Happy New Year

It's almost New Year's Eve and much of America is in its annual end-of-the-year frenzy.  What are you doing New Year, New Year's Eve? 

There are a lot of options for a good time.  Church parties or nightclub parties?  Quiet gatherings or bashes the police need to break up? Fireworks!  Lots of fireworks!  Probably all I'll do this year is stay home, watch more black and white movies,  and reminisce.  I haven't accepted a NYE party invitation in so long that I no longer get invited anywhere. And that's a shame, because I'd probably enjoy a party as long as I could be home by 10.

One of my favorite NYE parties was the one I threw while in college many years ago.  It lasted all night and my parents were very good sports about it.  We weren't twenty-one, but there was enough alcohol to open a bar.  (This was completely the opposite of the party I threw while in high school when I dumped out a punch bowl spiked with cheap booze.  Teased unmercifully for the next year, I even received an "award" at graduation - I was voted Most Likely to Head up the Next Temperance League.  Ha ha, so funny I forgot to laugh.)  Anyhow, back to that party.  The place was packed.  I never invited a bunch of the people who showed up, but I was glad to see them. As I remember, most of them were boys.  Mine was the party to be at.  Got your toolbox full of beer?  Come share it at Barbara's party.  (Although I've yet to figure out how bringing a big tool box into a party house is less suspicious than carrying a case of Rolling Rock.) But yea me... the curse of Miss Tea-totaller was over. "Bye Bye Miss American Pie" was the song of the season; and it still brings back bittersweet memories of climbing the tower at Valley Forge Park on that crisp morning.  Many relationships began and ended that night, and more than a few cars parked outside had seriously steamed up windows.  It was magical.  I was young, in love with life, and so full of hope for the future and what the new year would bring me.

Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end.  We'd sing and dance for ever and a day......

Well, those days did end.  We grew up.  Many of us settled down and started families.  We were full-time adults with responsible jobs. Most of our gatherings included food - appetizers, dinners, desserts, and snacks - and not a whole lot of dancing.  We grew fat.  We grew apart.  No more all-nighters for us.  Regretfully, some of those hardy partiers are no longer celebrating on this earth.

Sound sad?  It isn't really; it's just the rhythm of life.  As the milestones which once came rapidly and defined the months and years of an exciting existence have slowed down, so too has the uniqueness of the years.  I find that except for a major event, too often tragic, each year is a lot like the last year.  Recently a friend pondered about what 2013 would bring her.  My response?  Probably more of the same.

However, I hope "the same" is a comfortable sameness.  I hope the sameness includes a healthy family, a living wage, some creature comforts, good friends, lots of smiles and laughter, you know -- the good stuff.  May you open your eyes each day happy to be awake and content to be alive.  May you be filled with purpose and joy. May you have fond memories of the past and some dreams for the future.  If that's not possible, may you at least take an anti-depressant that can keep you going.

Happy new year dear friends!  I'm looking forward to welcoming in 2013.  I'd even enjoy doing such welcoming at a New Year's Eve party (hint, hint), provided I'm off the roads and home by 10.

 

Extreme Cheapskating

I'm watching an Extreme Cheapskates marathon, and I'm just dumbfounded.  I have always been frugal, but these people are downright skinflints.

One guy took his wife to the movies.  While she was watching the film, he left his seat to dig through the trashcan until he found a soda cup and a popcorn bag.  He rinsed the cup out in the bathroom and then took it and the popcorn bag to the snack counter for free refills.  Twice.  Another guy advocated taking extra condiment packs from the fast food place.  A third guy took his family of six to a Chinese buffet where he paid for three plates and made them share. One guy went to an ice cream place and after fourteen free samples declared himself too full to buy a cone.  I don't know, but those thrifty techniques strike me as bordering on theft.  One guy refuses to turn on his air conditioner.  Instead, he dusts his body parts with cornstarch to keep them from sticking together.  A presently unemployed woman owns her apartment in NYC, but she saves the paper towels she uses in a restroom to reuse at home.  One woman, who by the way is a millionaire, dumpster dives for food.  Ok, I can let people slide if what they're taking is securely packaged, but this woman was thrilled to find a hunk of cooked rice.  No package.  Just dumped from a salad bar is my guess.  I wonder how much food poisoning costs to treat?  Her son is used to Mom's foraging.  After all, what's a little diarrhea if you're saving money?

They all had the same thing in common; they were thrilled to be saving money.  The question that was never answered, though, is what exactly are they saving for?

I spent thirty years as a teacher. I am now one of those seniors on a fixed income.  I remember my first year's salary, $9,500 before taxes.  I felt like I was rolling in the bucks!  Ha Ha.  I lived frugally so I could make ends meet. I have friends who hesitate to come to my house in the winter because they think it's too cold.  I guess that's why Christmas presents to me are often thick fuzzy slippers, quilted robes, gloves, scarves, and earmuffs.  I use them all, both outside and sometimes inside the house.  I can color and highlight my hair so well that I get compliments from the gals at the Cuttery.  So yes, I cut back wherever I can; and I've never had a bill I couldn't pay.

These people seem to focus on money every waking minute in order to make the cheapskate decisions they do.  They will bargain with storekeepers for a half hour trying to wear them down to get a few dollars taken off the bill.  They will spend endless minutes pulling apart two-ply tissue paper.  That is, if they even use toilet paper.  The millionaire woman urinates in a jar and pours it on her compost pile.  Everything they do is the result of a well-thought out plan to do it in the cheapest way possible.  These folks are the anorexics of the spending world.

And for what?  To save money they don't intend to ever spend?  Does that make sense to you?  The thought of focusing so intently on pennies simply exhausts me.

I admit, my house may be cold in the winter. But, if you are my waiter, you enjoy a 20-25 % tip.  If my mail doesn't  fit the box, my mail lady delivers it to my door. There's a reason for that, but it is illegal for mail employees to accept money, so that's all I can say.  I give generously to charity and frequently "loan" money that I never expect to be repaid.  And I do it joyously.

I am both amazed and appalled by the cheapskate actions of the people on this television show.  But I will admit, I did pick up a few hints.....

Let's Just Talk About the Weather

It's sunny and warm today.  It will be in the 60's at high noon.  On a December day in Maryland, that's not the norm.  But, I love it!

I hate the winter, not because of the snow, or even the ice.  I hate the grey.  Grey skies.  Grey rain.  Grey fog.  Days like that just whip the emotional sunshine out of me.

There are predictions swirling the media that we are in for a difficult winter.  It is supposed to be very cold and very snowy.  Supposedly the caterpillars are already dressed in their winter coats. 

I'm finding those reports hard to believe.  Last year was the mildest winter I ever experienced in the mid-Atlantic states.  I think our biggest snow was the one that coated the Halloween decorations that October.  It's the middle of December, and I have yet to see a single snow flake.  Sure feels like a repeat of last year's weather.

Today I will wear my lightweight jeans, a T-shirt, and my favorite denim jacket.  And, I'll try to remember that Christmas is but a week away.  Most likely, it won't look like the snowy scenes on the cards in my basket.  But that's ok, as long as it stays sunny.

I will need the warmth of the sun, the optimism of a sunny day, and the healthy boost of Vitamin D to lighten my heart this Christmas season.  This has been a tough Advent.

Merry sunny Christmas to all!

The Tragedy in Conneticut

Like most of the people I know,  I cannot stop thinking about the twenty-six people murdered by a lone twenty year old shooter.  The horror of twenty children slaughtered ten days before Christmas is almost unbelievable.  The television is impossible to watch.  Everybody has a theory, every pundit has an opinion, and some experts even claim to know what was going through the mind of the shooter.  Me?  I'm stunned and in shock. The search for the perfect words for this blog has led me to dead ends in the maze of thoughts that tumble in my head and keep me awake at night.

After Columbine, I devised an escape plan for my classroom.  My room was located next door to a storage closet, and there was a door to that closet in the front near the chalkboard .  You wouldn't notice it immediately because my computer desk, monitor, and mile high stacks of ungraded assignments provided a camouflage.  In my mind, I knew that if I ever heard shots, I could quickly move my students into the closet.  The closet was divided by a locking door.  I could either sneak them out of the window on one side or huddle them in the windowless section, depending on the situation. If locking all the doors kept me from getting in there with them, at least I could tell the killer my kids were in gym, and thus save them.  Yep, I had it all worked out.

What a far cry from the protective measures taken in my elementary school when I was a child.  Most of us of a certain age remember Russia being a threat.  We were vaguely aware that the Russians could bomb us, but we weren't constantly on alert.  When the bomb drill signaled, we crawled under our desks and covered our heads.  While a bit uncomfortable, we weren't scared.  Some kids would fall asleep and take a little nap.  Our teacher would circulate the classroom and water the plants.  When the drill was over, we stretched and went back to work, the threat of a communist attack over for that week.

How will the children who survived the massacre ever stretch and yawn and get back to work?  How will those innocents ever be children again?  How will all of those families ever feel joy or peace again?  How?  This is a tragedy that feels impossible to mentally survive.

