If Nothing Else, Notice the Finer Points

James and I went for a walk downtown yesterday. How blessed we are to live on the verge of a miniature city, with its rutted, paver sidewalks and concrete buildings and people, all different shades, hurrying or scuffing along.

I am a person who smiles at most people I see, especially when we are the only ones passing on a quiet block. I sometimes say "hello." Often, after the person whom we are passing smiles back, I avert my eyes, in a sort of grateful, submissive way.

Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for acknowledging me.

There are the people who don't respond. I don't take this personally. Their hands are crammed deep in their pockets. They are often racing, rushing to wherever, an important place with important events. They may be rushing to the bedside of a sick relative. They may be rushing to an apartment, hoping that they won't throw back the door and find their lover in an embrace with another. They may be rushing to a Happy Hour, where they will throw a few wrinkled bills on the sticky table and order up another round.

I grew up in the country. Shadows were created by trees, not buildings. Time was measured by the amount and the quality of the sunlight, not a clock. Mosquitos were our official animal, not cockroaches. Or water bugs, if that's what you prefer to call them. A trip to the library meant a twenty minute haul, along roads edged with opposum carcasses and pastures, in our Volkswagen Bug. The library was not a treasure map of footsteps, one in front of the other, away.

James and I stopped at the upscale candy store, with its overpriced truffles and prom-dress pink wallpaper. The fancy people in fancy clothes talking on the curb in front of the shop did not hold the door. I held my own door, struggling to keep it open as I shoved James' stroller, with its wheels that flipped and turned against the grain, up over the stoop. I noticed this, but it didn't bother me. There are so many other things to be bothered about--a lost job, a lost child, an eviction, an uncle with cancer, a son's unrelenting cough.

I bought myself a box of candy, justified by the inclusion of dark chocolate (health benefits!). I bought Mac and James each a sprinkled covered pretzel. During the cold walk home, I reminded James of his treat. I pointed out a skim of ice on the canal, swags of pine and hemlock on doors, and emergency vehicles screeching down roads. We stuck our head in the entries of cave-like parking gararges and yelled, "Hellllo?"

We yelled, "Echo!" too.

In our house, with its yellow light and colorful walls and brigade of tea pots lined above cabinets in the kitchen, James sat at the table, inspecting his pretzel.

Bu, deen, reh, oh-ain, peeple, he said, pointing at the sprinkles.

After noticing the details, he took a bite.

Career Guidance and Renewed Faith at the Second-Hand Book Store

Yesterday was a keeper.

After a morning of obligatory appointments, I tooled around town without intention. At the last minute, I veered into the parking lot of Wonder Book and Video, a used book place in a small strip mall on the north end of town. I ended up wandering the narrow, airless aisles, trolling for a copy of Ann Hood's "Ruby;" I didn't find it, but what I did find, was just fabulous.

Rows and rows of books. Stacked from floor to ceiling in long avenues that stretched toward the back of the store. My index finger gliding along cracked spines. My hands flipping through saffron pages. A musty scent, fanning out with the softness of feathers. An occasional inscription, "To Joanie, Love, Sam, 1977," scrawled in a front cover. I examined and studied. I wandered and perused. I'd been to this store in the past, but it never seemed to possess such limitless possibility before. Finally, I snatched up a copy of Pam Houston's "Cowboys are my Weakness" (1992 edition), Judith Rossner's "Looking for Mr. Goodbar," and Alexandra Johnson's "Leaving a Trace." My treasures, for only $14.

I cannot tell you how happy these purchases made me. I cannot explain the euphoria that I felt during each measured step, across the damp parking lot, to my car. I cannot convey the bliss that I derived from every inhalation/exhalation; each breath was one of anticipation. The sturdy bag in my hands was like a treasure; I felt the way I did when I was a kid, leaving B. Dalton, having blown my Christmas money on Norma Klein or Paula Danziger books.

Light. Joyful. Free.

I took my newly acquired books to Ruby Tuesday for lunch. We enjoyed light-hearted conversation. I am happy to say that they were not insulted by the way that I studied them, intrigued by their cover art and outdated fonts. I am pleased to say that we enjoyed a comfortable silence: their eagerness to be read coupled with my unconditional admiration.

Despite raindrops the consistency of spit, it was a beautiful day. It marked my renewed love for second hand book shops. It represented a moment when I realized how words and books are valued throughout time, long after first printings, final printings, and dead love affairs.

Besides, where else, aside from a used bookstore or a well-equiped flea market, do you have the opporunity to leaf through the pages of a gem entitled: "How to Make $18,000 A Year Freelance Writing"? Or to survey the myriad titles that both Irwin Shaw and Harold Robbins have published?

There's very little better.

In 2006, I'm Gonna Spin Again

When I was a kid, I had a dollhouse that I played with religiously.

Each day, I would pull out all of the furniture, spread it across the floor, and pretend that the family (the mother, usually) was appearing on an episode of The Wheel of Fortune. I would imagine that she had just won "big money" and was able to go shopping at the Wheel of Fortune "boutique" (if you are in your thirties, like me, there is a chance you may remember this old school version of Wheel of Fortune, where the contestants had to spend the funds that they won after each puzzle at a tacky, little studio store, and when they got down to a lower amount like $500, there were only two purchase options left: the statue of a Dalmation or the Tiffany gift certicate).

