Friday, November 16, 2012

That's Not Odd At All...


That’s not odd at all….

04OCT
So I have a friend. A friend like we all do. One that does …. odd … things, but things that amuse us, nonetheless.
For instance, this friend hates to do dishes.  Now most of us hate to do dishes, but my friend takes this to a new level. Like letting the dishes build up and build up. To the point that there are now dishes out on the porch of her house. In Buckets. And also, she would rather write a symphony blindfolded than do dishes at her house.  So they sit, undone, for months.
You would think this is quirky. Or just eccentric.
I don’t find it quirky at all, until I notice that she will do dishes at my house. Or after she throws a party.  THAT’s when I wonder what her rules are, particularly  that make up the game of the dishes avoidance at her house?   As her friend, I immediately look for the quick fix and I come up with this: Just use paper plates and cups and etc…that answer would solve the entire problem…
It never occurred to her. Not once.  It doesn’t make sense to me, and yet….I am entertained.
I have another friend that will do anything it takes to avoid brushing histeeth.  Seriously.  He is an adult, but this friend will use all the trickery in the dental world to keep his teeth from coming into contact with a bristled, hard, instrument. This man uses tongue scrapers for his breath, floss for the flotsom and jetsom that might stick to his gums, and mouthwash to kill the germs. He carries gum and mints with him . He will constantly ask, “How’s my breath?” He definitely does not want gum disease or gingivitis, and yet he will not pick up a toothbrush.
But the avoidance is only confined to his own home.
Again, and as his friend, I immediately look for the quick fix and come up with this: Just brush your teeth with friend/family/loved one time in the car, and brush away!  Use those wisps and portable toothbrush/tooth picks that come in an 8 pack at Albertsons. Spendy? sure, maybe, but so is getting your teeth pulled, and honestly it would make the drive to work more entertaining.
Once more, ..It’s amusing to me. :)
Just what is it that makes their behave like a toddler being fed bad-tasting medicine? Practically Swinging their heads wildly around, in any direction, to avoid the pink, icky stuff on a spoon, whether it be antibiotics, a toothbrush, or some dishes? What is it that lets them go against the rules of  society?
Well number one, I wholeheartedly side with a toddler’s behavior.  No one wants that pink, creamy stuff in their mouth, but toddlers are just obvious about it. They are real about it.  They don’t really know or care that it makes their body better, right?  They simply know that at the business end of a spoon lies a messy, stinky and all around nasty liquid that is being fed to them by someone they love.  And they think, “What the?  What did I do to you to get this punishment, eh?”    So they refuse to take it, based on what they are experiencing right then.
(as adults, we probably should try putting ourselves in our toddlers shoes for a minute about that, and take a dose of it as we try to get them to do the same thing. I am banking we would make those same squinched up faces, ourselves. Just thinking of it, I’m making that face now…)
So I have these friends, and they sound … odd, at least, but when I think about them, it’s because I am entertained by their behavior. And then I realize that I have my own ….THING. The thing that I avoid at all costs because of some negative memory, or bad mojo associated with it. And then I think, I, and my friends, we can’t be the only ones that live perfectly normal lives, except for 1 odd thing.  So I start watching and I notice that we are not alone in seeming to have some habit that society asks that we take part in, and yet it seems just too much to do.
And maybe this is where superstitions came around. Maybe people who said things like, “don’t step on a crack, or you’ll break your mothers back” just had the heebee jeebies about stepping on the lines in a sidewalk and didn’t want to look dumb.  Suppose the guy that made up all the superstition that a black catmeaning bad luck…. what if he simply hated cat hair touching him or his things, and so he went out of his way to keep that stuff out of his space?  What a great way to explain his aversion to hair on his clothes and sofas.
I would say that we all could make up a superstition to explain away our oddness.  If I were to make up a suprstition, it would look something like this: Don’t pick up that clutter, or your back will turn to butter.  Or Lounging in a hot tub instead of doing bills will bring good luck. …. Naw. My most fervent superstition that I would make up would be: COOKING CAUSE YOU NEED TO STUNTS YOUR GROWTH.
I hope those stick.
Because it would go a long way to explain why  I Don’t Cook.  I go to great lengths to avoid cooking. I have been known to kick my heels against the floor when dinner time comes. I have also been known to stare at the contents of the fridge, the cupboards, and the freezer with a completely blank look on my face.
Paella koeriernavarra
Paella koeriernavarra (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I will pare, chop, peel, boil, put together, open cans, spread, and open boxes, though.  These things are pushing it, and they will be something I am proud of at the end. Something homemade, to my way of thinking.  But I Do Not Cook.   I have ordered food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner before.  I have gotten a job just to pay for eating away from the kitchen before. I have hidden pots and pans in the backyard, just so my husband could see that there were not the pots available  to make a meal and we would, indeed, need to order pizza.
Does it make sense? Nope.  Is there a simple solution? Other than cooking, I mean?  I don’t see it, but then again, that seems to be a perspective that my friends should be taking. As for my friends, I watch and chuckle a bit.  And I realize that they are most likely chuckling now about something that I avoid.  And I am glad I am amusing to them. :0)