I can't help but worry about my younger niece.  This past year, she has developed a lot of fears that are somewhat crippling.  She is afraid of the dark and no longer can sleep alone.  If we're outside and it begins to rain, she visibly pales and begs to go indoors.  She is afraid of hurricanes, tsunamis, and tornadoes.  If she gets wind of a storm anywhere on the East coast, she is overcome with anxiety that it will destroy her world.  How did this happen to her?  She doesn't watch the news, we don't discuss this stuff, and yet,  she knows.  There will be no protecting her from the shootings in Connecticut.  She will hear conversations.  She will build fear inside her little head.  She may even see something on the television before one of us can change the channel.  Will she have difficulty leaving the security of her home to go to school?  Will she be one of the many children who will never again feel safe?

I'm not going to rant in favor of gun control. If you know me, you know I have always been a proponent of stricter laws.  I believe there are limits to any of the freedoms granted to Americans.  The freedom of speech doesn't give you the right to yell fire in a crowded building.  And the right to bear arms should not give a citizen the power to own a semi-automatic assault weapon.  I believe the writers of the Constitution would roll over in their graves if they saw how the law is being interpreted in current times by the gun lobbyists and others who have a major financial interest in suppressing any restrictions.  I have never owned a gun.  I have no interest in spending time at a shooting range.  And I do not want to live in a house where guns are present.  I understand hunters and I do not begrudge them their rifles.  I'll just never own one, that's all.

Some say that guns don't kill, people do, and the answer is education.  One of the evening news shows blew a hole in that theory.  A group of youngsters were given lessons in gun safety and what to do if they ever saw one (not touch it and tell an adult).  All of their parents beamed with pride as their children parroted the lessons learned.  Then, unloaded guns were placed in amongst their toys.  Those same parents watched in horror as their kids picked up the guns, pointed them at each other, and then hid them when they heard the adult returning to the room.  When questioned, they denied ever touching the guns because that was dangerous and wrong.  No, education is not the answer to gun safety.  Don't kid yourself.

I have no answers to offer.  Like I said earlier, my thoughts are swirling a mile a minute in my head and banging into dead ends.  I mourn the passing of those twenty-six innocents in Connecticut.  I pity the shooter.  But mostly, I ache for the children near and far who may never feel safe again in this crazy world. I ache for the adults who have lost all that really matters in life.

I am bottomless sad.

If Life Were a Soap Opera

I often hear people describe their lives as soap operas.  Usually they mean there's a lot of drama happening.  I, however, have watched General Hospital  since the early 70's.  I don't think people who believe their lives are soap operas actually watch them, or they wouldn't use the expression so casually.

Right now there is a story on GH that involves four characters, Anna (the ex-secret agent turned police commissioner), Robert (also a secret agent and her ex-husband and the father of their child, Robin -who, by the way,  is currently believed dead but is really being held prisoner in a Swiss hospital), Faison an evil villain who is wearing a rubber mask that makes him look exactly like one of Anna's other former husbands, Duke, who is the fourth person in the story also being held prisoner by Faison.  Confused?  Me too.  Heck, I wasn't even sure how to punctuate the sentence.  What's the best part of this story?  Years ago all four characters were blown to smithereens in explosions.  Anna and Robert even appeared as ghosts to advise and comfort their teenage daughter when her first lover died of AIDS and she was diagnosed with the HIV virus.  So far, the teen lover has stayed dead....but everybody else who was blown up or burned to death was really alive all along!!  There's an amazing clinic in Switzerland that seems able to put the body pieces together and kaboom!  alive again!!

So, if your life is a soap opera, lucky you.  Nobody you love, or yourself for that matter, will ever die...as long as there is someone to take the body pieces to that Swiss clinic.

Children on soap operas are another source of wonder.  One wonders how the kids ever get to know their parents.  Carly, for example, is always shacking up with somebody and she never has to worry about interrupting her trysts with a PTA meeting. The nanny takes care of all of that minutia.  The kids never get sick, unless of course it is a major illness that actually refocuses the drama on the hospital set, instead of the docks where the shady mafia turned good guys operate their coffee business.  And then, no matter what the mysterious illness, everybody recovers during sweeps month and moves on to the next mystery. That mystery being, how a five year old returns from the hospital or boarding school as an eighteen year old.  One of the fun parts of soap operas is when a child no one knew they had mysteriously appears as a young adult in Port Charles.  This usually happens around the time schools let out for the summer.  It's totally believable though; I mean, after all, soap opera parents don't raise their kids so why should it be a surprise when one sneaks away or an extra kid shows up?

Yep, if your life was a soap opera you wouldn't have to mess with any of the trappings of child rearing.   The perfect nanny would always be on call so you could do whatever you want.  Beware, though, that when your kids come down to breakfast and they've suddenly aged ten or twelve years they will be emotionally messed up.  Why not?  After all, they were totally abandoned by their parents at crucial points in their development. 

The best part of living a life that is a soap opera?  You can literally stop the world and get off.  Yep, in soap opera land you can leave your life and have a stand-in, the new you, take over.  That stand-in will have all your memories, many of your mannerisms, and be able to handle all the events of your life as if they'd always been you.  Or you'd always been them. Whatever.  You can come back when you're ready.  Kind of tempting, isn't it?

If you truly live a soap opera life, you are probably white, thin, and dressed in the latest haute couture.  If you work, you can leave whenever you want to solve a major family crisis; you may own the latest in Smart phones, but why use a phone when a visit is so much more effective?  You may have a few black neighbors (thanks to super couple Angie and Jesse), but don't expect to see many Asians or Hispanics.  The Asian community in Port Charles usually springs to life around Chinese New Year, and then they're gone for another year.  Hispanics materialize, speak with a bad accent, and then fade into the sunset. So, if you live a soap opera life, you're not culturally diverse. And that's a real shame.  (Heck, even in Ceciltucky the people come in all shapes, sizes, and colors.)

My life is not a soap opera.  But if yours is, I'll  be tuning in tomorrow on Facebook to see how your world turns.

My Version of Oprah's Favorite Things

Every year, or maybe it's twice a year, Oprah celebrates herself and her wealth with a show dedicated to the luxuries only her money can buy.  These are her favorite things, and she wants them to be ours.  Me? I'm more of a raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens kind of person.  In my opinion, one doesn't have to be an Oprah to share one's favorite things, so today's blog is all about that which makes me smile.  I hope you can relate and perhaps share some of your own guilty/non-guilty pleasures.

1.  Food   Let's get the obvious out of the way.  We live in America, and one of its benefits/downfalls (depending on your outlook) is all the food available.  I enjoy it.  One of my favorites is genuine New York cheesecake.  I'm a purist and like it plain, creamy, and thick...no strawberries for me; toppings ruin the experience.  I also love my mother's snowball cookies, peppermint bark, coconut ice cream, Bomboy's raspberry chocolates -milk chocolate only, turkey dinners, fresh out of the oven melt-in-your-mouth cream filled donuts, Fisher's caramel (no nuts please) popcorn, frozen margaritas (no salt), and cheddar cheese curls.  While high caloric food has proven not to be my friend, I can't help but love those treats.

2. Losing Weight  LOL!  I don't mean those same three or four pounds over and over again, but weight loss that makes a change.  I am wearing jeans that didn't fit a year ago. Obviously, I haven't had as many run-ins with pleasure #1 as in the past. 

3. The First Big Snow  I love that first big thick snow that blankets the world with pure dense white fluff. I especially love it at night in December when it quiets the neighborhood and the snowflakes dance in the street lights.  No blustery wind is a plus.

4.  Live Theater  I love it all, good or bad.  I like to act in theater productions and I am an enthusiastic audience member.  Give me a Broadway spectacle like Lion King  or a Tidewater Player's version of Spelling Bee (any production with Chad LeFleur is a bonus), and I am happy.  I will have seen two versions of Steel Magnolias within weeks of each other, and that's ok with me!

5.  Flowers in Nature  I love it when spring ends the dreary winter with blossoming pear trees, flowering lilac bushes, clumps of purple pansies, and sprouting tulips.  Give me fragrant petunias to sniff all summer.  Inside my house, I love tiny white chrysanthemums. Their perfume can hide the fact that an old dog lives there (Trixie, not me).

6.  Good Books  I read a lot.  I enjoy most of what I read, but sometimes there is a book that I hate to see end because it's just the very best story I have ever read.  When I come across one of those, I feel like a library lottery winner.

7.  Television  I watch a lot of it, and frankly, I enjoy it.  I have watched Saturday Night Live since my college days and it still makes me laugh.  I watched Luke and Laura get married when GH was General Hospital, and I still tune in today to see how my Port Charles peeps are faring.  Grey's Anatomy is almost as good as a doctor's visit that ends with, Keep up the good work.