Anyway, I would make my dollhouse "mother" shop for all of her furniture, then decorate the house. Sometimes, "the family" would even "buy" the house, not on Wheel of Fortune, but from a "realtor" (usually a person created out of Lego blocks because I only had four cloth dollhouse dolls and two of them were children). The family would "tour" the dollhouse and comment on the rooms by saying things like: Oh, this is just the right size for our bed! or I'm not sure if I like the wall paper in this kitchen.

In between playing with the dollhouse, I also designed houses in a sketchbook. I used a ruler and would painstakingly draw floorplans to scale. Most often, my sketches were variations of the house that I was planning to build for myself in Hawaii, the one where I would reside with my cats after college (which, itself, was an abstract concept to me--for some reason, "college" was a big church made out of steel and glass. Go figure?).

I wrote about my daily activities in a journal. In small, cramped handwriting (or printing, if that's what I preferred on that particular day), I would document meals consumed, books read, sketches created, and the various exploits of the cat. Occasionally, I would construct a poem, too. I did this all with pride. If anyone interrupted my scribbling to ask what I was doing, I would look up, with obvious irritation, and sigh, "I'm working!"

When I was ten, I didn't want to get married and I didn't want to have children and I planned to subsist on Campbell's Chicken and Rice soup that I would purchase with my novel writing income.

I had a lot of time to think about those things because I lived on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, where kid companionship was scarce. Besides, I didn't shower much and I had no interest in my appearance, so that freed up a lot of hours.

More than anything, however, I was quite sure that my plans would all play out just as I wanted.

My how the mighty have fallen . . .

In my Maryland house, with its cracks in the walls and inadequate closet space, I've beem thinking about that "ten year old me" a lot during the past few days, wondering if she would be disappointed with the person I've become. I wonder if she would grab me, the woman perched in the chair, surfing the internet or watching reality TV, and yell, "No, no, this is NOT right! What have you done with the plan?"

Then, I decided that the "ten year old me" was probably a lot wiser (and forgiving) than the 34 year old one. The "ten year old me" knew that it wasn't about the house in the Hawaii, or the single life, or the cats. It was about exploring possiblities, and noticing things, and suspending reality, even if only in the imagination.

What was important to that girl was being creative. Feeling that no matter what anyone said, she was going to create what she wanted to create and that no obstacles would get in her way. A hard, persistent confidence. A belief that "hard work" would yield results. Thinking outside of the box. The refusal to give up. Absolute pride. Not knowing the difference between what was "high art" and what was "tacky."

The "ten year old me" wasn't a snob, and she certainly didn't give a goddamn about what anyone thought.

I'd like to have the spirit that I had when I was ten. Next year, I'm going to make a definite attempt to recapture that. I'm going to use my imagination as much as I can, I'm going to write all the time, I'm going to explore whatever artistic pursuits that catch my interest, and I'm going to do it all with the unapologetic, independent attitude of a "ten year old."

Of course, I'll have less time to do that, what with the husband, the kids, and the obligatory showers, but I'm sure the cats will understand.

Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidays, five friends!

I don't have much to give, but I'll share my favorite quotes, the ones that get me through each day and help me to remember what is important. They are all in "To Kill A Mockingbird," my all time favorite book, written by Harper Lee:

"Before I can live with other folks, I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience."

"Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing."

"Real courage is when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what."

Have a wonderful day! Hugs to each and every one of you!

David Sedaris Is A Comedic (and Literary) Genius

In addition to The Dan Band, I must recommend the writings of David Sedaris, if you haven't already read them.

I'm currently engrossed in "Me Talk Pretty One Day." Sedaris' take on speech therapy is hysterical (I wonder how many of my former students felt the need to "break me" of my efforts). I've also enjoyed his section on pet euthanasia ("youth in asia").

A man who uses the following descriptors in his writing is my kind of guy:

"a slight, kittenish boy"
"elderly, toothless, and incontinent" (this, referring to a cat)
"anvil sized head" (a Great Dane)
"foamy saliva" (aforementioned Great Dane)

There are many more, but I'm afraid to include them: don't want to violate any copyright laws just days before Christmas.

This book is so funny that I've been desperately searching my home for people to whom I can read passages aloud. I've cornered Mac, whose eye twitched in irritation (just like Mommy!), and last night, I woke Lou up three times because: "You've just got to hear this!"

Buy this book. Or one of his other ones. And read it while you listen to The Dan Band.

Sedaris is my hero: he makes me want to be a better writer.

I just love people like that.

The Dan Band

Just sitting around with the husband tonight, listening to Christmas music, and I wanted to share our favorite holiday song, a real special one, with those of you who are my foul-mouthed friends.

It's my gift to you.

Here is just a sampling of the lyrics from "I Wanna Rock You Hard This Christmas" by The Dan Band (whom I consider to be creatively brilliant):

"I'm freakin' 'bout what to get you
and it suddenly occurs to me
The best Christmas present is to rock your body
underneath the fuckin' tree"

If you do not own The Dan Band Live, yet confess to having a "trucker's vocabulary," this is the album for you. Buy it. For yourself. Immediately. It has all of the "girly" songs like "Flashdance," "Mama Mia," "Gloria," and "No Scrubs," each covered with that special "Dan Band" magic. I'm a particular fan of their take on Wilson Phillips' "Hold On."