Saturday, November 10, 2012

Cheese Puffs Are The Schnizz...


 


Cheese puffs


I love cheese puffs
I use them as rewards for me, because although they are not healthy, they taste like heaven in a puffy cocoon. I suck on them and can feel them just crush down into my mouth, the air going out of them. All that is left is the flavor that I savor as I finish it up and swallow. Ew? Well, to each her own. That is my reward that lets me do things like …. mop a floor, or write a story, or even perk up when I have made a mistake. 
Because mistakes are horrible for me. I happen to believe that I am not allowed to make mistakes.  
I know, no one is perfect, but apparently, this only applies to other people. I am not supposed to make mistakes. I am supposed to do things correctly the first time, and be amazing all the time. I honestly have believed that. So I am very hard on myself when I have a human moment. Sometimes I wallow in it for a time.
So my cheese puffs are there to say, “Dur, it’s just a mistake. Get over it. Other people have moved on, and don’t give a crap about your mistake anymore. No one is thinking about you but you. Have a puff and move on. Sheesh.”  That’s what cheese puffs are about.  Which is why they are so vital to me when I make a mistake with the Bipolar part of my life. 
I am not perfect while living with Bipolar. I have to admit it in order for me to move forward with it. It is my human moment part in my life, and it comes up at the most unexpected times.  Like when I stay up too late. Or when I don’t eat correctly, or when I forget to take my medicine with me on a trip. Or when I take my medicine late.  Silly things that have always been part of my life, and have been just part of me being a nerd are now things that trigger Bipolar Nerd.
It’s like my Nerd is magnified 100 times when Bipolar is in charge for the day. 
English: Typical Dollar Store, San Francisco
English: Typical Dollar Store, San Francisco (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Like… Not caring if I wear matching shoes. (Erp.)  Or, spending a large amount of money on things that are just silly, from the Variety Store (it seems very important to buy them at the time.)  Or, talking on the phone, texting on the same phone, biting my nails, and forgetting to care if I stop at a Stop sign.  (Cause yeah, I decide to drive while doing all that earlier stuff as well. I DO stop at the sign, but I just don’t care about it.)  Scary? Yes.  Especially because it all seems perfectly normal when I am having an especially …human… bipolar day.  Mistakes could be made when I don’t stay within certain Bipolar rules. So you can see why making a mistake is something I just can’t afford. 
And that is hard for me to admit, ergo the Puffs.
 I just figured out that I cannot do this alone. You know, living with Bipolar, and living life. So I take medicine and the Bipolar days become Sharon Days. Woot. But I also know that I cannot live life without ……. living life.  I don’t do well with doom and gloom. In fact, my journey is currently consisting of finding the humor in the quirks that happen because of this new development. You know, being in the roller coaster of the ups and downs that are part of living with Bipolar. 
So here are some funny things about me when I have an up. I mean a really…up…up.  I happen to get abit narcissistic. It looks like me looking in the mirror a lot, fixing my hair a lot, and taking five pics of me to get just the right pic so I can post it in Facebook, and make it look like it was a casual look in the camera.  On a normal day, I’d look 3 time in the mirror and take the pic as is.   But on an … UP… day, I will look at myself in the mirror 3 times as many times in a day, but I can’t seem to concentrate on what  I’m looking at, so I will look at my nose for 1 time, and my ear for another, and maybe my mouth. But I cannot look at my entire face or body because, WHO HAS TIME FOR THAT?
In fact that is my entire life on that day.  I am moving so fast that I don’t have time to think because WHO HAS TIME TO PONDER?  I will see a quarter on the ground and stoop to pick it up, but because i am going fast, I don’t have time to stop and pick it up with my fingers, so I miss it.  I stop, turn around and go for it again, and miss it again. This time, surprised that it isn’t in my hand, i squat down so i can get a good grip, and again, I miss it.  Now i’m a bit frustrated, and I think I will simply scoop it up with my hand. Nope. I get a bit of grime from the ground, but no quarter. I finally move on because i am sure that somehow the quarter has been glued to the ground and i am on candid camera
My daughter is watching the thing perplexedly, comes by behind me, and picks up the quarter for me to see. She is 5 then.  I have been shown up by a five-year old. :) that’s funny. 
I need Cheese Puffs in my life to let me know that I have a reward for when my shoes do match, as well. Or for when I recognize that I am getting a bit too …UP…, and I just skip driving altogether. Or when I fold socks and stay put instead of spending money on dollar store toys. 
Or for when I get the quarter on the first try. :) 
I could get disturbed by what the …ups… could do in my life, and I have been. But I am at a place now where I am in control of it, and 99.9 percent of the time you will never know that I do battle with the Bipolar part of my life. I am safe to drive, to shop, and to dress myself. And, I guess, to write a bit. That is a win. 
Now where did I put my bag of Cheese Puffs
?