8.  Vacations  I love to go away to see the world or just to relax.  I've been lucky to visit some memorable places: most of Europe, Kuala Lumpur, Bali, Singapore, Hong Kong, and China to name a few.  Two of my favorite trips involved warmth and beaches.  I went to Mexico for five days the summer after my father died.  I still rank that as one of my best get-a-ways.  Last February I went on a cruise to the Bahamas with the Paperbackswap gang.  That was a great trip!!  Every year I go to Allenberry for a weekend: theater, food, snow, friends and fun.  Those three days combine lots of the things I love in one well-rounded vacation.

9.  Winning  I go to a lot of quarter auctions.  Lately, they haven't been much fun and I realized it's because I haven't won anything.  Heck, the last two times my number wasn't even called.  But, I love to jump up and squeal, YES!! when I win something.  Don't even get me started on winning at the casino.  I once won $500 on a nickel Whoopi Goldberg machine.  I have been trying for years to duplicate that adrenaline rush of hearing the bells ringing and seeing the hundred dollar bills being counted into the palm of my hand.  I'm sure it will happen again.  Somebody has to win, why not me?

10.  Letters in the Mail  As a voracious pen pal, I used to get these so often they were commonplace and expected.  I had pen pals all over the world.  Soldiers in Vietnam were entertained weekly by the silly unbosomings of a young girl (to paraphrase Anne Frank).  My college mailbox had a daily reminder of the loved ones from whom I was separated.  I once even got a letter from my Dad because Mom made him write to me (I know that because he told me in the letter).  I have saved many of these letters.  Now-a-days, I mostly communicate through emails and phone calls.  But occasionally I find a real old-fashioned handwritten letter amongst the bills in my mailbox.  What a thrill!!  Thanks to Cathy, Margie, and Marilyn for still engaging in the lost art of letter writing and for engaging in it with me.

11.  Dimes  Finding these is very meaningful to me, and I plan soon to blog about them.  Suffice it to say, they appear at the darndest times and remind me that my parents are still with me.  I found one last night, and boy did I need it. Yep, dimes make me happy.

Enough for now.  "When the dog bites, when the bees sting, when I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things and then I don't feel so bad."  Thank you Sound of Music, one of my absolutely favorite musicals.

Seasons Greetings??

Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas?  This, in case you haven't noticed, is a major issue for debate this time of the year.  I once asked someone why she got so upset to hear Happy Holidays as a greeting instead of Merry Christmas.  She said they were trying to take the Christ out of Christmas.  Ok.... so then I asked her who "they" were.  People will answer with the Jews, the Muslims, the atheists (does that need a capital letter?).  Her response? and the one I hear most often?  "They" is the government.  Sigh.

I don't believe anyone can take Christ out of your Christmas unless you allow Him to be taken. In my opinion, many of the people celebrating this occasion have allowed just that.

How many people dread the holiday season because of the amount of work it takes to buy the gifts, decorate the inside of the house, decorate the outside of the house, cook the food, attend the parties, deal with the hyper kids, socialize with the crazy relatives and so on and so on.  Women especially are driven to the point of sheer exhaustion as they are determined to create the "perfect Christmas" for their families and friends.  That idea of perfect is somewhere between a Martha Stewart special edition magazine and a movie like "White Christmas."  That's a lot of pressure on a homemaker; and how many of them only utter the Lord's name while cussing all the work to be done?   The original birthday took place in a dirty manger without a whole lot of fuss.  Remember?

This time of the year brings a lot of complaints about how "commercial" the Christmas holiday has become.  Well how the heck did that happen?  We did it to ourselves...no "they" is responsible.  How many people cut short their quiet Thanksgiving dinner to get to the real  event of the day?  Black Friday shopping, a day early.  The news was full of stories of people camping out in order to be the first to buy the latest trendy gift at a reduced price.  More "fun" were the reports of folks being trampled when the mall's doors opened or of beatings in the parking lot over some transgression of the unspoken rules of super shopping.  I don't think anyone was saying "Happy Holidays" or "Merry Christmas."  More likely, what you could hear was, "Get outta my way."  Why do we do this to ourselves? 

I am no great philosopher, but I believe too many of us need to stop being annoyed/angry about what "they" are doing to take the Christ out of Christmas, and reevaluate our expectations for the season while taking personal responsibility for the way we celebrate the birth of the Lord. If you are anti-commercialism, then think twice before getting into a cutthroat competition for the last toy-of-the-season on the store shelves.  If you think that accumulating a debt that will take you until Easter to repay is what makes Christmas special, then stop complaining that you don't have enough money.  If you think the month of December is solely owned by Christ-believers, then get over it.  Many people enjoy a secular Christmas that has little to do with Jesus, and that's just fine.  The Elf on the Shelf, Santa Claus in every mall, Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer, Lifetime movies that have reinvented Christmas as the aphrodisiac to marriage, these have become holiday traditions about as far removed from Christ as you can get.  Jews celebrate Hanukkah, and despite the beliefs of some outside the religion, the main focus of the holiday is not the eight days of gifts.  Kwanzaa began being celebrated in the 70's I think.  While I don't observe it, I certainly believe others are entitled to their holiday without the snorts and sneers of non-participants. We all have New Year's Eve in common!  Ain't that grand!

        Happy Holidays!  Seasons Greetings!            Merry Christmas! 

Who really cares to split hairs over what form of cheerful greetings are offered? Take them in the spirit of the season and return the kindness.  You'll be glad you did.

Are you prepared for the end???

Last night, I scared the heck out of myself. 

I take a bunch of pills every evening, and some of them are huge.  My calcium supplement looks like something the Jetsons would eat for a meal.  Usually, I grab the handful and pop them in my mouth, following up with a little water to wash them down.  "Rut-Ro" as Astro Jetson used to say; last night the horse pill caught in my throat and would not wash down.  What terrified me was that I could feel it blocking off my air supply, and I thought I might die.

My life passed before my eyes.  Not the past events, but my immediate concerns.  I hadn't updated my will.  Dang, now my crazy brother would end up with the share of my "fortune" that should go to my nieces. How will my sister ever find my safety deposit box key when I'm not even sure where it is? How long will my body lie here? Will Trixie have to resort to cannibalism in order to survive? And what will happen to Trixie?  Who wants a dog that eats all your underwear, overturns your trashcans, occasionally goes potty inside instead of outside, and costs $102 a month in maintenance medicine? And why oh why hadn't I done my dishes?

Obviously, I am writing this, so I was able to dislodge the pill.  But, this experience had me pondering death and asking the question, how many of us are prepared to die?

You know that according to the Mayan calendar, our world is doomed to end on December 21, 2012.  There are nutcases  people actually preparing for it by moving to what they perceive as safer parts of the country and stockpiling food, water, money, and guns. Check out this website if you don't believe me: http://www.survivalplan2012.com/.  Are you prepared to survive the Apocalypse? Have you done your dishes?

We don't know what the future will bring.  I truly doubt the interpretation of the Mayan calendar that predicts our demise is going to come to fruition.  So, I will finish my Christmas shopping, stay on my diet, and get my car's oil changed.  But just in case, just in case,  I plan to keep my dishes done and put away. 

A Blog Inspired By My Conversation With Patty

Have you ever felt jealous of somebody else's life?  Especially when you read about those lives on Facebook?  Some people seem to have it soooo great.  They have lots of friends!  Beautiful homes!  Perfect family members! Loving marriages! Many fun activities to fill their days! New purchases they photograph so you can share in their joy! Delicious restaurant meals that sabotage your diet attempts!  Oh my goodness, if only you could Freaky Friday it and be your friend for a day!

Does Facebook somehow make you feel like your life is incomplete? That everybody else is having a great time of it while you are not? 

If you answered yes, welcome to the club. And please, continue reading.

If it helps any, let me share with you a lesson I learned one summer. Many years ago I spent my summers at the Port Deposit public swimming pool. (Ha!  How many locals remember that place?) I made friends with a pool regular, a mother about my age with two adorable sons.  She had the perfect life!  First of all, she was physically beautiful.  I envied her smooth tan, dark luxurious long hair, and her curvy figure.  I adored her boys.  They were such sweet kids.  One was brunette like her, and the other a redhead like his daddy.  She didn't have to work.  She lived in a gorgeous home, grew a fabulous garden, and canned and baked to her heart's content.  Her favorite times were spent with family and friends, vacationing and partying together. Well, as a single teacher living in a cramped furnished apartment and trying desperately to recover from a very difficult school year, I was so enamored of her; and I have to admit, so damn jealous that she had everything I thought I wanted.

As the summer progressed, our conversations deepened and eventually she confessed something to me that put everything else into perspective.  She'd once been hospitalized for weeks following a nervous breakdown she suffered in her attempt to be perfect.  Well hey, I'd never felt the compulsion to be perfect, and I'd certainly never required medical attention because of it.  Maybe my life wasn't so bad after all!

We all have our trials and tribulations.  If you get past the events people celebrate and publicize on Facebook, you'll remember that into each life some rain certainly does fall.  If you're feeling envious of someone, you can be sure someone else is feeling envious of you.  Life is like that.