Note: You may remember The Dan Band from the awesome movie, Old School. They were the band at the wedding, producing an unforgettable version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart," infused with many insidious "fucks."

Click here to go directly to The Dan Band Christmas song at iTunes.

Priceless.

I Know This Girl . . .

It's funny, how creative we can be with our identities.

I know a girl, a lovely girl, not someone who reads this blog, but someone who writes her own. She is ambitious and motivated and smart.

She's also fiercely protective and frightened and insecure.

Because I know this girl in "real life," I can recognize the lies that she tells herself and others in her postings on her blog. I can see the way she stretches reality, expanding insignificant events and ignoring hurtful ones. I can watch her create a smug persona that her audience eagerly embraces and idolizes.

My house, as always, is spotless because I'm neurotic about germs, she wrote, on the day that I stopped over and saw that there were toys and leaves and dirty paper plates scattered across the carpet.

There is nothing as important or as valuable to me as my friendships, she wrote, in the middle of the month where she did not acknowledge any of the phone calls, emails, or gifts sent from the group of women with whom we socialized.

I have a virtual rain forest in my kitchen, she wrote, when her plants were all dead. My style is eclectic and vivid and bold, she wrote, when all of her clothes were black and the walls in her house were beige. I whip up my all of my sons' clothes from scratch, she wrote, even though I knew her to be constantly tucking the Osh Kosh tags of their sweatshirts.

Did I mention that she gets a zillion comments a day? By people who want to be "just like" her? By people who refer to her as their "hero?"

When this girl writes about her wonderful relationship with her father, I know that he lives a mile from her house but never makes an effort to see her kids, his grandchildren. When this girl talks about her perfect marriage, I know that she is on the brink of divorce, that her husband overspends and overindulges, that she spends most of the nights while she is "creating," waiting for his headlights to appear in the driveway.

I know that this girl, who writes about being overbusy and overstressed, spends the majority of her time in bed, sleeping her life away. I know that she is overwelmed by her high-energy sons, whom she describes as "perfect." I know that she often sits in the corner of her living room and cries.

I will admit that when I first discovered this girl's blog, I was fascinated by the discrepancy between the person that she portrayed and the person that she was. I also resented it because it was full of lies or half truths, and people believed her. Mabye I was jealous, too; maybe I wished that I could create an identity based on the person I wished to be.

But then, I started blogging myself and realized just how easy it was to present yourself in a certain light, to be the person in the J Crew ad or the Pottery Barn house, if that's what you were after. What wasn't possible in real life was certainly possible in cyberspace, where the friends you make are ones that you're unlikely to meet. I can't blame someone for "pretending" to have the life that they covet, if that's their way of coping with their reality.

I'm not that type of person, though I've often wanted to be. I'd like to be able to rewrite the parts of my life that I don't like and believe the story I've told. I'd like to be the independent, spirited woman I saw on House Hunters last night, who had bought a bar in Costa Rica and was planning to acquire a house there, too. I'd like to be someone with a passel of brothers and sisters who congregate at grandma's colonial on the North Shore of Chicago every holiday. I'd like to be a mother who hasn't wiped her children's noses with the sleeve of her sweatshirt or a wife who greets her husband in the evening with a five course dinner and a toned body clad in lingerie.

But I can't. It's not that I don't have the imagination; that's just not me. And that's not the reason I blog. I don't want to make connections based on lies. One of the reasons I like blogging is that it comes the opportunity to meet people from all over the world who have the same sense of humor, passions, convictions and/or insecurities as you. People who say: That was a funny story, or Something like that happened to me, too.

People who read your stuff and say, I get it.

I get you.

How bittersweet that would be if the story that they connected with was untrue. If the part of me that they enjoyed wasn't real.

So I went back to reading this girl's blog and, instead of judgement, I started to develop some compassion. Because I can't even imagine possessing a spirit diligent enough to blog each day, yet feeling the need to tarnish that ambition with evasiveness and dishonesty. While I realize that we all hold something back and hide things, even from ourselves, I can't imagine the kind of defensiveness that this girl must feel, the insecurity of believing that if people knew the truth--that she was poor and in a shitty marriage and had a self-centered dad--they wouldn't like her.

Because, deep down, her blog is not mean-spirited or arrogant.

Deep down, it's sad.

There are a lot of things that I think we should be creative with. If you want to make a Fruit-Loop encrusted personal shrine, I say, have at it. If you want to alter advertisements so that your face appears next to Mel Gibson's on the billboard for The Passion of the Christ, go right ahead.

But I can't be afraid to be myself.

In the end, it's all I really have.

And from my perch, where I observe and I analyze and I write, I think that all of this girl's "fans," the ones who have put her on that pedestal, would love her as much, if not more, for knowing the truth, than they ever would for knowing the plastic, Frankenstein image she has sewn up for their pleasure.

And for the ones who wouldn't?

Who needs them, anyway?

Control Freak

Next year, I refuse to get wiggy about the holidays.

