We have a neighbor that the boys call the crazy cat lady. She does have three cats, along with two little yappy dogs and three birds, and she is a little crazy, since she had a traumatic brain injury eleven years ago and now only has half her brain, so I suppose it’s fitting. I, however, call her my friend. As with her pets, she does everything in excess. Her yard is overflowing with rocks, cacti, and kitsch. Her house is packed with furniture, decorations, clothing, and sacks full of whatever she purchased during her latest shopping spree. I actually understand her need for “things.” She is desperately trying to fill the void of something more substantial in her life…healthy human relationships.
From time to time she will show up at our door with some food product, like half of a bag of potatoes, or stale bakery cookies. She does the same thing with at least one other neighbor. I realize that not only does she use it as an excuse to visit us (I try to assure her that just her visit is treat enough), but also to try to feel like she’s doing something for someone, so I’m always grateful. “These potatoes are great. They will save me a trip to the store!” “The boys will scarf those cookies right down!”
Yesterday I stopped by her house for a few minutes just to chat and check on her. In the short time that I was there she offered me a can of Diet Pepsi, which I gladly accepted. I mean really, I would have to be crazy to turn down my favorite beverage, especially since I was going through caffeine withdrawal. As she rummaged in her fridge looking for the soda, she offered me some mustard (“I have so many bottles of mustard, are you sure you wouldn’t like to take some?”) and two brown bananas, all of which I politely declined. She then offered me a brick of sharp cheddar cheese. Bingo! My friendship can be bought for a brick of cheese. “I would love some cheese! I can make homemade macaroni and cheese for dinner tomorrow.” My friend then said that she loves homemade mac and cheese, so I invited her to come have lunch with me today. I made a big batch of the cheesy goodness, baked a little pan of it for the crazy cat lady and myself for lunch, then fed a big ol’ pan of it to the boys for dinner.
I had quite a nice time at lunch. Between my friend’s constant anger, self-pity, and depression, we even laughed. I don’t expect her to change or be any different than she is. All I can do is love and accept her, and be grateful for the blessing she is to me.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Back to School
Today the boys began the new school year. Here is an update on how the day went:
Davis is refusing to go to early-morning seminary, saying that even if I take him, he will just leave, so I told him that if he won’t go, he and I are going to get up early and study the scriptures. I was pleasantly surprised that he didn’t argue with me this morning. We read for twenty minutes, and prayed together. It was a really great start to the day. I know that not every morning will go as smooth as it did this morning, but I’ll take it when I can get it. He started his junior year seeming calm and confident.
Clark was so anxious that he surprised even himself. He spent a sleepless night, but got ready to face the day with a great attitude. He dressed in old, worn jeans and an old t-shirt. When I dropped him off at seminary he said, “Look at all these kids in their new clothes.” He was pleased with himself for not conforming and submitting to the lure of wearing brand new clothes the first day. I’m curious to see what he will wear tomorrow. What a funny kid.
The emotional part, for me, was taking Isaac to his first day of junior high school. He is only in sixth grade, but in this school district, sixth grade is in junior high. I don’t remember feeling this tenderness when Davis and Clark started junior high, but Isaac seems so young and innocent, and so awkward. I drove him today, but he will be riding a school bus this year, for the first time. He’s pretty nervous about that, but he’ll be okay. He’s pretty good about taking things in stride.
All three boys came home happy and chatty. Even Isaac said, “I actually had a pretty fun day.” What a relief. One day down, nine months to go.
Davis is refusing to go to early-morning seminary, saying that even if I take him, he will just leave, so I told him that if he won’t go, he and I are going to get up early and study the scriptures. I was pleasantly surprised that he didn’t argue with me this morning. We read for twenty minutes, and prayed together. It was a really great start to the day. I know that not every morning will go as smooth as it did this morning, but I’ll take it when I can get it. He started his junior year seeming calm and confident.
Clark was so anxious that he surprised even himself. He spent a sleepless night, but got ready to face the day with a great attitude. He dressed in old, worn jeans and an old t-shirt. When I dropped him off at seminary he said, “Look at all these kids in their new clothes.” He was pleased with himself for not conforming and submitting to the lure of wearing brand new clothes the first day. I’m curious to see what he will wear tomorrow. What a funny kid.