My friend Dee and I have both suffered through some horrifying life events.  But, a while ago we sorta made a pact. And that was to focus on enjoying the simple good/fun moments as they were happening...really experience those times because who knew when the next one would come?  We keep our expectations minimal. Are we sacrificing dreams and just settling for the mundane?  No,  I prefer to think we're appreciating what we have and not moping about what we don't. (Well, sometimes I mope.)

So, this holiday season as people competitively post all the fun they are having while I am sitting home quietly playing solitaire on my computer, I'll try to keep things in perspective and remember that one of these days, I'll have an event to post on FB.  I'll take lots of pictures and make it look good!  Cause I'll know, it really is good (for now).

Shake Your Booty

I just came from my Zumba class at the Havre de Grace Senior Center.  It was three years ago that Dee suggested I sign up for a class or two.  I am forever indebted.  The Center offers a variety of classes, less than half the price of those offered privately or through the community college.  I believe there are some government subsidies involved...yea America!

Most of the classes are wonderful, but there have been a few fails in the offerings.  I had always wanted to learn Tai Chi, but after one semester with the instructor, I was done.  He was a cranky man, made cranky by his desire for perfection of form.  I did my best, but I am a slow learner.  He seemed to focus on me and snap any time my form was off.  It was off a lot.  At one point he exclaimed in sheer exasperation, "Is there something wrong with you?!?"  When I told him I was currently in physical therapy for my bad knee, he backed off for a while.  (I sincerely apologize NOW to any of my former students that I may have barked at as they struggled to learn.  I so get it now!  If it makes you feel better, Karma got me good during this class.)  I was traumatized, and I will sadly never look like those Chinese people you see stretching and turning in controlled slow motion at the outdoor parks.  No more Tai Chi for me.

There is an afternoon class offered for free for people with arthritis.  Since an orthopedic doctor once told me I was riddled with it, I signed on.  This is a wonderful class that anybody in any shape can take.  The class uses all the exercises I performed in physical therapy.  It is like free physical therapy!!  What a bargain! I love to go.  There's a couple there who just make me shake my head.  The husband is one of the sweetest men I've ever seen.  He smiles constantly, engages the quieter and shyer classmates in conversation, and participates in the exercises with gusto.  His wife is the biggest sourpuss on earth. One day she had kvetched the whole hour.  Finally, she started yapping about the finger exercises and how worthless they are.  I'd had it, so I looked at her with great concern and said, "What's the matter?  Do you feel like you're not getting your money's worth?"  I caught her hubby's eye as he struggled to keep from laughing.  I keep trying to talk an older friend of mine who has become very sedentary to start with this class.  But she'd rather watch TV.

My favorite class is Zumba Gold.  The "gold" is the gentle term indicating this class goes somewhat slower than the ones you see advertised on TV.  There are some real characters in this class.  One of my favorite people is Rosie.  I knew her from my much younger days when we took aerobics together.  Someone told me she is in her eighties.  She rocks!  She looks years younger and her agility is enviable.  However, she is truly a senior.  One day she was on a rampage that there were too many young people in our class.  Since you only have to be fifty to attend class, I tried to convince this older woman that people thirty years younger may look too young, but they're really old.  She wasn't buying it. I don't know what her problem was, we meet in a big gym with lots of room.  I don't see those "young" women anymore.  I prefer to think they graduated to regular Zumba somewhere and not that anyone got them kicked out for being too young.

I stay in the back row; and as a result of that, I've learned a lot about my classmates.  One lady travels a lot in the USA.  I know because of her t-shirts.  Another woman thinks she's a ballerina.  She points her toes for everything, moves her arms gracefully like she's a dancing swan.  And, as I huff and puff, she floats with her beatific smile plastered on her face.  I knew another woman's diet was working as her butt shrank before my eyes.  The person to my left loves to dance, and when it is time to shake it, she shakes it like Shakira.  On a side note, her kindergarten grandchild whom she taught to dance, had her mother spoken to because of some of the risque moves she learned from granny.  Miss Fingers is also in the class. She uses weights and does her own steps quite often because, as we all know, she knows best.  I don't know why more men don't take Zumba.  The cardio is universally good for all of us. But, only one man takes the class.  I've seen others peek in the room, and I can just tell that they really want to participate. I guess they think this is women's work (they are, after all, of an older generation).

I think some of the biggest problems facing the elderly are loneliness and inactivity.  I know people who are compromising their quality of life by refusing to get off the couch.  If only they would take a few classes!  The exercise is good.  The people are welcoming and friendly.  It's a great place to go.  If I may borrow some lyrics from the theme to "Cheers" (as written by Gary Portnoy and Judy Hart Angelo), I'll leave you with this:

                Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got.
                Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.

               Wouldn't you like to get away?

                Sometimes you want to go

                Where everybody knows your name,
                and they're always glad you came.
                You wanna be where you can see,
                our troubles are all the same
               You wanna be where everybody knows
               Your name.

'Tis the Season For....

Holiday bazaars!  That's how they advertise them, but don't kid yourself.  These are Christmas bazaars.  The predominating colors? Red and green.  Who do you see on every other table? Santa Claus.  What kind of music is playing?  Christmas carols. I rest my case. Starting the first weekend in November and ending the first or second weekend in December, Christmas bazaars spring up all over the countryside.

If you're like me and you want to get to as many as possible, it takes a little planning.  Newspapers advertise better than any on-line site I've found (sorry Patch).  I mark the date with the sales I want to attend and paper clip the newspaper ads to the festive Thanksgiving picture on my calendar so I don't forget the day and place.  Time is no problem, they all seem to be open from 9-3. But that in itself is a problem.  Trying to make it to four bazaars during those hours takes some special attention; you must plan your driving route so you hit the sales in a natural order.  Time is wasted if you have to backtrack. Keep notes if you hit a bazaar that's a real bust; you might not want to waste time there next year.

You can find anything you want for the holidays at these bazaars.  And even some stuff you didn't know you  wanted.  Take my friend Laurie, for example.  I'm sure she had no intention today of buying two handmade doggy pizzas for her beloved pups. But she bought them and an assortment of doggy bone treats.  Because some of these shows can be overwhelming, I suggest you walk the perimeter first and get an idea of the crafts for sale.  If you aren't careful, you might buy that Ravens scarf for $20 and find the same thing two booths down for $5.  However, if something truly unique and reasonably priced calls your name, you best grab it up before it calls somebody else who answers. Occasionally, I look at some of the items for sale and think, gee I could do that.  But as a vendor explained, "We do it for you, so you don't have to."  Sounds reasonable to me.

There are a few things that make me sad when I go to these bazaars.  The crocheted items get to me.  Those tables never seem to change.  The soft mounds of crafts are the same size from the beginning of the show to the end of the show.  People like to crochet.  But people don't seem to buy crocheted items.  A lot of crocheted items are aimed at covering toilet paper: little cap like things, toilet paper Santas, toilet paper snowmen, you get the picture. When's the last time you actually saw a crocheted toilet paper cover in a bathroom?  Been a while, hasn't it?  Now, I did recently see the little cap-like covers as favors at a church Christmas party.  Sorry to say, we church people weren't very kind.  We pulled the toilet paper rolls out of the holders, and wore them on our heads like Rastafarian caps.  The woman who made them was NOT amused.

I feel uncomfortable making eye contact with the vendors.  They all have that same look in their eyes as they silently beg you to please, please buy their crafts.  They pay a lot of money to rent the tables, and sometimes they need a lot of sales to break even.  Oh, and if you enter into conversation with a vendor, it gets even dicier for the buyer.  Do you now have to actually buy the thing you've just told the crafter is really beautiful?  This year as I looked at some jewelry, the vendor said to me, "I remember you from last year!  It's so nice to see you.  What can I do for you this year?"  Ohhh, she's good.  I don't remember her from last year, and I'm sure she doesn't remember me, but now I am a repeat customer and expected to buy.

Christmas bazaars are great places to buy gifts for friends and family.  Or yourself, for that matter.  But be careful to really want what you buy.  It's a little hard to return something to a vendor who has packed up and gone home.  Ask me.  I know that for a fact.  I simply fell in love with a purple necklace, so I had to have it.  Upon returning home, I nestled it into my felt-lined jewelry box, right next to the nearly identical purple necklace I bought last year.  Buyer beware!

Enjoy the season!  Happy shopping!  Happy holidays!

The Great American Smokeout Day

Tomorrow, November 15, is important to me for two reasons. Reason one, it is my friend JoEllen's birthday.  Happy birthday girlfriend!  Reason two, it is the annual day that Americans are encouraged to quit smoking in the hope that one day clean will lead to a lifetime free of tar and nicotine.  A long time ago, I suffered through many of those one day ciggie fasts. 