I don't know what it was about this year: maybe the tree up so ridiculously early, maybe the pathetic snowstorms that flew in and out and left patchy, dirty accumulations.

Maybe it was my "ambitious" idea of making everyone elaborate Christmas cards and gifts out of paper, or maybe it was the smug security in knowing that I was going to maintain control and get it all done so efficiently.



All I know is that Christmas is creeping toward me at the same rate as a time bomb poised to explode--tick, tick, tick.

Time may be crawling, but it's always moving.

I find myself eager for this to be over with.

Next year, I'm not making cards. I'm not making presents for all of the grandmothers. I'm not going to walk past the stack of books that I am dying to read but have to ignore because I've got too many other things cooking on the ol' holiday stove (current list: Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris, The Last Days of Dogtown by Anita Diamant, Second Draft of My Life by Sara Lewis, The I Ching for Writers by Sarah Jane Sloane, and A Writer's Paris by Eric Maisel).

Next year, I'm not going to plan. We are not going to "schedule" our popcorn stringing, Santa visits, and muffin baking.

We are going to roll with the days. If we miss the Kris Kringle Processional through the town, then so fucking be it. We'll see it the following year.

Next year, I'm making ONE batch of cookies, buying the biggest Hickory Farms appetizer "kit," deigning "writing time" as non-negotiable, and stuffing all of the miscellaneous clutter into a closet (thanks, Ldahl!). I'm going to crash a Chrismtas party or two, and I'm going to screen all of the fun, holiday movies of my youth, like "Christmas Vacation," "Scrooged," and "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles." I'm going to walk through the town and appreciate the goddamn lights that the City strings on the trees on the main street. I'm going to listen to the "Elf" soundtrack, which has the Earth Kitt rendition of "Santa Baby" and the Leon Redbone/Zooey Deschanel version of "Baby, It's Cold Outside," over and over again.

And I'm going to do it all when I feel like it.

I might even save my money and take the whole brood on vacation to The Homestead, where we can snowmobile or ride horses or skeet shoot (HAHAHA) or get pedicures. Together. I will save my money so that I can secure the services of the resort babysitting staff so that Lou and I can dine in the fancy ballroom and dance to the Great Standards and not have to witness the boys, destroying our overpriced deluxe suite.

Next year, I'm not going to be such a freakin' control freak.

I'm going to settle down and enjoy the holidays.

Even if it kills me.

Silliness, Part Two, aka "Bucky"

I took Mac and James to the school last night for the annual Holiday Celebration. It was very nice--they fed us fried chicken, "cheesey" mashed potatoes, corn, and wilted salad. After dinner, we rotated through the building to various educational "stations."

Throughout the evening, we frequently encountered a little guy named "Bucky." Bucky was around five or six years old and a self-proclaimed expert on everything (the school, Santa, good manners, etc).

As Mac was caressing (not kidding) Santa, James and I waited beside Bucky on the cafeteria benches. At one point, James was fidgety, and inadvertently "kicked" Bucky in the thigh. Obviously irritated, Bucky let out a shriek. We (I) immediately apologized.

"That's alright," Bucky sighed, rubbing his leg and glaring at James.

"You're very understanding," I remarked.

"I know," Bucky answered, "I'm a 'good heart.'"

"Is that so?" I asked, struggling to hold James, who had gone boneless.

"Yes, that's what everyone tells me. Do you know what that means?" Bucky leaned over, conspiratorially. "It means, I'm sweet."

Uh huh.

I tell you this because, for a brief period about a year ago, Mac went around introducing himself as an "angel straight from heaven" because that's what his mom and dad called him.

Nothing like patting yourself on the back.

Now, that's what I call healthy self-esteem.

Silliness, Part One

Things That I Monitor:
1. solar flares/daily earthquakes
2. hits on my website
3. global warming
4. my critical nutrient/water consumption
5. my email
6. the weather
7. the neighbor's exterior Christmas decorations
8. my favorite blogs
9. my children's behavior
10. the cracks on the ceilings in our house

Things That I Refuse To Monitor:
1. my mouth
2. my reality TV consumption
3. my book consumption (munch, munch, munch)
4. the status of Brittany and K-Fed's marriage
5. my caloric intake
6. my creative impulses
7. my weight (alright, I'm lying)
8. other peoples' opinions of me
9. my children's creative spirits
10. current fashion trends

Another Maudlin Post

Thanks to everyone who commented or emailed me about my "illness." I can't tell you what every single comment or email meant to me. In the words of my Irish mother: "You warmed the cockles of me soul!"

Quick medical update. Blood tests were normal, with the exception of protein levels, which were elevated. According to doctor, this probably indicates a viral infection, news which would calm the normal person, but not me (cause I'm not normal). I mean, it calmed me initially, but when the symptoms intensified on Sunday, I threw myself into a panic and spent the afternoon making soup, googling symptoms, and ranting to the family (i.e. As each finger pecked at the keyboard of my laptop, I screeched at my husband, "Did you see that? Did you see that tremor? Look at how my fingers shake when I purposefully move them! Did you see that?" To which he dryly responded: "Perhaps it was the four cups of coffee that you drank in an hour.").

