different stories. His advisory position started out 2-3 times a year. Usually when report cards came out. The report cards would come home, be opened by mom, left by the kitchen TV where she stacked all of Dad’s mail…..and we would wait. From the time we got home until 8pm when he came home. All of us kids lingering around the top of the stairs to be called.

I would walk in the Den with shallow breathing. I was not a star pupil. The minute we would sit down and he looked at me I would always burst into tears. He would lean forward quickly to whip out his handkerchief and start wiping my eyes, chuckling while saying, “Kitty Kat, I haven’t even said a word yet!” I would nod and nod and start to twist the hanky and hiccup. In the earlier years it would be along the lines of: Make sure you study more. Ask questions. Are you giving it your best?

As I got older the questions became deeper: What is it about Math that troubles you? Why aren’t you advocating for yourself? You need to separate out what you are being lazy about and what is making you struggle.

Nodding. Promises. Crying. Embarrassment.

Then I would look up and almost always he would have red-rimmed eyes by the end of the talk, emotional. “I want the best for you. You have to help yourself have that. I love you. Now was that so bad? Was I so terrible a giant?”

I’d always say no, but it was difficult. I never wanted to hear I had to work harder. I wanted an out, an excuse, anything that told me I didn’t need to give more of myself to something I hated so much. Those words would never come when it dealt with our work. We had to do our best. It always came with understanding, though. He always threw in a story about himself that I could relate to so I would know that he went through this struggle as well. And maybe it was just the other day. And maybe it was in childhood. Either way he knew just how I felt and I believed him. His eyes told me so.

As I matured, I understood all the phone calls he took in the den. It made sense to me why my brothers’ college-aged friends or older would ask to come over and speak with my dad. Volunteer for a Den Talk. There was so much wisdom he had to share. No matter whose path, he could envision it well and guide them on it, even if it had nothing to do with his areas of expertise. He knew what it took to present your strongest self to the world, and he would mentor anyone in how to do it. And it didn’t have to be a big talk. It was something as simple as a greeting in the kitchen, “Are you being a good boy?” while getting his cup of tea. It sounds like a throw-away line, but it wasn’t. People checked in with themselves.

3 years ago my father was diagnosed with dementia. Though I saw signs of it before the official word, hearing the diagnosis was a lead weight. All of his very essence was housed in his mind. His brilliance in a crisis, his thoughts in a hard moment, his words that were eloquent in any situation. It most certainly was the biggest slap in the face for a man like my father. It was trapping his advice. It was dampening his words. It was closing off the voice of reason I always needed. The words of comfort. The words of pride. It was just devastating to our family. I was suddenly adrift and could no longer see the lighthouse in the fog.

We would all still talk to Dad about what was going on. I would let him know when I had to make a hard decision and he would ask me about it. I would leave frustrated without any advice really given. I was mainly hearing “What do you think? Is one choice more clearly stronger than the other?” He was putting my questions back on me so I had to sit with them longer. It was a training. It was a weaning. After a little more time, there wasn’t much conversation left and I would sit next to him and lean on him which made him lean back on me. Physically comforting. Supporting.

My Dad passed away more quickly than expected, though he never was one much for lingering places. At his wake I saw grown men crying at the loss of him. I realized that they lost a man who helped bring them to power, through a crossroads, into a life with someone with whom they were meant to be. My family was surrounded by people who were changed by their knowing my father, thanking us for his time, and were so moved by his loss of presence in the world. It was a gift to know how much he had given, and, because he gave so much, the loss of him was so much greater.