 I fondly remember the first time I smoked a cigarette.  I was in sixth or seventh grade.  George Fritz and I sat out back of Darby Township High School and smoked away.  I used to steal them from my mom's pack, and we actually had a hiding place for them.  Mom eventually caught me, our family moved to King of Prussia, and that was the end of my smoking habit and George Fritz (I hear he became a police officer).

I didn't start smoking again until I graduated from high school. I worked with teens and older people (in their twenties) and there were many nights after work spent gazing up at the stars, blowing smoke rings into the sultry night air, and discussing life as only teenagers on the verge of adulthood are able.  Coincidentally, that was also the time I started underage drinking.  I felt so cool and so grown up.

The world was different for smokers back then.  We could smoke anywhere.  I smoked in my dorm room. I smoked during college classes.  I loved being able to light up a smoke during a particularly stressful exam.  We could smoke in restaurants, in the middle of the meal if we so desired.  There was even a smoking section on airplanes; but the reality was all of the plane was a smoking section as the blue air was constantly recycled. I remember faculty meetings when the librarian brought out the big ashtrays to put on the library tables for the smokers.  The smokers gathered early at school and we had the best time telling jokes to start our days.  We were an elite club of cool people!  When smokers visited a non-smoker's house, an ashtray was politely provide by the host so the polluters could smoke comfortably in their home.  Mr. Ward, a maintenance man from the Board of Education, would puff on his cigar as he worked in my room while I was teaching class.  I loved that man.  Sadly, he died young...cancer.

Eventually, the Surgeon General convinced me I needed to quit.  I tried many, many times.  One New Year's Eve in Glen Rock I had resolved to quit smoking then and there.  The next day I drove desperately through the ghost town looking for an open gas station, a cigarette machine, and my fix.  I couldn't do it; I just could not quit.  When I worked as an underpaid teacher's aid in Glen Rock, my friends knew when I'd run out of money because I quit smoking.  Ha!  Next paycheck and my resolve was shattered. When I dated Gary, I quit smoking because he was a non-smoker.  Is it any surprise we broke up a month later?  I was a lunatic in withdrawal!  I refrained from smoking for a few more months, but one Happy Hour in a bar when he was with his group of teachers and I was with mine, I thought maybe a cigarette would ease my broken heart.  I was hooked again.  I didn't think I'd ever be able to quit.

And then I met Phil the photographer during a family vacation in Ocean City.  We met on the beach one morning when both of us were taking pictures of the sunrise.  He asked if he could come get me that evening and we'd do something.  Hey, the family was only planning on playing cards that night so I was game.  We had the most romantic walk on the beach, the kind of walk people always imagine when they write personal ads.  And yes, we were those gross people you see and tell to get a room.  It was wonderful!  He was dreamy!  He was also a non-smoker, so once again I quit my nasty habit then and there.  He said he'd call me once we both returned to our homes.

I got home and came down with a wicked case of bronchitis.  The illness helped my resolve and as each day passed, I did not smoke. The days passed and passed and passed; it was six months before Phil called me.  We went on a date, realized there was no chemistry, and said our fond farewells.  I may not have found the man of my dreams, but I found something better.  I found out that I could go six months and not smoke if I did it one day at a time and never touched another cigarette.  The money I had budgeted for cartons of cigarettes was donated to Christian Children's Fund as I sponsored a child in Mexico.  On my teacher's salary, it would have been a financial hardship to start up again.  My parents figured if I could quit a two pack a day habit, they could too.  And they did. My brother, Glenn, quit after a tax on smokes made him so furious with the damn government that he wasn't giving them another &%$#* penny by buying their overtaxed cigarettes.  So there!

Thirty plus years later I am still smoke free. 

I continue working on my sister; and I'm hopeful.  I keep telling her she has to quit.  She really doesn't want Glenn and me raising her kids. Really.

If you still smoke, take the challenge to go one day without cigarettes.  It might lead to a healthier lifetime.  And if nothing else, think of all the money you will save.  Good luck!

Thanksgiving Remembrance

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday.  It was a relaxing day spent with immediate family.  There was no talk of diets, and lots of delicious food in which to indulge.  After dinner, my sister and I would pour Bailey's into my mother's coffee and watch her get tipsy.  We'd laugh so hard that I'd have to run to the bathroom, or else! I especially loved that last day of work before Thanksgiving because the anticipation of a four day break made everybody pretty jovial at school.

I will never forget one pre-Thanksgiving Wednesday that was not  going well.  It was an ugly day, cold, damp, dark, depressing.  I woke up late and had to rush to school without breakfast or a shower.  Ugh.  I was grumpy all day, and so were the kids. While doing afternoon hall duty at our little corner, Dottie and I did nothing but complain.  She had locked her keys inside her car, and we all know what a PITA that is. I was dreading the drive to PA in the dark and in the rain. 

For some reason, a little sixth grader that neither of us knew, stopped to talk to us.  I remember her bright smile and her shining eyes; she was so happy.  I also remember that she was covered in ugly bruises. Those marks signaled one thing to me, child abuse.  I didn't know if her teachers had already reported it;  but all teachers are mandated reporters, so I started to gently question her in my attempt to find out who had hurt her.

Nobody had hurt her, she explained.  She had leukemia.  I didn't know what to say.  So, I hugged her and wished her a happy holiday before she skipped to her locker and headed home.  Talk about feeling shame!  Dottie and I could barely look at each other, and tears filled our eyes as we shook our heads and sighed.  My attitude towards life, the drive home, rainy days, and early darkness changed in that instant.  I was very thankful to realize how healthy and blessed I truly was.

On Monday I learned she had passed away that weekend.  There's no describing the grief I felt; it still stabs today.  I wrote her family a letter about their angel.  I explained how I'd only met her once and she changed my life.  I could only imagine the effect she'd had upon the people who had known her a lifetime.  I sent money to help with her funeral arrangements.  And that was it; I never heard from her family.  Life went on.

Months later, someone casually mentioned they had seen the letter I wrote to her family.  The family had framed it, and it was hanging on the wall of their home.  Talk about feeling humbled.

I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving.  Don't let the hectic preparations for the Big Exciting Holiday Experience get in the way of celebrating and appreciating the blessings of your life.  Don't be afraid to eat too much; life is a banquet!

Why I Won't Answer My Phone

I refuse to answer the phone for the next two days.  Poor Trixie.  She becomes agitated whenever the phone rings.  She'll look at the phone, then run to me, then look at the phone and so on and so on until it stops.  She's been suffering quite a bit lately.  I've tried to explain to her that it will only get worse, but her English isn't very good.

You probably know why I'm not answering.  Robo calls.  Ugh!  They are in full force.  I don't know which candidates are the worst offenders as I never listen long enough before hanging up.  But, I do know they disrupt my dinner preparations.  I'm not much of a cook, and if I am disturbed in the middle of meal preparations, odds are good I'll forget a key ingredient or burn something.  I've yet to go to the powder room without the ring-a-ding-ding of the phone and Trixie's frantic barking in the background.  The late night ones scare the heck out of me.  Everybody knows that calls after 9:00 are bad news.  It infuriates me that political callers do not have to adhere to the Do Not Call List.  But then, why should I be surprised?  It's simply another case of our government making a law that they do not have to obey.

I probably should stop watching TV too.  But, I can't.  I need my daily General Hospital fix.

This has been a most contentious campaign.  While I have not unfriended anyone from my Facebook page recently, I have unfriended people in the past due to politics.  Case in point is my brother.  He and I were friends for less than a week.  I posted something political and he responded by calling me a socialist idiot. Click!  I deleted that moron from my social network life.  It was freeing!  Yes, I still have to face him when I go home to PA, but in person we know enough not to discuss politics.

I was unfriended by someone.  It took me a while to realize, but when I did, I contacted her and  asked if I had offended/upset her.  Here's part of her reply:

Honestly, I just am making a point to stay non-controversial, avoid political comment and generally reduce as much negativity as possible. I did not intend to hurt your feelings so I quietly blocked you.

Ha Ha  She's calling me a negative influence on her life and my feelings aren't supposed to be hurt?  She offered to consider unblocking me after the election, but I told her in my own little negative manner to bite me.

Anybody who knows me knows that I am a dedicated Democrat.  I appreciate my Republican friends trying to change my mind, but there is such a thing as lost causes.  I still love my Republican friends, and I hope they will continue to care about me...even if they have to wait until after the election to show me the love.  If it makes them any happier, I have completed the sample ballot I will take to the polls, and I am voting in the local election for a Republican who strikes me as the best person for the job.  I'll even do a write-in vote for the first time in my life.

I don't care who you vote for, sorta.  Just get out there tomorrow and vote your conscience.  This is a close and critical election.  We Americans are lucky that our votes actually count and can make a difference. 


        

Faith/Religion: Something I've Been Told Never to Discuss

I went to church today, something I do whenever I'm in Maryland on a Sunday.  Today, the pastor had a lot to say, but what I was left pondering was faith.