Later that evening, however, as the "symptoms" subsided, I thought about what was really bothering me and I figured it out. I don't think it's so much the fear of getting seriously sick and dying, which, in and of itself, is terrifying. It's the idea of having been given this life and fucking it up. Not using it the right way. Spending years at "happy hours" when I could've been reading or writing. Always saying that I'll start exercising tomorrow. Worrying about whether or not the files at the schools where I worked were in perfect order and if my co-workers respected me. Not flying to Ireland to see my family because the plane might go down.

So much wasted opportunity.

It's about feeling like I've messed up the life I've been given. Feeling like I didn't require enough of myself. Feeling like I fixated (who me?) on silly things and missed out on the important stuff.

As I crawled into bed, I decided that I would make this a learning experience. Not a "why me" but a "why not me" kind of deal. I've realized that it really isn't about how long you're here. It's not about what kind of house you live in or the car you drive or the restaurants where you eat or what you've accomplished. It's about the books that you've read, the hands that you've held, the rules that you've broken, and the jokes you've loved. It's about the friend that you've been, to others, but also, to yourself.

It's about appreciating warm blankets, each spoonful of soup, every breath, the burn in your muscles when you dance really hard, the shadows contracting and expanding on the living room wall. It's about noticing the world outside of your own body.

It's about delighting in each moment. Delighting in this moment.

In the end, that's all you're really promised.

It's about no second chances or guarantees. It's about allowing yourself mistakes and figuring out the right way--your own, personal way--to measure success.

Today, I'm going to figure out, as I "ready" the house for Christmas, how I would like to measure my success. And I'm going to make a list of the books that I'm planning to read this year (thanks, Liz, aka Busy91!). And I'm going to figure out how to post pictures on this blog (so I can slap one up whenever I feel maudlin and save you all, my five friends, from these overly sentimental, melancholy posts).

Just A Thought

I read a moving and heartfelt post on Michelle's blog, Verbal, this morning. It is about her mom and the disease that she suffers from: Primary Pulmonary Hypertension.

Heart issues continue to be a huge concern for women.

Please check out this site for more information. As Michelle mentioned, this disease is not well-known; consequently, it doesn't get the attention it needs.

Also, if you aren't sure what to get someone for Christmas (if they seem to have everything), consider making a small donation to a charity in their name.

The Google Theory

I don't know what's worse: being a "hypochondriac" or knowing that you're a "hypochondriac." It makes those times when you belive you have valid symptoms especially difficult. Because, if you're a hypochondriac, are they really valid?

For the past three months, I've been having twitches. And jerks. And tremors. I've always been nervous, but never a shaker. A sweater, but not a shaker (thanks, Colleen).

This morning, I finally made a doctor's appointment because, for the last three days, I've assumed a prone position on the couch, where I supervise my children, click at the remote, search the internet for disorders that fit my (valid) symptoms, and monitor the popcorn twitch on my thigh and all of his "friends" who have migrated to other regions of my body.

Thanks to internet research, I am now aware of upper neuron, lower neuron, and extrapyramidal disorders. I can tell you the difference between myelinated and unmyelinated muscle fibers, and I can list the neuro-musculoskeletal dangers of artificial sweeteners.

I've learned more during my internet studies than I ever learned during "Neuroanatomy" in graduate school.

Anyway, I called to make this appointment this morning, and God love'em, they were able to fit me in right away.

During the exam, I had to describe my various twitches, differentiate between "the twitches" and "the jerks" and "the tremors," and participate in several tests similar to the field sobrietry exercises that I've observed on COPS. Apparently, despite some stumbling on the "heel to toe" walk, I passed everything. I asked the doctor if his "gut feeling" was that everything looked good, and he replied, somewhat hotly, that his "gut feeling" was that he didn't know what his "gut feeling" was.

So there.

The doctor then listed a number of metabolic disorders that could be contributing to my neurolgical symptoms, all of which I was aware of, thanks to my recent participation in "internet med school."

Next step was visit to "the lab" for blood work, where, I boldly suggested that the phlebotomoist use "the butterfly" needle as opposed to the regular one. I informed her that I have "small veins" with the same pride that I might tell someone I'm a size 2 (which I'm not) or that I have 3 PhDs (which I don't). We enjoyed a brief dialogue about the "scar tissue" on my arms and how difficult it was for her to get to the vein (raised eyebrows, or my imagination?).

Long story short? Results will be back by Friday.

My thoughts about the whole situation are complex. I worry that these symptoms are the sign of somethng serious. I feel like I'm stalled, waiting for the results. Stalled creatively, stalled physically, stalled emotionally. I'd like to be a "bury your head in the sand, life goes on" type of girl, but instead, I'm an "immerse yourself in the whole drama and speculate, project, and hypothesize" kind of person.

Believe me, I want to be the ostrich.

And most importantly, I wonder if my lastest theory, The Google Theory, is accurate. I wonder if, when the doctor excuses himself after we've discussed my symptoms, after I've participated in various sensory and motor exercises, he goes into his office and types the symptoms I've listed into "google." I wonder if, the "possible diagnoses" that he suggests when he returns to the room are simply the top five most popular hits.

If they don't use technology like this, I think they should.