Friday, November 9, 2012

Sorrowful Truth…

Sorrow

19OCT
What to say when there is nothing to say?  When all my words are taken and the emotion is all that there is? What to say when my heart feels that it will pump so hard it bursts with sadness?  When being doubled over the sobbing is the only way to keep going that day? Nothing.  Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be. It is said in the tears, and the hiccups, and the mournful eyes that tear up when eye contact is made.
And that is just the first day.
What to say on the next day, when the tears have given me a headache the size of a migraine? How to think after being thrown back into sadness as, with a jolt, I remember the heartache and disbelief that came with that day?  Knowing that I am the bearer of the bad news and the bringer of the sorrow.  Knowing that if I had just closed my mouth, the day would still be sunny and bright. That life could still be… life.  And knowing that truth was still more important. What can I say?
If only bad news were just bad news. If only it could be taken in as a logical piece of news, leaving out the emotion and shock. But it can’t, and the day is only starting.
There is still life to live. There are kids to smile at, and drive to school.  There are phone calls to make, with a chipper voice so I can get a break from the hospital bill people. There is eye contact that is made with the lady down the street that just happens to be walking by as I sit on the porch, breathing heavily, to get away from the depression that lay over everything in the sanctuary I destroyed with truth.
It happened, and it can’t be taken back. No matter how much pleading, praying, or looking to the heavens is done. It happened, and every second thought confirms it.  And I can’t get away from it.
What to say, through all of this, knowing that there is a tomorrow and a tomorrow after that? Nothing. There is just doing. Doing one thing at a time, one minute at a time.  And sometimes that is doing nothing. But time goes on, and the pain eventually does turn, first into numbness, and then into a lessening.  And that is the time to talk.  To say something, even if the something is simply talking about how It felt.
Like now.
It happened 2 weeks ago, even if it seems like it happened today, and forever ago.  The loss and sorrow will be there for a long time, but I am not doubled over any more.
This sharing of feelings could be for so many situations, and have been for many situations in my life. I have had loss, and betrayal, and heartache, and that is part of living. The good news is that time can heal the heartache. And so can words. So I say them now…
I’m sorry it happened. To both of us.  I’m sorry that truth hurts. I’m sorry we are still hurting. I will be here for you, and I know you will be here for me. Let’s let love in, and get through this together.  I love you.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

And The Mist Made My Eyelashes All Shiny...