I guess I am she of little faith.  So many Christians seem so secure in their religion.  Why, some of them even hear God talking directly to them.  How do they do that?  How do they know they hear God directing their lives and not their own inner voices telling them what to do?  They say, in response to my question, it's faith.

I have a good friend who is an atheist, not an agnostic, a real honest non-believing atheist.  She has had it with religious people, and she often fills her Facebook page with examples of why.  There are an awful lot of Christians out there doing very unChristian things.  A minister wouldn't marry a couple who were long-time members of  his church.  No, they weren't gay; they're an interracial couple.  Bet you didn't think that kind of thing was happening anymore.  Zealots claim it is their God directing them to do some of the ugliest things in the name of religion. A pastor in Florida is proud of burning the Koran, a religious book he doesn't happen to agree with. The murderer of an abortion doctor feels he's done God's work by killing that doctor and saving babies. Did he miss the part of the Bible that says thou shall not kill? People have beaten gays bloody in the name of religion ("God hates f_gs"). And those protesters (who shall remain nameless in my blog) who try to ruin the funerals of our deceased service people believe that God has told them to do that.  Those are big examples, and some may say those fringe groups don't represent the masses.

However, it would be just as easy to give you many examples of regular people distorting (or conveniently forgetting) the Bible to excuse their bad conduct.  Remember that trip I took with all those seniors?  You know, the ones who smugly touted their Christianity and their belief that all Jews are doomed to hell?  We had to sit as groups of four at one of the restaurants we visited.  The table in front of me had four women who were seated together.  Well, there were four there for awhile until three of them got up to go to the bathroom and never came back.  Three white women left a single black woman to dine alone.  I was incredulous at that blatantly unChristian act... and furious.  With the blessings of my table, I joined the other lady for lunch and made a new friend.  And don't get me started on the love the sinner hate the sin baloney.  Worry about your own damn sins. I do; I worry about everything.

But humans are imperfect! They make mistakes! They can't be perfect, only God is perfect!  Well then, those same imperfect people need to stop dictating to others what they can and cannot do in the name of God.

Two years ago, I left my church of thirty years.  I had weathered many rectors, some good and some bad.  But never had any of them caused me enough pain to want to leave.  When contention during an email exchange with my ex-rector and vestry left me reeling, I quit.  I was broken hearted to leave.  And I was broken hearted by the responses of people I had considered family.  One told me I had unresolved hostilities towards the man;  I thought I was providing concrete examples of what he had done.  Another had called me, supporting what I had said, and then backpedaled faster than a clown in a circus when push came to shove during the email salvo.  At the funeral of a friend from the church, I was visibly snubbed and ignored by a woman who'd always been warm and friendly to me.  My faith took a beating like never before.  I went to church to learn and love, and this is what it came down to?  So, who needs church?  Who needs religion if this is what it boils down to?

Well, I do. 

I had something happen to me in my life that was so removed from anything I could ever begin to explain or understand.  My dad was in the hospital.  I had returned to Maryland, but got the call the next day to get home now.  The next night my family and some friends were sitting on the deck talking about everything we were experiencing.  My mom casually mentioned that my dad had said the strangest thing that day.  He told her to ask me if I got the book about dogs that was in a box inside my front door. I turned pale.  I always enter the house through the back door in my garage.  I don't always check the front door, but when I let Trixie out that night, I found a box stuck in the front door.  It was a book about training dogs that I had ordered from Amazon and forgotten all about.  How in the world had my dad known about it?  How? I defy anyone to offer me a scientific explanation for what happened.  My dad was with me, and he hadn't left his hospital bed.

Some things just happen and can't be explained.  That's where faith comes in handy.  God works in mysterious ways, or so I've been told. When my faith is shaky (which is often), I try to remember that moment and that box.  I know there is much more to life than I'll ever understand here on Earth. I hope that I can do what's asked of me to make this a better place to be.  That is, if I can recognize who's doing the asking. (If your group comes knocking on my door with my key to heaven, it may get shut in your face.) If church drama gets distracting and out of control, I'll walk off again. My life isn't always free of stress. So,when I'm down and out, I sure hope I can feel God's loving embrace. 

And frankly, I hope I have the faith to recognize it for what it is.

Hurricane Sandy

" There's a storm a comin'!"  I remember standing on the middle school stage years ago during a school production while a young lady playing Uncle Henry spoke that line.  It always made me laugh because she said it with such little expression that I used to wonder if a storm really was a comin'.  Following Facebook posts this past week had me questioning the same blase` attitude reflected by people directly in the path of Hurricane Sandy.  Didn't they know Frankenstorm was a comin'????  Who were these people drinking wine, making jokes and planning parties while I was planning my survival?  Weren't they worried?

I was worried.  And scared.  I worried about the power going out, and therefore my sump pump giving up the ghost (I purposely used a Halloween metaphor in honor of the holiday).  The last time that happened my guardian plumber Jerry took care of everything.  But dear Jerry's gone now.  Maybe his spirit would watch over me, but it couldn't pump out a basement.  And my refrigerator?  I had just gone shopping and for once had actual expensive food in there.  My car and garage were such a dilemma that I posted to FB for a solution. 

Should I put the car in the garage, but leave the door open?  When my car is filling the garage there is no way in hell I can reach the release for the door opener; so if I close the door and the power goes off, I am trapped in the house, unable to drive my car with its obligatory required-for-surviving-a-hurricane full tank of gas.  Should I just take my chances and leave the door open, inviting storm damage, looters and zombies into my abode?  (Barbara, they're coming for you.)  Should I leave the car in the driveway and take my chances that the pear tree won't fall and flatten it?  Everybody had suggestions.  I loved the one that suggested "someone" tie a long rope to the release so I could grab it.  Obviously that person hadn't read my blog about the lack of a house husband.  And if I had someone to tie the rope, then couldn't he just pop the release?  Nobody came up with the answer that I arrived at after worrying away Monday night.  It was such a simple solution, I'm embarrassed.  Park the car outside, grab the ladder, climb up a couple steps, pull the release, return the ladder, move the car back into the garage, and manually close the door.  See?  Simple, huh? Yep, I figured that out after I decided to take my chances and just close the damn door.

At 6:00 pm on Monday the wind was whipping, the rain was pounding, the trees were twisting, and the power went off.  Because I was prepared for my survival, I had every candle in my house, a camping lantern, and three flashlights at my personal ground zero and ready for use.  I pulled an Abe Lincoln and read my book by candlelight, rationing the batteries of my precious lantern for what might be my third or fourth night without power.  It was a lonely night.  I had no neighbors.  The house on the left (where the woman who used to share her generator with me had lived) was empty.  The dear old people on the right were at the daughter's house.  The guy across the street was gone or else his stinky fireplace would be polluting the neighborhood air.  It was scary.  Poor, poor lonely me.  When I put Trixie out, the drone of the generators at the houses with husbands made me feel even more pitiful.  It was a long night.   

I woke to sun breaking through the clouds on Tuesday morning.  About four inches of water covered the basement floor.  The outside of the refrigerator was still cold.  I was ok.  By three the power was back, complete with TV and internet.  The sump pump started sucking out the water.  I was saved!  I had survived!  And then I turned on the television and saw the devastation in New Jersey and New York.

How silly my worries.  How small my problem.  How humbled and thankful I am to be as safe as I am.  Whole neighborhoods were decimated by the sand and waves invading and destroying property as if the buildings were hotels on a Monopoly board. One New York community lost homes to flooding and even more terrifyingly, uncontrollable fire.  A historical ship was sunk and two crew members lost at sea.  And so on and so on.

I plan to donate to the Red Cross, Salvation Army, and any organization that can use my money to help these poor damaged people.  I urge you to consider doing the same.  It is literally the least we can do.

Worry

I'm a worrywart.  Always have been, looks like I always will be.  My mother told me that I was just like my father in that respect.  He would worry so much that he'd get up in the middle of the night to drive around the neighborhood until he relaxed enough to go to sleep.  Mom finally got him to take a pill for anxiety by pretending it was a sleeping pill.  He'd have worried endlessly had he known he had anxiety.  But, he was ok with taking a sleeping pill.  Go figure.

I don't know why I worry so much.  I can't think of any problem I ever solved by worrying about it.  And, I can't think of any situation that didn't eventually work out in a way that I could manage.  So, you would think after fifty plus years I'd have realized that worrying is pointless and I should just stop doing it!  Yeah, just stop!  Once I figure out how to just stop worrying, I hope I can figure out how to just stop eating junk.  But that's food for another blog.  (Food? Eating?  HaHa.  I'm so dang punny.)

Today's major worry is Hurricane Sandy.  The repeated calls to my house from the county disaster center have me ready to pack a bag for the nearest shelter.  The 24/7 newscasts have convinced me that I am in a lot of trouble.  I have not boarded up my windows.  I just know the hurricane winds are going to blow my front window into shards.  Poor little Trixie will be swept up in the furious winds, funneled out the hole in the window,  and blown away, never to be seen again.  I will step on glass which will infect my foot, cause gangrene, and leave me a partial amputee who's afraid to walk with crutches.  Yep, I worry too much.  I doubt I'd let the leg get gangrenous.