P.S. Three (THREE!!!!!) flippin' rejections today. Three, three, three. Fortunately (and I use this term loosely, I'm too immersed in health scare to let them bother me too much, but still . . . THREE?!!)

My Cuckoo's Nest

A couple of years ago, I went to a therapist. He was a lunatic. I'm not kidding. I should've realized that when he refered to his wife as "that bitch" during our first session together, but I didn't. I wanted to believe that this man could help me, so I put all of my eggs in one basket, so to speak. Besides, I'll admit: I felt a kinship with him in terms of use of swear words.

After meeting with this guy about five or six times, I started to get the feeling that something wasn't right. That he hid behind his degrees. That, because he was "educated," he knew me better than I knew myself, and because of five 45 minute conversations, he knew what my "issues" were and he knew how to fix them. He immediately wanted to blame my family for all of my problems, but he enjoyed blaming me, too. Whenever I had an opinion, he gave me that look and sort of glanced at his framed diploma on the wall--like--who's the doctor here?

It was funny because I wanted to believe this guy so badly. I wanted him to have "the answers." But the truth was, he put a negative spin on every aspect of who I was: He said "high strung," I said "energetic." He said "paranoid," I said "cautious." He said "odd," I said, "creative." He said "control freak," I said "control freak" (alright, it was the one thing that we agreed on). He didn't want to help me learn how to take charge of my life being the person I was. He wanted to mold me into a whole new person who didn't have the same insecurities, worries, and fears. But by taking away those things, I believe that he would've also taken away some of my good qualities: namely, my passions and my enthusiasm. I didn't mind having the insecurities, worries, and fears--I just didn't want them to run my life.

Look. I'm all or nothing. I don't think that I'll ever be anything but. I am not going to be a "gray" area individual. It's black and white, baby. All the way.

The reason I tell you this is because there was one thing that the guy told me that was sort of good, that I've used as yardstick for a lot of my interactions with other people. He told me that in life, if you're having trouble making a decision about someone, like whether or not they are good for you, you've got to be "the bean counter." You've got to pull out a couple of mental jars (mine are mason, with gingham ribbons) and start putting "beans" in them according to the person's actions. For example, if the person says that they are your good friend, but they aren't there for you during your lowest moments, one bean goes in the "bullshit" (his term) jar. If they say that they've got your back, but then spread rumors about you, another bean goes into the "bullshit" jar. If they listen when you bitch about your husband and never hold it against you when you're raving about how wonderful he is, they get a bean in the "genuine" jar.

Et cetera.

Eventually, you've got two jars with a lot of beans. You need to look at your jars and see which one has more. That'll help you decide about the person's character and motivations, at least as far as their relationship with you is concerned. Or, as my therapist said, "Whether or not they are full of bullshit."

I've enjoyed this philosophy, which is why I named my blog "The Bean Counter." Also, because I like stats, and feel that I should've gone into some sort of career that involved numbers. It's hard to decide if someone is really your friend. Not all people are blatantly nasty all of the time. There are a lot of people who are passively-aggressive. Helpful in a mean way. Feel better when you feel small, and are more than willing to help you get that size. There are a lot of good people, too. Quiet people who may not put on "a show" but would fight the good fight alongside you anytime you needed them to.

Anyway, I might be changing the name of this blog. I haven't decided. But someone asked me in an email why it was called "The Bean Counter," so I thought I'd give you the "skeletons in closet, long-winded, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" version.

I'll leave you with just one more thing. If you start seeing a therapist and he refers to women as "bitches" or even, "fucking bitches," yet you're the one with the issues, run away.

Run quickly.

Patience

I've gotta work on being more patient.

I've decided that that was the problem yesterday: wanting everything finished and finished NOW. That, and, as Michelle mentioned in yesterday's comments, perfection. Wanting it right the first time.

While I was out and about yesterday, people were so kind. The kind of goodness where you let a car out and the driver enthusiastically thanks you with a wave. The kind of thoughtfulness where the cashier at the Weis tells you that because you used your club card, you're entitled to a free box of Kettle Korn (even though you were oblivious to the "Buy 1, Get 1 Free" sign below the boxes). The kind of niceness where people are honking their horns and grinning at the Santa Claus who is standing in front of the parking lot where they sell Christmas trees, and you find yourself swept away in the movement and honking your horn, too (and not feeling one bit foolish, even though you are 34 year old woman, in a car without children, wearing your Russian hat and two scarves, and mouthing the words: Hey, Santa!).

I feel patient, now. When I checked my email, I didn't immediately hope that there would be a response from a literary magazine for a story that I submitted. I didn't hope for Borders' coupons or comments for this blog. I just clicked on my account and waited.

No preconceived ideas. No expectations.

Just peace and patience.

What a nice feeling.

Gettin' Busy

Today, I feel overwhelmed and dizzy and ditzy and frenzied, like a run-on sentence that tries to convey too much information. Today, I'm not going to reread my post before I slap it up on my site; I'm going to ramble and forget to use punctuation and twist words and phrases into awkward nuances that seem to make sense . . but don't.