The emotional part, for me, was taking Isaac to his first day of junior high school. He is only in sixth grade, but in this school district, sixth grade is in junior high. I don’t remember feeling this tenderness when Davis and Clark started junior high, but Isaac seems so young and innocent, and so awkward. I drove him today, but he will be riding a school bus this year, for the first time. He’s pretty nervous about that, but he’ll be okay. He’s pretty good about taking things in stride.
All three boys came home happy and chatty. Even Isaac said, “I actually had a pretty fun day.” What a relief. One day down, nine months to go.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Plea for Help
I've noticed a terrible development when I look in the mirror these days. I think it happened one night while I was sleeping. Someone implanted butt cheeks on my forehead!
Does anyone know a good butt cheek surgeon?
Does anyone know a good butt cheek surgeon?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Joy
The first thing I always think about when I come across the word “joy” is a petite, white-haired lady who helped to form my core attitudes about the world. Named Velma Joy by her parents, my grandmother chose to go simply by the name Joy. Just like the hats that she insisted on wearing, her name fit her perfectly. Up until the time that Alzheimer’s made her forget even the people closest to her, Grandma Joy felt she wasn’t properly dressed unless she was wearing a hat.
When I was growing up my family moved numerous times. Throughout my adolescence I never knew what to say when people asked me where I was from. I was from many places. Grandma Joy, in her little red brick house, was the anchor to my family’s wanderings. Home for me wasn’t so much a place, but a person, my Grandmother Joy.
Joy is the scent of lilacs, warm summer evenings, red sunsets, birds on the windowpane, and a little grove of sassafras trees. Joy is in the minutest details of the colors of a rock, the smell of rain, the sound of the leaves rustling in the trees, the taste of orange marmalade, and the feel of the wind on my face. In everything she did, my grandmother found and gave joy. She taught, by example, how to love and accept people, without exception.
Our society teaches us to rely on possessions and social status to make us happy. We are daily bombarded with messages of immediate gratification. The philosophy of finding personal fulfillment is waved in front of us like a flag of freedom. We search for new ways of being entertained and more extreme experiences to astound our senses. The small action of being aware of our surroundings is lost in the noise and tumult of the media. Gratefully, I continue to have a small harbor of peace within myself that was originally placed there by my grandmother. All these temporal things are transient and fleeting. We might find momentary pleasure in the trappings of the world, but deep, lasting joy is found within ourselves and our appreciation for what we have. The rest is miniscule in comparison.
The lessons of Grandma Joy were nearly forgotten with adulthood and the responsibilities and concerns of raising children. With three small sons that I frequently referred to as “Destructo Boys,” I rarely had time to stop and smell all flowers, as my grandmother always did. One early morning, as my sons lay sleeping, I mused how peaceful they were, and wondered why I couldn’t find peace when they were awake. All of a sudden I had complete understanding as to how fortunate I was to have children that had full, unrestricted mental and physical abilities. I felt joy at the knowledge that my beautiful, bright-eyed sons were capable of wreaking the havoc that gave me daily angst.
Gratitude and humor are companions of joy. My grandmother could always find the positive side of things, something to be grateful for. When she wasn’t feeling well, or was reminded of her age by the reflection in the mirror, she would smile and say, “It’s better than the alternative!” She had a great sense of humor, and was frequently the instigator of practical jokes. There is a story that is legend with my family. One day my cousin, Jill, was helping Grandma Joy in the kitchen. Grandmother was holding an egg in her hand and pretended to crack it over Jill’s head. My cousin said, “I bet you wouldn’t dare really crack that on my head.” Without blinking an eye, that egg was all over Jill’s head and dripping down her face. My grandmother never took a situation more seriously than was warranted.
I have tried to remember the things I learned from my grandmother. I know that I am doing well when I can find joy in the details. When I can stop stressing about the bills that need to be paid and the dishes that need to be washed, and find joy in watching how my children interact with each other, I know that I still have some of my grandmother in me. When I can see past the homework that is due and the pile of assignments on my desk at work, and I notice the color of the sunset, hearing my grandmother’s voice saying, “Red skies at night, sailors delight. Red skies in the morning, sailors take warning,” I feel deep, sublime, enduring joy.