I went to the Oregon Coast.  I didn't just go to the oregon coast.  The capitals on the letters are there for good reason. Oregon Coast.  That is short for: I HAD AN AMAZING TIME IN THIS AREA.  or a more formal way of saying WOW.  And I went with my childhood friend, Jen.
Here's what I found...
Moments at the coast can last for hours. They are breathtaking and moving and memorable because they can last a lengthy amount of time. For instance, Whales  breaching and spouting and ... mating.  We got to see only glimpses, but it was a life changing experience.
Apparently, this is really rare. "A Treat".
Such a great shot!
Now these moments didn't have anything to do with Cap'n Jack navigating the choppy waters just so, even with the 2 pm waves pulling against his boat.  They didn't have anything to do with the blue sky and light breeze that whipped my jacket to and fro around my torso.
But they had everything to do with the fact that I was out on a boat at all, enjoying the bumping and dipping and spraying and sun-shining that happened at just the moment when the whales decided to let us in on their intimate chaos.   I loved that spot on earth, and found that I had a rare shot at being there. My heart raced and I couldn't stop smiling.  Ask Jen. She thought I looked a bit like an idiot.  But I kept clicking pics, and yelling, "look over there!" and "See that?", knowing that everyone on the boat was looking in the exact spot I was pointing out anyway.
I was experiencing being a tourist in its purest form.
I didn't care one whit that I was jostled and jostling around with perfect strangers. It didn't bother me that Cap'n Jack asked us all to move back from the stairs and be safe. I kept clicking away and being part of the crowd, all the way until he threatened that he would go away from the whales if we didn't listen to him. ...
oh! what a sight. The smell of the ocean, and the sound of the birds cacophony just added to the experience. I loved it all.  All of that was one moment.
Another moment happened when we were land-side, on Hug Point.
The mist found me, clear up on these lovely rocks. It kissed my eyelashes, and curled my hair, and made the tiny hairs on my hands sparkle.  I could feel the BOOM! that the surf made as it crashed into the sand, making swirling, eddying, sucking places all over our stretch of beach. I saw the whitecaps form, relentlessly daring any souls to come play in its reach. And again, I smelled the scent that was The Coast. The clean, brisk, crisp scent that carried anything from seaweed and seagulls, to the contents of a family picnic basket down the shore.  It was ... open... to any bit of brightness that caught its fancy.  And I got to be a part of it.
I love a good moment in time. I have lots, but these happened recently, and I still smile when I think of them.

Monday, September 17, 2012

Burn, cardboard! Burn!


Um.  I cried today.  A lot.  David Woo and Cesar Millan  Watching "The Dog Whisperer".  Looking back,  I am not sure if it was because his teeth were so professionally, blindingly white that my eyes hurt to look upon them, or because he talked about finding the right time to move forward after grieving for a pet.  Maybe both.  (I just wore sunglasses and sobbed.  No one was looking.)
Also, I cleaned my bathroom because I was angry. Bathroom I find it is the only time I do clean.  Chores don't help.  Even with a chore chart.  You know, chore charts?  The ones that I share with my kids so they will do theirs?  Bribery doesn't work either.  (If I clean up, I will .... insert reward....)  I wonder why my kids aren't motivated. :)   So here I am back to being angry when I clean.  My bathroom is shiny.  I am not angry anymore.  (I left the tub for another time.)
empty boxes
Lastly,  I burned cardboard in the fireplace of my new place for the first time.  Not pieces of cardboard, which would be acceptable.  No.  I shoved entire large moving boxes into the gaping maw of this fire-belching wonder.  It was therapeutic to get rid of all the moving boxes that have cluttered up my life. (And my house.)  I didn't wait and do it to bond a bit with the kids while they tore them down to acceptable size.  And I sure as hell didn't take them out for recycling.  There was nothing acceptable, or even safe, about me creating this fire-storm, barely contained, as I pushed box after box inside the fireplace, and then judged when to shut the glass doors.  I felt cleansed as I did something that I would never let my kids get away with, and was ridiculous.  It felt marvelous.  I did NOT tell my husband.
Nothing dramatic to write about.  No nuggets of wisdom.  I just thought I'd solve the mystery of the thought, "Why do I feel so worn out?  I can't remember a thing that I did today!"  Woot.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

There's A Cathedral Right In Carlsbad!

I was the last one to know. I was the last one to know that there just happens to be an enormous cathedral, a temple, a holy place right in the ground. Just 3 hours out of Roswell, and smack dab in the middle of some arid and utterly boring ground in New Mexico.