I can't stand when people constantly talk about how busy they are, like the rest of us are just sitting around in leisure suits watching dust rain through the room in the light from the window. I seldom feel busy, so I tend to find the people who frequently complain about their hectic lives to be puffed up with self-importance. Not that I don't believe that most people don't have a lot on their plates. Not that I don't feel sympathy for lives that are packed full of obligation. But I'm not talking about people who work taxing jobs while juggling a family, social obligations, housekeeping, bill paying, and then, holidays or surprises. I'm not talking about single parents or college students. I'm not even talking about people who may have inadvertently overscheduled their lives but are matter-of-fact or even cheerful about it. I'm talking about the whiners: people who ALWAYS seem to be busy, and use that busy-ness as a ploy for sympathy or as an excuse to get out of commitments that aren't fun.

Blah, blah, blah. I say that because . . . guess who feels busy right now? Whiney busy, too. Like if you were in the room with me right now, I'd pour you a glass of wine and bitch, for the next two hours, about all of the stuff that I need to get done for Christmas. I would take your hand and walk you to the kitchen table, which is covered with scrapbooking/cardmaking/giftbuilding supplies. I would show you the fresh vegetables that need chopped for the pizza that we're making for dinner tonight. I would make you run your hand across the fireplace mantle so you could agree with me that dust is the devil's snow. I might even show you the stack of bills and receipts and bank statement that I need to sort through, the ring in the toilet, and the teetering yard sale pile that preys on my energy-charged, neurotic mind.

Because my problem is, that every so often, I get that nesting feeling. That feeling where I want things done and I want them perfect and I want them that way NOW.

Every so often, I forget that life is not a race.

Every so often, I forget that it's about "the getting there." The careful creasing of the wrapping paper, the hot water splashing over my hands as I rhythmically scrub the dishes, the smell of onions and garlic as they crackle in olive oil.

I forget that there are no rules. That New Year's cards can be sent instead of Christmas ones. That a toilet with a ring can still be used. That store-bought cookies can taste as nice as homemade ones. That toys should be played with, not picked up.

I forget that those people most important to me understand. That I don't need to get it all done. That a smile is more important than a mopped floor. That a trip to the library is better than chicken cacciatore. That a phone call "thank you" is as good as a hand written one.

There are a lot of people who truly have busy lives. I'm not one of them. I am a simple girl with a short hairstyle who can be showered and out the door in ten minutes. I am a stay-at-home mom with a husband who rolls up his sleeves and cooks dinner and cleans and gives baths.

I am a girl who isn't grateful enough. I'm a girl whose priorities, today, aren't in order.

What I'm going to do, right now, is get busy about being appreciative about what I've got. And get busy feeling sympathy for the people who are really busy.

Shitty Vocabulary

I come from a long line of people who celebrate words: etymology, root words, suffixes, synonyms, neologisms, slang, rhetoric . . . what have you.

I, myself, have been know to enjoy the diagramming of a sentence. I also adore the thesaurus, and even have www.thesaurus.com bookmarked as a favorite.

HOWEVER.

However, my vocabulary is awful, and this has never been as apparent to me as it is when I comment on other people's blogs. I can be so impressed with the person's thoughts or stories or artwork, yet all I can come up with is: "neat."

Or "marvelous." Or "fascinating." Or "interesting."

I'm surprised that I haven't used "good." Maybe I have.

When I was student teaching 10 years ago, the kindergartners would participate in a weekly "show and tell" session; they would get up in front of the class holding some junky toy like a ratty, plastic doll, and say things such as: "This is my baby doll. I love it. She's nice . . and that's it."

The other kids would then brainstorm these kinds of brilliant questions (delivered in monotone, crosslegged, by the way):

"Do you love her?"

"Yeah."

"Do you sleep with her?"

"Yeah."

"Do you like her a lot?"

"Yeah."

"Do you play with her?"

"Yeah."

That's basically how I feel. Like I'm at such a loss for words, limited by my weak lexicon (Y'like that one? Don't get too excited--it's a speech-language pathologist word, drummed into me through years of compulsory higher education), that I sound like a five year old.

No, wait. I think that a five year old sounds more articulate.

I suppose that I could pursue different activities to improve my shitty vocabulary. I could do crosswords and other type of word games. I could be ambitious and read the dictionary. I could actually look up words that I don't recognize while reading, instead of relying on context clues.

But I won't. I'll just continue to go to people's blogs and type comments like: "really good," or "I like this."

After all, would someone with a good vocabulary use the word "shitty" as an adjective?

* POTTY MOUTH:
As a sidenote, I'd like to also acknowledge my love of curse words. There is nothing better, to me, than dipping into that arsenal of curses and tossing a few out. Some would say that this is further evidence of my shitty vocabulary; I would say that it merely speaks to my open, unrestrained and unconventional nature. Words are just letters strung together. It's people who make words ugly.

These Gifts, That I Have Been Given

There are
the children,
of course,
my husband:
My Family.

But there
are others:

a kind spirit,
the ability
to piece paper
to create
a smile.
A commitment
to words,
both read
and written.
Laughter
that evokes
laughter
from others.
Generosity,
and a willingness
to forgive.

I have tried
to build
a dollhouse,
paint a flowerpot,
mend a friend's
broken heart,
and make gnocchi.

It didn't work out.

But the gift,
offered to me,
was not
in the
finished product.