When I was growing up my family moved numerous times. Throughout my adolescence I never knew what to say when people asked me where I was from. I was from many places. Grandma Joy, in her little red brick house, was the anchor to my family’s wanderings. Home for me wasn’t so much a place, but a person, my Grandmother Joy.
Joy is the scent of lilacs, warm summer evenings, red sunsets, birds on the windowpane, and a little grove of sassafras trees. Joy is in the minutest details of the colors of a rock, the smell of rain, the sound of the leaves rustling in the trees, the taste of orange marmalade, and the feel of the wind on my face. In everything she did, my grandmother found and gave joy. She taught, by example, how to love and accept people, without exception.
Our society teaches us to rely on possessions and social status to make us happy. We are daily bombarded with messages of immediate gratification. The philosophy of finding personal fulfillment is waved in front of us like a flag of freedom. We search for new ways of being entertained and more extreme experiences to astound our senses. The small action of being aware of our surroundings is lost in the noise and tumult of the media. Gratefully, I continue to have a small harbor of peace within myself that was originally placed there by my grandmother. All these temporal things are transient and fleeting. We might find momentary pleasure in the trappings of the world, but deep, lasting joy is found within ourselves and our appreciation for what we have. The rest is miniscule in comparison.
The lessons of Grandma Joy were nearly forgotten with adulthood and the responsibilities and concerns of raising children. With three small sons that I frequently referred to as “Destructo Boys,” I rarely had time to stop and smell all flowers, as my grandmother always did. One early morning, as my sons lay sleeping, I mused how peaceful they were, and wondered why I couldn’t find peace when they were awake. All of a sudden I had complete understanding as to how fortunate I was to have children that had full, unrestricted mental and physical abilities. I felt joy at the knowledge that my beautiful, bright-eyed sons were capable of wreaking the havoc that gave me daily angst.
Gratitude and humor are companions of joy. My grandmother could always find the positive side of things, something to be grateful for. When she wasn’t feeling well, or was reminded of her age by the reflection in the mirror, she would smile and say, “It’s better than the alternative!” She had a great sense of humor, and was frequently the instigator of practical jokes. There is a story that is legend with my family. One day my cousin, Jill, was helping Grandma Joy in the kitchen. Grandmother was holding an egg in her hand and pretended to crack it over Jill’s head. My cousin said, “I bet you wouldn’t dare really crack that on my head.” Without blinking an eye, that egg was all over Jill’s head and dripping down her face. My grandmother never took a situation more seriously than was warranted.
I have tried to remember the things I learned from my grandmother. I know that I am doing well when I can find joy in the details. When I can stop stressing about the bills that need to be paid and the dishes that need to be washed, and find joy in watching how my children interact with each other, I know that I still have some of my grandmother in me. When I can see past the homework that is due and the pile of assignments on my desk at work, and I notice the color of the sunset, hearing my grandmother’s voice saying, “Red skies at night, sailors delight. Red skies in the morning, sailors take warning,” I feel deep, sublime, enduring joy.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
House of Blues I
I love live music. With a few exceptions, I don’t even care about the genre or group. Of course I have my favorites, but there is just an energy, and dare I say purity, about live musical performances that sing to my soul. Ever since we’ve lived here I’ve wanted to go to House of Blues, but haven’t had the opportunity. Last weekend Brian and I had tickets to go see Yonder Mountain String Band, a bluegrass band. Surprisingly, Brian loves bluegrass, so we invited some friends to go with us.
We had a great time. The band was good, and our friends are so much fun to be with, but one of the best parts of the evening was watching the interesting characters that were enjoying the music. Now there are generally some pretty colorful people to watch when you go to a venue that has music, free flowing alcohol, and covert puffs of smoke, but I have to say, House of Blues had more than its fair share that night.