I don't have a generator.  Years ago when the power went out for a few days, my neighbor shared her generator with me.  The storm was over, the night was humid, and I was wide awake worrying about my silent sump pump and refrigerator.  As I lay in my bed, I could hear a voice whispering loudly, "Barbara! Get up and get out here and help me."  My neighbor was standing outside my bedroom window.  We were Lucy and Ethel in our nightgowns figuring out how to set up the generator a friend had loaned her.She saved my sorry unprepared butt, not to mention a refrigerator full of groceries.  However she has moved (just down the street, but too far for an extension chord to my house). The 24/7 newscasts have convinced me that we will be without power for days, maybe weeks. Maybe if I cook some of my freezer food on the grill I purchased for $3 at a yard sale this summer,  I won't starve.  I know I'll have plenty of water though because my basement will flood a few feet deep.

Could this Frankenstorm be the end of the world???

Maybe I need to stop reading so much.  Books deeply affect me.  A year ago, I read Life as We Knew It by Susan Beth Pfeffer. It taught me that life as I know it can end catastrophically due to the unpredictability of nature and our universe. Here's the review:

From School Library Journal

Grade 6-8–Pfeffer tones down the terror, but otherwise crafts a frighteningly plausible account of the local effects of a near-future worldwide catastrophe. The prospect of an asteroid hitting the Moon is just a mildly interesting news item to Pennsylvania teenager Miranda, for whom a date for the prom and the personality changes in her born-again friend, Megan, are more immediate concerns. Her priorities undergo a radical change, however, when that collision shifts the Moon into a closer orbit, causing violent earthquakes, massive tsunamis, millions of deaths, and an upsurge in volcanism. Thanks to frantic preparations by her quick-thinking mother, Miranda's family is in better shape than many as utilities and public services break down in stages, wild storms bring extremes of temperature, and outbreaks of disease turn the hospital into a dead zone. In Miranda's day-by-day journal entries, however, Pfeffer keeps nearly all of the death and explicit violence offstage, focusing instead on the stresses of spending months huddled in increasingly confined quarters, watching supplies dwindle, and wondering whether there will be any future to make the effort worthwhile. The author provides a glimmer of hope at the end, but readers will still be left stunned and thoughtful.–John Peters, New York Public Library

See? See? Oh the damage that can be caused by wild storms!  tsunamis! volcanism!  And I did not gather supplies!  I don't have a battery powered radio! I don't have batteries!  We're all gonna die!!!!

No, not really.  I'll be ok after this storm and so will you.  Maybe I'll need to have some repair work done to the house.  Maybe I'll lose a boatload of groceries.  But I'll be ok....if I could only stop worrying.

 

Renn Fest Fun? Not so much.

I dunno.  Maybe I'm getting too old or too cynical or too something.  What used to excite me and inspire me to get up early on a Saturday morning or stay out late Friday night, no longer holds the appeal.  Here, I will say it.  I HATE festivals, fairs, carnivals, or whatever you call them.  Hate them.

I already avoid the local ones.  The Darlington Apple Fest was a lot of fun when it first started: reasonably priced crafts, free parking, friends to visit with, and lots of good food.  I can't go anymore.  The crowds choke the streets making it impossible to see the booths or comfortably walk the area. I get tired really fast of being elbowed and bumped by people who won't let the words "Excuse me" escape their mouths.  I went once to the Seafood Festival when it was just starting.  I did some volunteering and still have the apron I bought (I wear it to Grace Place since there's no need for an apron in this non-cooking household). I remember sitting with friends and laughing as we ate steamed crabs.  I wouldn't go near the place now because of the crowds and the bus loads of tourists.  The Independence Day Carnival?  Haven't made it down to the park in years.  I do go to the Art Show as I can get through there in about forty minutes.  And so far, Graw Days has been fun.  But Graw Days is new; everything's fun when it's new.

I took my nieces to the Renaissance Festival in Crownsville today.  I hadn't been there in probably twenty years, but that last time was such fun.  My friend and I bought flower wreaths for our hair.  We sang with the musicians, posed with the characters, and bowed to the queen.  The jesters danced around us and kept us smiling the whole day.  I told my girls how much fun it would be,  not to be afraid of the characters who would speak olde English to us, how great the shows would be, and how we'd get to see a real sword swallower.  They must think I'm a liar.

I knew we were in trouble when the turn off to Crownsville was a traffic jam of revelers.  We had to park so far back in the lot that we couldn't even see the castle.  (And we were close compared to the miles away some overflow parkers got stuck.)  The fairies on stilts at the doorway "creeped out" the girls.  The girls were already whining and ticking me off, and we hadn't even got our tickets.

Once inside, the place was wall-to-wall people.  We struggled to get lunch and struggled to sit.  Of course the older niece didn't want anything until I'd already gone through the line and bought the food for the younger girl.  Yep, I got stuck in line again.  We were fifteen minutes into the "fun" and the older one was already pouting and asking how long we had to stay.  We indulged in a little shopping.  I looked for the flower and ribbons headpieces from yonder years, but there were none.  Reba wanted a fascinator though, a black rose.  A thirty-five dollar black rose. Which brings me to my next complaint.  Everybody was out for a buck.  Literally.  Billie wanted to play the games; soon all my dollars were gone and she hadn't won me one free beer.  The museum of horrors?  Just a joke to these kids who have seen Disney World.  We had to pay a buck each to get in.  The woman in period garb had a huge wad of bucks in her hand.  Billie was more interested in all that money than Grendel's arm.  And the elephant ride?  Eight bucks per kid, sixteen bucks per adult.  I actually saw families of four bobbling on the bored pachyderm.  Thirty-six bucks for a one minute ride!  The girls were getting off the elephant before I'd even seen them hop on.  No pictures for me.  Lines! Lines!  Everywhere!  The longest line we saw was the one leading to the ATM.  No surprise there.

We saw lots of people in costume, but no Renn Fest actors to cajole my nieces into the spirit. If there was a royal family parade, the crowds blocked us from seeing it.  The jousting?  Sigh, it was over by the time we waded through the crowd to get there. And speaking of costumes, can somebody explain to me what the costume is where the young men have about six trash bags neatly folded and hanging from the back of their pants?  And what does a panda with an umbrella have to do with the Renaissance period?  My girls wouldn't go near him (it creeped them out).  Got me to wondering who was completely hidden inside that costume, a perv?  Yes, it creeped me out too.  And don't get me started on the almost naked sagging bosoms too many women were flaunting.  Honey, if you've got a couple as big as eggplants, a thin cotton flounce on top of your corset isn't sexy. Maybe, as Honey Boo Boo says, it's smexy, but most of the looks you're getting are looks of wonder, as in I wonder when they're going to fall out and hit the ground.

After three hours of how much longer are we going to be here, we headed back to the exit.  Had delicious apple dumplings with ice cream before we left.  And we had no trouble finding the car, unlike the Renn Fest bride and groom who were disgustedly tromping up and down the aisles looking for their pick up truck.  The girls were thrilled to curl up in the back seat with their I-pods, pillows, and bag of junk food.

I dunno. Maybe I'm too old, maybe things have gotten too commercial, or maybe, just maybe, these things aren't the fun the advertisers make them out to be. No more festivals for me!

Huh? Wud ya say?

As sad as it is to admit, I have become "that person."  You know the one; the person who drives for miles with their turn signal flashing because he/she can't hear the clicking that reminds said person to turn it off.  I can't hear like I used to.  I don't know how it happened or when it happened, but if I'm honest with myself, it has happened.

Years ago at the dinner table, little Reba answered everything said to her by twisting her ear towards you and saying, "Huh?"  After she did it about five times, her mother asked her what she was doing.  She replied, "Being Pop-Pop."  We broke into laughter.  My dad kept asking what we were laughing about because he hadn't heard her.  When we told him, he was mad.  According to him, he could hear just fine.

I used to feel that way.  My hearing wasn't bad.  Other people just spoke too softly.  We all know that middle school students mumble every word they say, right?  It's not my fault I can't hear their questions and answers. Surely there is something wrong with my television.  Sometimes I can barely hear it, even though I have the volume raised to the highest level.  Can't tell you how many times I've been on the phone and had to tell the service reps to speak up, how can they expect to help people if we can't even hear them?  My car radio makes me jump when I start it for the first time in the day.  It is so loud, I immediately turn it down.  No, I can no longer hear a lot of what I need to hear.  I can hear the stuff I don't want to hear like somebody snoring in the next room, the neighbor's stereo, my sister's alarm clock(that, by the way, she sleeps through), or the cat that screeches all night.  Why is that? 

I've thought about hearing aids.  Friends of mine have invested in them.  But frankly, they often "forget" to wear them, or the background noises render them ineffective, or the batteries are dead.  I can't stand the thought of something in my ear;  it makes me itch.  I guess the next generation will have it easier.  They will most likely make the switch from ear buds to hearing aids very fluidly.  And, with the way they listen to loud music, I predict they'll be making this switch in their thirties rather than my generation's sixties.