It was in
the effort
and the will
and the courage

to try.

"You Broked My Ears!"

The Club's open, and we're having a dance party! MixMaster Lou is spinning the best of the '80s and '90s, while Mac and James own the dance floor, sashaying and rolling and leaping and grooving. And who's that, mamboing by the stairs? Why, it's Mom, all decked out in the ulitimate loungewear--a tee-shirt and sweats!

I love this.

I love that now that I'm grown and can't go to the clubs anymore (because of the kids, not my age; I could be 78 and still willing to go to a dance club), I bring the club to me. Cocktails, loud music, and energy--now that's what we're talkin' about.

Every night, around 7, we create our own little speakeasy in the basement. Sometimes, we go for a Latin blend, while at other times, we work toward a modern vibe. No matter what the mix, we dance and we laugh and we celebrate different styles of music. Together.

The interesting part is that I think I prefer the home-front club scene to the real one. I like the pure joy of my children as they race around the room, giggling. I like the fact that when my cool dance moves have sequed into a rendition of Dennis the Menace's father slipping on a banana peel, no one laughs--that, if I'm lucky, someone might even remark: "Hey, mom, that looks cool."

I love this because I realize that my children will not always want to dance with me. That we will attend weddings together and they will cringe when they see me on the dance floor at the reception. That they will one day be aware of their mom's untoned arms and lack of rhythm.

"That looks cool" will give way to "That looks stupid."

Right now, I'm Shakira. In a couple of years, I'll be Elaine from Seinfeld.

I remember it myself. I remember Margie, the neighbor kids' mother, coming to pick a carload of us up from a middle school dance, and shuffle-walking down the hall. She shuffled right into the gym, where she proceeded to tell a group of eighth graders that she was going to teach them some moves. I remember thinking, as Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" played in the background, that I would kill my mother if she ever pulled a stunt like that. I remember instructing her, that very evening, that when it was her turn to pick us up from a dance, she was not to even get out of the car.

The "cool" to "stupid" transition is already starting. We were driving home from Borders the other night and "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" came on the radio. I started singing. Within seconds, there were shrieks from the backseat, where Mac had clasped his hands over the sides of his head and was screaming: You broked my ears.

I don't need anyone telling me that I look good when I dance or that my vocal range would impress Barbra. I am finally at a place where my own enjoyment, my own satisfaction and contentment, surpasses any worry over what someone else thinks. But a genuine compliment hurled in my direction every so often warms my heart.

Even if I have been known to break a few ears.

Dear Five Friends . . .

I won't be posting much during the next couple of days because I've decided to go on a brief hiatus:

1. I feel like going on a flash fiction rampage, and right now, I'm working on a story.

2. I need to do a brief internet break ("My name is Cate, and I'm addicted . . "). This "checking of email" every five minutes has got to stop. The computer must be shut off, folded up, and lodged onto a shelf for a few days. Let it collect a nice skim of dust, like everything else in the house.

3. In order to enhance my creativity, I am going to start taking daily walks, making sure that I pay real attention to the way the trees stretch tall then clasp branches above the road. I'm going to eavesdrop on conversations as I reach for a steaming cup of coffee at the bagel shop downtown. I'm going to study the way the young girl working at the craft store wears her velour sweatpants and sweeps her hand across her forehead to keep a long strand of hair from falling into her eyes. I'm going to notice the circles under her eyes and I'm going to wonder how she spent the previous night--if she ate pizza with friends or watched movies or parked in a car with her boyfriend on a dirt road in the country.

In other words, I'm going to start PAYING ATTENTION to the world, instead of shoving my way through it.

4. When I take a break from the writing, I'm going to construct something from the vintage patterned papers and slabs of chipboard that I bought at the craft store. What, I do not know, but I'll figure it out, since I'll be glowing with creative energy, thanks to #3.

5. I'll be reading these books, which I recommend to other writers: "Poemcrazy," "All Is Vanity," and "Walking In This World."

"Poemcrazy," which I bought last night, is brilliant. Susan Wooldridge's writing is lyrical and detail-filled. She offers MANY strategies, through anecdotes in each short chapter, to encourage poetry writing, and really, just another way of looking at the world. Sort of staying true to your inner person. Or inner writer.

"All Is Vanity" is fiction by Christina Schwarz. It's about a woman who quits her job to write a novel, but is failing miserably, to the dismay of both her husband (who is supporting her) and her ego. She uses the letters that her best friend from California writes to her for the book , all the while, calling that friend and encouraging the woman to take huge risks in her life and make terrible decisions; it seems that "the writer" is unable to create a novel without the plot unfolding in front of her. The way that the "writing life" is portrayed is hysterical, but it's the relationship between the two friends that really strikes a chord--the concept of the "superior" friend vs. the "inadequate" one, jealousy, blind loyalty, and even, love. Delicous, delicious, delicious. Even better than cheesecake. Or Beer.

"Walking In This World," by Julia Cameron, is like The Artist's Way. It's a creative and spiritual guide . . . an inspirational, movtivational (muppetational?) pep-talk in a book. I know that I sound like a freakin' zealot, but I swear, I don't know where my life would be without this woman.

Have a happy couple of days. See you on Tuesday or Wednesday, my faithful five!