At least it seems that way to me, all arid and desolate and...BORING, as we drove 3 hours from the civilization that was Roswell. That could be because I was sitting in the back seat of a sedan. Whatever. I was the last one to know that there was anything worth the drive in the backseat of a sedan next to a 3 year old that hates to sit still but loves to poke me in the eye with a Cheeto Puff. I was the last to know that I could find something that makes me yearn to take that journey again. But it's true.

I had to have been the last one to know about this place, because it seemed like we were the last in a very, very long line. Even though it was only noon when we came upon the sight, we were behind bus tours, motorcycle gangs, Boy Scout troops, and mini-vans. We rubbed shoulders (tightly) with a flock of nuns. We dodged the waggling fingers that kept an entire preschool in line. And, we even beat a band of roving gypsies to a parking spot. I don't feel bad about that at all.

What I do feel a bit bad about, though, is just coming upon this thing so casually. We had no pilgrimage. No piggy-bank savings that were broken in honor of this place.  These crowds crowded in from all over the world, which had to be spendy. I just made a jaunt with my brother-in-law as a last minute decision.

 Just a quick drive from Roswell to Carlsbad, and an unexpected clash of cultures happened in the parking lots and lobbies and elevator lines. Just like that. We drove up and saw bumper stickers from Canada and Mexico. On several rental cars, England, Spain, and Ireland showed up. (I know this because someone loves to decorate car windows with sayings like "London Rules! Eat My Dust, Rorie!" and "Where's The Shrubbery? I Miss THE GREEN." Not to mention the bumper sticker with, "Who ate my bangers and mash? -2010" on the back of a 1970's era VW bug.) I found it impressive. And, I wondered what all the hubbub was about?

Those people did not yammer so much about the wondrous things inside the caverns. They did not clap their hands or dance on tip toes or make the squealing sounds that happen in anticipation of something amazing.  They didn't do it, and neither did I, because we didn't ACTUALLY know that we would do those things later in the tour.  Those people talked more about staying together, and finishing up the little snacks before they went in because NO FOOD WAS ALLOWED a'tall. We practiced a small bit of small talk, when we were smushed together in the lobby. Or in the small line that went to the elevator. None of it was really about what was actually there. It was only speculation at that point, and that was why it was such a smack to all of my senses as the elevator opened up, 100 floors down (or something close to it), and we all walked into The Beginning.

The Beginning being, of course, the place where the crowds bottle-necked as if they were looking at a car wreck on the side of a freeway, but with just the opposite reason for those OOOH'S and AAAH'S. The Beginning was the first taste of the treasure that was Carlsbad Caverns. And that was where the tip-toe dance went on. That was where the fingers smacked the hollows of cheeks as the jaws were dropped. THIS was where the squealing sounds started. And then ended. It was The Beginning, and everyone knew it.

After The Beginning, I was on my own.  Even though I had technically come with a 3 year old and his dad, and my son, I was still on my own. The rest of my party could see it in my eyes, and they graciously moved ahead, letting the 3-year old lead the way. Because the sights and the sounds and the scents... well. They were majestic and overwhelming. And, I wanted to drink it all in. And those were all my own. So I started walking.

My eyes got wide. Then wider. I looked up and up and up because I could. It was an enormous cavern that had broken any of my laws of what a cavern should look like. Homes could fit in there. Buildings, and parks and playgrounds... they could all fit in this cavern, and still there would be room.  There would be room, but that had nothing to do with the FEEL in this place. None of the roominess would have anything to do with the majesty and eloquence that this space radiated. So take all of those things away, and what you would have is...a sacred place.

I wandered along the paths that had been set up for safety and enjoyment so all of us in the crowds could look a bit closer at the unique beauty that grew where we could see it. Lights were set in places to highlight spots that needed highlighting, and other spots were backlit or forelit or not lit. This all blended into a miasma of colors and visual textures that begged for the cameras and recorders that were brought out toot-sweet quick time.  And still, none of that addressed what really made this place amazing.

The Rest. The restful, peaceful, calm space that enveloped the cavern. It was as if each Pillar and Popcorn Structure and Mushroom Cap and Chinese Theatre area were not grown as a result of mineral deposits and pressures within the earth at all. They were SCULPTED. They were almost asked and coaxed and teased into being.  They were wanted. They were needed. And so, they showed up. For pleasure and for pondering, and for peaceful contemplation, they were brought into being.