I often pretend to hear people when I haven't a clue as to what they are saying.  Sometimes I know I've answered incorrectly because of the puzzled expression on the listener's face.  Other times I just smile and nod and hope that does for an answer.  With people I'm close to I say things like, "Dammit Dee you know I can't hear.  Speak up!"  Reading lips and cupping my hand behind my ear are two methods of compensating for my handicap.  I'm not accurate with the lip reading.  And people laugh at me when I make Dumbo ears with my hands. Sigh, I know it will only get worse.

So, I reach my sixties knowing that not only do my knees hurt, my ears are failing. The next time some rude person says, "What are you, deaf?" .... My answer will be, "Yes, you want to make something of it?"  That is, of course, if I hear them in the first place.

Yard Saling

Sandy C. started me yard saling 20+ years ago.  I'd been living in a furnished apartment and had just moved into the house she helped me buy. I had nothing.  Nothing, that is, until I started yard saling every weekend. The world was my treasure chest.

I perfected my yard saling skills over the years when I traveled the roads with my buddy, Dottie.  We used to call it home shopping; we'd go to your home and shop.  We were a perfect team as we each searched for different things.  Eventually, we went our separate ways.  Dottie began getting up at 5 or 6 in the morning; I thought 8 was early enough.  However, we continued shopping for each other and every Christmas we'd exchange a Santa Sack of newspaper wrapped yard sale gifts.  In fact, a lot of people received newspaper wrapped gifts from me, the newspaper signifying that you were about to open a true and unique treasure.  One of my favorite finds was given to my sister, Helen.  At the time, we were both Rosie O'Donnell fans.  I found a new, in the box, autographed Rosie doll.  The person selling it was a former student so I could trust that it was the real deal.  My sister couldn't believe it!

Anything you could ever want can eventually be found at a yard sale if you are persistent.  I like wine.  Yep, you can find bottles of wine at yard sales. 
I can't remember the last time I bought soap from a store. All those pretty hand milled soaps that people spend a fortune on as Christmas gifts?  They end up on the twenty-five cent table for people like me to indulge in.  My nieces have the best dress up clothes!  For months, three year old Reba practically lived in the pink tutu I found for fifty cents at a yard sale.  My house needed ceiling fans; I found great ones, new in the box, at yard sales.  I was amazed the day I found an antique Chinese bowl that someone, with no idea of its value, sold to me for $5.  I bought another antique bowl at a different yard sale for $20; but it was a fake.  You win some, you lose some.

A few years ago, I burned a hole through my kitchen table and luckily did not burn the house down.  (Story will be told in a future blog.)  I needed a new table, bad.  On my way to church one Sunday, there it was.  It was a perfect size table for 6 with a tile top and wooden chairs in great condition.   They asked a very reasonable $50 and I talked him into delivering it for another $10. I put my old table and chairs outside and someone from Freecycle snatched them up.   A win win situation.

I think everybody who yard sales is always looking for that one special find that will make them Antique Road Show stars.  I found my thing a few years ago.  At a small sale in front of a tiny, worn out house, were two framed pictures.  I was drawn to one of a woman with a cane walking her dog. It was me.  He wanted a lot for the picture, but as much as I loved it, I couldn't afford it. So, I left and saled for a few more hours.  I purposely drove past the house at the end of the day and the picture was still there.  I appealed to the guy by opening my wallet and showing him that all I had left was a twenty.  He sold me the picture.  After researching, I learned I had a signed limited edition silkscreen worth a tidy sum.  The artist is Mackenzie Thorpe and the title of this piece is Walking the Dog.  I have no idea how to create a live link on this blog, but if you copy and paste the link I've provided into your browser, you can see a bigger picture of this "rare" (their words) work of art and what it sells for.

                 http://www.monetfineart.com/walking-the-dog-686-p.asp

Now, isn't that just the best rendition of me and my dog?  (Use your imagination.)

I haven't yard saled in a while.  Now that I'm retired, I'm trying to downsize my home, not add to it.  But the crisp autumn air drew me outside.  And oh, the treasures I found!  I have wanted a Moroccan style pillow for my living room for ages.  Found it today.  I found the most gorgeous Chinese calligraphy scroll that some tourist paid a small fortune for.  It has the name of a good friend of mine; I'll soon be surprising her with it.  Found a really nice cat purse; one of you cat people reading this may find it under your tree this year.  And Helen, my dear sister, your Christmas present will be wrapped in newspaper.  However,  the best find, the most exciting find, was a beautiful bridal veil with a pearl tiara. Hope my dress-up girls don't fight too bitterly over it.

Yep, I thought I was done with yardsaling.  Ha! A true saler is never done.  I wonder what the weather is supposed to be like next Saturday? 

Remembering Dad

Today would have been my dad's 89th birthday.  He was so dear to me.  He taught me how to drive, even though many of our lessons ended with me stomping home, him following me and yelling at me to get in the car, and then him pouring a stiff drink the moment he got in the door.  He taught me how to pray.  We were not raised in a religious home, but as a kid I decided I wanted to know how to pray, so he taught me, "Now I lay me down to sleep..."   People said I looked like him when I was a kid, but I never saw it.  He passed away in March 2004, and those were some very dark days.  Anyhow, today I'm sharing the eulogy I wrote for him those eight years ago.

Eulogy for my Father

I want to thank you all for coming here today to support my family and say goodbye to my father.

We each come with our special memories of a man we knew as a nature lover, dog lover, bird watcher, friend, neighbor, co-worker, veteran, cousin, uncle, husband, dad, and pop-pop. Many of you have been sharing your memories with us, and I’d like to tell you one of our family stories usually shared by the relatives each Christmas gathering at my parents’house. Mom and Dad met thanks to her brother Ralph. He took his sister out to a club one night, and it was then that Mom met the blond, blue-eyed gorgeous sailor from Toledo, Ohio. It was love at first sight, but Dad was definitely a catch that took some taming. Stories have it that Mom’s father, a Philadelphia cop, liked to stroke his gun while talking to Dad about his intentions towards my mother. They made a beautiful couple. I have their wedding picture on my desk at school. Once, one of my students asked me who those people were in the picture. I looked at him quizzically and he said, “You know – that lady from Gone With The Wind and that movie star.”

My parents would have been married fifty-seven years this April.

We remember what a handsome guy Dad was. What a funny guy he was. If he got tired on a shopping trip with Mom, he would quickly walk around the store and touch all the merchandise. “There,“he’d say to Mom. “I’ve touched everything for you. Let’s go.”

We remember Dad as a war veteran. He liked to remind us that he was there in Pearl Harbor at the beginning of World War II, and he was there at the end, as Japan surrendered. He was a modest war hero, one who didn’t talk about his service duty. But he proudly wore his Pearl Harbor Survivor hat wherever he went.

Neil Sardinas best summed up my Dad recently in a comment he made to my sister. I am paraphrasing, but he said that Dad was quite a guy…a tough guy, a war hero, but yet the kind of man who would let his daughters, Lien and Laurel, play hairdresser and put ribbons in his hair.

We will all carry our special memories of Dad in our hearts. But if we look carefully enough, we will see him in others.

If you look closely, you will see my Dad behind and beside my mother as he holds her up while she begins to independently care for her health needs. Stop by our house at 5:00 on Saturdays; he’ll be there watching the East Enders with Mom.

If you look at me, you’ll see him at my side as I scour the yard sales and flea markets looking for that piece of junk that is really a treasure. You’ll hear him in my jokes and wry comments, as we shared a similar sense of humor.

When we were little kids, my dad was a rough and tumble daddy. We’d crawl all over him and do somersaults on his stomach. All you have to do is look at my brother with Reba, and you will see my father.

My father will be hovering over my sister, watching over her and guiding her as she raises her daughter, Reba Jean.

Reba Jean. The light of our lives. My father’s special “Bao Bao,” his treasured granddaughter. Helen tells us that Reba’s first spoken word was Pop-Pop. And that was also the first word she learned to write.
 

Reba loved her Pop-Pop. This Christmas she gave Glenn a cap with the Chinese character for the word “hero” written on it. He was delighted with his gift. However, we all were touched when all on her own Reba threw herself into Dad’s arms and said,” You’re my hero, too.”

When Helen explained to Reba what had happened to Dad, she told her that Pop-Pop would always be in her heart. Reba thoughtfully digested that information, and then asked her Mom a bunch of questions on the drive over to Bubbe’s.

“Is Pop-Pop in my heart?”
“Yes Reba.”
“Is Pop-Pop in Mommy’s heart?”
“Yes Reba.”
“Is Pop-Pop in Bubbe’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in Uncle’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in Aunt Barbara’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in the Survivors heart?”

So there you have it. Dad hasn’t left us. He’s here. In our hearts.