House of Blues has a balcony with seating, but on the particular night that we were there, only the floor was open, so it was standing room only. During the band’s second set we decided to climb out of the pit and stand up off to the side near one of the bars. It seemed like a pretty good place to get out of the madding crowd. After a few minutes I looked over to my side and noticed a woman who was dancing to her own beat. I use the term “dancing” loosely. What she was doing was really more of a cross between dancing, exercising, and animal mimicry. Intrigued by what seemed a complete lack of inhibitions, I kept stealing looks at her. Before long I realized that her long, flowing hair was rivaled by the mane growing beneath her arms. I was truly impressed by not only her energy and stamina, but also by her ability to flail about with a glass of beer and not seem to slosh a drop on the floor.
After several songs, I made the mistake of turning my back, no longer paying attention to the chicken dance going on at my side. Without warning, I felt bare arms embrace me and a body, which most definitely was not my husband’s, pressed against me. I looked over my shoulder and found the free-dancer nuzzling up to me. I can only blame my reaction on shock, and the good manners that my parents ingrained in me. Not knowing what else to do, I said, “Wow, you have a lot of energy.” In a dreamy, slurring voice she said, “No, you’re the one with the energy. Believe me, I could feel your energy across the room. It’s beautiful.” I'm gratified to know that she found my head bobbing energetic.
I can’t recall the sequence of the conversation, if that’s what you can call it, but at some point we exchanged names. I wish I would have thought to claim to be Jennifer Aniston because surprisingly, her name is Drew Barrymore. She kept assuring me that she is very picky about people and who she becomes friends with, but she loves me and I’m her new best friend. Lucky me. It’s apparently fate that we both live in Vegas and were at the same concert at the same time. I didn’t want to be rude, although in retrospect I don’t think she would have noticed, so when she repeatedly said, “I love you” I just said, “I believe you.” Although, at one point I did tell her that she probably wouldn’t feel the same in the morning. I kept looking for help from Brian, but he was too busy laughing and taking pictures. Unfortunately his didn’t turn out, so I had to make one of my own.
We had a great time. The band was good, and our friends are so much fun to be with, but one of the best parts of the evening was watching the interesting characters that were enjoying the music. Now there are generally some pretty colorful people to watch when you go to a venue that has music, free flowing alcohol, and covert puffs of smoke, but I have to say, House of Blues had more than its fair share that night.
House of Blues has a balcony with seating, but on the particular night that we were there, only the floor was open, so it was standing room only. During the band’s second set we decided to climb out of the pit and stand up off to the side near one of the bars. It seemed like a pretty good place to get out of the madding crowd. After a few minutes I looked over to my side and noticed a woman who was dancing to her own beat. I use the term “dancing” loosely. What she was doing was really more of a cross between dancing, exercising, and animal mimicry. Intrigued by what seemed a complete lack of inhibitions, I kept stealing looks at her. Before long I realized that her long, flowing hair was rivaled by the mane growing beneath her arms. I was truly impressed by not only her energy and stamina, but also by her ability to flail about with a glass of beer and not seem to slosh a drop on the floor.
After several songs, I made the mistake of turning my back, no longer paying attention to the chicken dance going on at my side. Without warning, I felt bare arms embrace me and a body, which most definitely was not my husband’s, pressed against me. I looked over my shoulder and found the free-dancer nuzzling up to me. I can only blame my reaction on shock, and the good manners that my parents ingrained in me. Not knowing what else to do, I said, “Wow, you have a lot of energy.” In a dreamy, slurring voice she said, “No, you’re the one with the energy. Believe me, I could feel your energy across the room. It’s beautiful.” I'm gratified to know that she found my head bobbing energetic.
I can’t recall the sequence of the conversation, if that’s what you can call it, but at some point we exchanged names. I wish I would have thought to claim to be Jennifer Aniston because surprisingly, her name is Drew Barrymore. She kept assuring me that she is very picky about people and who she becomes friends with, but she loves me and I’m her new best friend. Lucky me. It’s apparently fate that we both live in Vegas and were at the same concert at the same time. I didn’t want to be rude, although in retrospect I don’t think she would have noticed, so when she repeatedly said, “I love you” I just said, “I believe you.” Although, at one point I did tell her that she probably wouldn’t feel the same in the morning. I kept looking for help from Brian, but he was too busy laughing and taking pictures. Unfortunately his didn’t turn out, so I had to make one of my own.