I learned useful things about the place, from muttered and hushed parents, talking to children about Stalactites VS. Stalagmites. (These were voiced as "stalag-tites, and stalag-mites", with only 2 syllables between 1 word each. I think they had painted the "Bangers and Mash" bit outside on the car.) I learned that the bottomless pit was not really bottomless, at one-hundred-and-WHAT-DOES-IT-MATTER-TROY?-JUST-STAY-AWAY-FROM-IT!. I learned to keep going! Sheesh! We have to get back to Grandma's, baby. And DON'T go under the handrail...Don't Go Under The Hand- BOB! HE IS STILL GOING UNDER THE HANDRAILS!... and so forth.  It all mushed up in the file of my mind labeled, "Entertaining bits that parents screech", and I kept walking.

Through all the conversation, the movement, and the hubbub that went on in the pathways, and with the flashing of cameras and the "Come here and pose by the pillar!"-ness, the majority of the cavern went on unphased. As I looked up, I saw the chandeliers and the drippings of mineral water (slowly, slowly, slowly) that pushed a bit down toward the chaos. They were beautiful and inspiring to look at. As if the baubles that were to be caught in cameras and conversations were put at eye-level just to keep us silly beings busy as we went through the cavern. It knew we would soon be gone, and so it could be ever patient as it fulfilled its purpose: to grow, complex and beautiful. It knew that those that could appreciate the beauty would stay, would ponder, would love it and be better for it. And so there were seats, about halfway in.

Those with kids, toddlers, infants, and bored travelling companions lingered long enough just to get a quick camera shot for Facebook, and then they were off. The few that were left were me and... I didn't care whom else. I saw the cavern and all it's ground level pitstops combine with the unfathomable darkness that hinted of so much more. All of those things combined with a view of climbing, climbing, climbing space that reached into heights unknown by me. Out of the high darkness, and as if to comfort those that stayed, were beautiful creations, some sparkly and eye-catching, and some that were muted and magnificent in their quiet shapes that seemed to have no sharp edges at all, bubbling over itself as it grew toward the floor.

That is when I teared right up. It was dark, so no one noticed. I was alone, so no one looked. I was overcome with the power of this place, and no one saw. I was grateful that this was a moment I shared with on one but the cavern. I felt, and saw, and heard and knew that this place was special, and I got to be there. It didn't occur to me that a woman with tears running down her face in the middle of an enormous cavern might alarm someone. Especially if she had a silly grin on her face as she wobbled to the bench and sat down, looking up. It didn't seem out of the ordinary at all to utter a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever power owned that space. It didn't even seem odd when I closed my eyes for a bit and just felt the warmth that had gone through my body.   In fact, I don't know of another sacred space where I wouldn't get some weird looks, but I did all this on my own, with no one noticing. It's wasn't odd at all.

After a few minutes of silence, I felt complete enough to get up and enjoy in a more mundane way. I started looking at the signs that labeled each interesting formation, and experienced the teetering lookout place that showed where "Bottomless Pits" started. (I couldn't care less if they were bottomless or not. All I could think of was how unfortunate the first guy had to be, exploring around here with the wrong equipment. His name was probably Jerry, and he probably didn't make it out there alive. I wondered why the pit wasn't labeled "Jerry's Place" or something like that, by his partner Jeff.)

The rest of the day became normal, and I was soon out of the cavern. Now this did NOT mean I was out of the cave. All signs started to point to the elevator, and the logical conclusion was that when I got to the elevator, I would be able to get on it. Um. No.  Have you ever been to an amusement park on a holiday, when it was just the right temperature outside? Lines out the wazoo? It was like that. The lines even had a restaurant area and umbrella tables dotted throughout, maybe just in case of rain. It was this crowded. Like no one had been able to get out of this place until I showed up. The line was at least 45 minutes to an hour to wait. This means that I had more time to contemplate what I had just experienced, but in a Chatty Kathy kind of way. This was the beginning of each conversation that I heard:
"So...How did you like it?"
And the responses all ended like this:
"Wow."
The rest was subjective.
Kids ran around parents, and teens ran after the kids. Parents hissed, "Get. Over. Here. Now.", and kids acted like they didn't hear. That conversation between parent and son was actually how I honed in on the party I came with. I loved that I didn't have a small child at this time. And this was the norm for the next hour. What did break up the chaos a bit was the sound of "Hey now! Don't climb on that!" from the various park attendants that materialized as crowd control, I guess.  I noticed this because my nephew stood out particularly to them. My son would go get him, and 5 minutes later the conversation would start up again.
They did not engage in any conversation that I saw, those park rangers, and did not break into any kind of smile.  It was as if they had come out of that sacred spot only to be jolted by the kick in the shins from a small child. Maybe they were. Maybe it was our kid.