Soon after he passed I had a decision to make; one that I certainly would have talked about with him. I had to go sit on my sun porch, instead, and rock in one of his rocking chairs. My head was clouding up in sorrow at wanting to hear his voice. As I let some tears fall and breathed through it, I realized that though his voice was missing, his words were present. I stared at the birds flying around outside and knew every question he would have asked me. As I thought of the answers I could see the direction he would have lead me in. His formula wasn’t top secret at all. It was just intelligent truths: show up, work hard, be good. The question he posed for me so many times that it is now one of my own go to reflection questions is, “Is it that you can’t do it or that you are afraid to do it?” His point being, if you can’t do it, then leave it to someone who can until you have gathered the skill. If you are frightened, well, life is frightening. It is hard. If it were easy, anyone would do it. It being hard is what makes it worthy of one’s attention and time.

I am saying these words to myself. I am saying these words to my children, to my friends. Though he is gone, he left with me his guidance and his wisdom. Every rock on my sun porch chair  is a Den Talk. He is with me.

How do others savasana, I wonder

I hear of wonderful yoga and meditative retreats one can go on. I wonder what I would get out of them? I truly have to feel completely at home in order to feel I have had a deep workout and have gotten out of my mind and into the breath. Will they, say, let me shout out a list of chores for the kids to do who are ignoring me while I'm planking? Would they excuse me for just a sec while I take something out of the oven? Do they allow cats? I don't know if I will know I have completed corpse pose without a face full of fur and a lung full of fancy feast breath.

Yes, and

Picture it.
New York City.
1999.
Upright Citizen Brigade Theater.

My brother had told me to come to the Thursday night show called Survivor where people from the audience could try their hand at improv... and get voted off the island. I had never done improv officially in any way other than maybe in staff meetings, playing off my friend's humor, or during my acting days between scenes.

Owen told me, "All you need to remember is 'Yes, and...' and you will be fine." He explained that the rule in improv is that you don't say no to what someone else on stage has put out there. It will kill the scene and it will throw off the other people in that scene. It is also a trust thing.

I was a finalist.
I came back a few weeks later to be in the final battle and- alas- I heard something along the lines of bros before hos as I was the last female standing. I knew when I stood for a scene with the other two male finalists that I was cooked! And it was a blast.

I have had "yes, and" stuck in my head ever since. I didn't always use it. I didn't use it a lot, in fact, during a time it would have been so beneficial- while hunkered down at home, gestating and raising little ones. For a while,  I took on the very familiar child-like phrase, "no, but".

As I came out of the little kids fog and embraced more the knowledge that I cannot control the world, "yes, and" has been ringing in my ears and pouring from my mouth. It has a rather Buddhist quality. It offers acceptance- something that can be seen as weak- and also power hidden within the "and".

I see what is happening and I am going to work with it this way.

I see the scene that has been set; it is what is. I will add my part to the scene with this action, reaction, or word.

I know you would like to slam every locker to make as much noise as possible, and you can slap this cement wall instead.

I was in a  meeting a few weeks ago where some very minor changes were being put into place. I am a people watcher and was busy watching people's reactions to what was being said. Many were quietly taking the notes. Others were nodding while taking the notes. Then there were the few that were fighting the change by sighing loudly while taking notes. Then the one, questioning it angrily. Why? We never had to? Who said? And then taking the notes, head shaking "No" to be sure the world knew that it was a "No". No. No. No.

I was fascinated. This small change actually would have no effect on anyone or anything, really. It just made sense to who this person is that the response would be so negative. I found it sad to choose to receive life in such a cloud of negativity, and I became even more aware of my own "no" moments, vowing to really think before reacting.

My world has opened up with "yes, and". I do things I never would have considered before and am happy doing them. I work with an age group I had always shook my head at, and I can't believe it took me so long to experience it again. I had forgotten all about my time working in a great 6th grade classroom while getting my Masters because I had strictly thought of where I should be once I graduated.

I have found that things more easily "go my way" only because I am going the way of things. I reserve "no" for only that which would go against my gut instinct and for when I have said "yes, and" too much and am exhausted.

I am not simply saying "yes" and being lead about. I am saying "yes, and" which is the balance of letting myself be guided while still holding the reigns loosely in my open palm.