Finally, Drew released her vice-like grip and began to gyrate again. Without hesitating, I grabbed Brian and hissed, “We’re leaving NOW.” Gratefully, neither he nor our friends argued with me.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Words
I’m sitting on the floor in the living room with my laptop on top of the sofa table. The reflection in the video screen shows the image of a woman I hardly recognize. With my disheveled hair, baggy cardigan sweater, and pink cashmere scarf around my neck, I look like what I imagine an eccentric writer should look like. Unfortunately, I have nothing of interest to write, which is why I’m stooping to self-centered expression.
I feel like I’ve already used up all my insightful words and clever comments, never to be reclaimed again. I find that I have less to say as I get older. Sometimes I wonder if we are all rationed only a certain amount of words, and I’ve squandered mine foolishly. I’m destined to live my final years wordlessly, unable not only to voice my thoughts, but bereft of words, searching for them in the desert of my mind.
Carrie Fisher wrote in her book, "Delusions of Grandma":
I do love conversation in this way, but more than just talk, I love words. I love written word as much as the spoken word. When I read, I take each word in separately, swishing it around in my mouth, consuming it. If I get excited and skim, I have to go back and re-read what I might have missed. I feel like a traitor, a cheat, if I don’t read each and every word, no matter how insignificant.
My son, Clark, accuses me frequently of making words up. He’s 15, so he knows every word in the English language, which means if I use one he doesn’t know, I must be making it up. I think he accuses me now just to see my reaction. I have had people tell me that I use words they’ve never heard of, but it always surprises me. My vocabulary is ordinary. I know that in the recesses of my mind there are hidden storehouses of words, that if I could just recall, would make me seem to have an extraordinary vocabulary, but I have a terrible memory for them. Today I searched my brain for 7 2/3 minutes before I could remember “backlash.” And I frequently misuse words, such as …..hmm….what is that word I’m always using wrong? See what I mean about my memory?
When I was a child I used to read the encyclopedia and the dictionary. Not cover to cover, but I would leaf through them and find things that interested me. D was always my favorite letter in both books. It shouldn’t be any wonder, since my initials were D.D.; I’ve always felt that D is a superior letter.
I feel like I’ve already used up all my insightful words and clever comments, never to be reclaimed again. I find that I have less to say as I get older. Sometimes I wonder if we are all rationed only a certain amount of words, and I’ve squandered mine foolishly. I’m destined to live my final years wordlessly, unable not only to voice my thoughts, but bereft of words, searching for them in the desert of my mind.
Carrie Fisher wrote in her book, "Delusions of Grandma":
“Cora had a ravenous need to talk to people. To feast on the carcass of what they would figure out together. Vultures of reason, of the unsatisfactory why, glow in the eye, they gorged, stripped bones, sucked them scary white.”
I do love conversation in this way, but more than just talk, I love words. I love written word as much as the spoken word. When I read, I take each word in separately, swishing it around in my mouth, consuming it. If I get excited and skim, I have to go back and re-read what I might have missed. I feel like a traitor, a cheat, if I don’t read each and every word, no matter how insignificant.
My son, Clark, accuses me frequently of making words up. He’s 15, so he knows every word in the English language, which means if I use one he doesn’t know, I must be making it up. I think he accuses me now just to see my reaction. I have had people tell me that I use words they’ve never heard of, but it always surprises me. My vocabulary is ordinary. I know that in the recesses of my mind there are hidden storehouses of words, that if I could just recall, would make me seem to have an extraordinary vocabulary, but I have a terrible memory for them. Today I searched my brain for 7 2/3 minutes before I could remember “backlash.” And I frequently misuse words, such as …..hmm….what is that word I’m always using wrong? See what I mean about my memory?
When I was a child I used to read the encyclopedia and the dictionary. Not cover to cover, but I would leaf through them and find things that interested me. D was always my favorite letter in both books. It shouldn’t be any wonder, since my initials were D.D.; I’ve always felt that D is a superior letter.
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