We stood waiting in that line, and I heard my brother chat up conversation with adults from all around him.  What stood out to me was a mom from Texas with her 3 teenage daughters, standing in the line patiently while some 3 year old ran around an old guy's legs. Apparently they all belonged to her. (The guy didn't even notice. He was chatting with a teen about how cool the place was. Everything the teen said was "cool". I silently agreed.)  My brother talked with the mom and old guy about the pillars, and then turned around and chatted a bit with 2 grandparents of a toddler. The toddler was standing politely nearby, and our kid had started screaming at the top of his lungs, "I Want Out OF HERE!" (Grandpa and Grandma picked up their toddler and said in heavy Scottish brogue, "Well, Shamus, we knoo who is a goot boy, er?") After that, my brother stopped talking at all. My brother picked up his son and looked up to the ceiling, silently willing our party out of the ground.

I heard nuns chattering in small, but excited tones. People from South Dakota made themselves known (Don't cha know!), and a group of tourists from Taiwan kept clicking on their cell phones at everything in general. I basked in it all. Everyone loved the place that I loved. It was good to know I wasn't alone in knowing about the amazing hole in New Mexico.

The way back to Roswell went by much faster. Mostly because my 3 year old nephew was so tired that his arms and legs didn't seem to work. He also had an almost hung over look on his face. My brother said it was because he skipped his nap. I believe it was from dodging the Park Rangers' clutches. Next time, I think  I will arm my little nephew with roller skates. That would be the amusing part of the amusement park line. As for me, I will arm myself with more tissue, as I plan fully to enjoy that cathedral again soon.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Did I Do That??

Anyone can write about events that are funny, quirky, or turn out great in the end.  But a hard hard thing for me to do is to write about hard things when they happen.  Things like marriage or money concerns, heartache with kids, or getting blamed for things I didn't do... For some reason, I have felt that it is just not entertaining to share bad things with people, as they are happening. (I can always spin it into a life lesson later, right?) What I find now, is how important it is for people to share burdens.  So lets take one of mine and see if anyone else relates.

I hate being embarrassed.  More than anything, I hate being someone that messes up, or is in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hate having something in my life that I have no control over that is embarrassing, and I hate even worse when I could have changed things, but didn't.  So whether it is a horrible thing like being assaulted, or being late to a loved ones funeral, or having a car break down in the middle of a trip, causing us to miss something important.... It all comes down to being embarrassed.

Without making this a rant, I want to stay on the embarrassment part. It is easier for me to have righteous indignation, or anger.  But the part that stays hidden is the embarrassment. The part that says, "Did I allow this to happen?" This is something that has just come out of thin air.  Like a whack in the back of the head, because who thinks about this?  It's odd. And I am embarrassed.

I usually label being embarrassed as being dorky, or goofy, or a nerd.  But there is a difference for me, really. I am confident enough now that if I have something spill on my shirt, or trip on a step, I can own that I am not perfect. And I have come to that confidence from a lot of spills and trips. But the uncharted, unfinished, and unacceptable part of me still has embarrassment issues about the big things. Things that I don't talk about because, well, they are embarrassing. Like harassment. And bullying. And...Assault.

Who would think that assault (in this case, assault is a socially neutral word to me, for sexual bullying, or rape, or things like that) would be embarrassing? Well, because it is something that is nebulous. And anyone that has done that to someone else would rather put that stuff on the victim than own it. Instead of "I'm sorry. I had no idea I had gone over the line" or "What was I thinking? I can't believe I hurt you!", it is "What? You baby. Can't you take a joke?" and "No, you wouldn't think I would come on to YOU, would you?"  All the time being sick to the stomach knowing something...SOMETHING had caused this, and it wasn't you. The offender is saying, though, that it is, and a small part would say, "Am I crazy? DID I misinterpret?"  And THAT is the embarrassment I am talking about.

I think, "DID I actually do this deed, and I have somehow forgotten/blanked it out?" And then I think, "That has to be the only reason for this to be happening, so I must be crazy!" How embarrassing  to be crazy. Right? To think everything is going well, only to be whacked up the side of the head with something that changes your day/week/life and IT'S MY FAULT.  And everyone else knows it.

February 15th, which is today, marks the 3rd year that I got through my embarrassment.  I got to feel humiliated because of an assault that left me hurting, inside and out. And I got to hear from a guy that it was my fault. That he knew I was looking to be assaulted. That I asked for it. That I chose to make the decisions he made that caused me scrapes and bruises, both physical and mental.  It's the 3rd year that I have had to decide whether to listen to police and hospital staff and therapists and ...me, instead of hearing again the guy that embarrassed the hell out of me.  And it is still ...so embarrassing that I would never dream of talking about it to anyone.

So why talk about it now?  Because I am a big girl now. I do not choose to have it eat at me. I do not choose to have it be a dark blot that is the only thing I don't write about. It is not about the event. It is about the feeling of embarrassment and why it so completely consumes me in who I talk to and how I choose to talk about it.  I could make a downplayed joke about it. I could keep it inside as a secret until it is a non-event. I could even make it into a building block in my life. But the truth is that right now...it is simply embarrassing. Not because of what I did, but because of the way he made me feel. And how I make me feel when I remember, which is every February 14th.

Instead of "Oh I am So Sorry!" posts, I am interested in knowing if embarrassment effects you the same way? Instead of "What a jerk!" comments, I am interested in knowing , if you dare, what it is that you have not had the guts to talk about because embarrassment was your cage? I am interested in knowing I am not the only one that holds embarrassment as the deepest, darkest secret.   Because the more I let it out into the light, the less it holds me hostage.






Monday, February 6, 2012

So Many Crossroads. I'll Go Left...No Right...

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost

 I love to wander. And I love to walk. However, not all my choices happen in a thicket outside.  My mother likened this poem to daily choices, and I still have that tendency. For instance:

Well-off or not. Left-wing or Right. Fit or Fat. Heels or Flats. Spanxs or Flab. Gray or Color. Stay or Go. In or Out. Happy or Sad. I imagine all of these decisions as a road with a fork in it. (Not an actual fork.) And I am Robert Frost, coming to the 2 roads that bring me to my daily choice. They add up to a lot of energy spent, and sometimes I am exhausted by 8 AM.

Some of these roads are pretty recent.  And they are a bit disappointing. The choices of age just stink.  Why would I care if I went natural or fixed my body artificially? At 27, I was not in the least bit interested. But at 38... they need to be considered. Heels or Flats? At 9, it didn't matter, because my mom would have none of that anyway. FLATS. The choice was made for me.

OOH. HMM.  I want my mom. To continue just making choices for me. Now lets be clear that at teen-hood, I just wanted her out of my life because she was ridiculously dumb. Because I was always right, and knew all the answers. I just needed her for food and money. NOT ADVICE.  But now... it would be nice to wake up and have my clothes laid out, my shoes next to my clothes, and my breakfast made again.  Even if it was oatmeal. 

She could make my choices in clothing, but the consequence to that is she would also make my money choices as well. (NO, Sharon, You may not have unlimited funds for the night as you leave the house, looking for something "fun" to do.) That might work as a teen, but definitely doesn't work when I have my own household. Oh well. It was a thought...

Oh, the money thing. To Spend or Not To Spend. The daily road of choice. Now, most fork-in-the-road spots I do myself,  like trying on 5 outfits to get the right combination for the day. This includes the thank-you-for-trying-but-you-didn't-make-the-cut-today outfits being flung over my bed and dresser, with my husband looking on in wonder. (He gathers them up and puts them in a basket for me to put away later. I just keep them there, and bring them out the next day.) Most are my individual choice, when it comes right down to it, but the money thing, well, that brings in my partner. To Spend or Not To Spend looks like this:

Husband: Oh yeah. It's on sale. We have to get it.
Me: Is it on the list?
Husband: Writes it on the list with the pen he has kept for just such occasion. Yes.
Me: You just wrote that in!
Husband: So? It's on sale and we have to get it.
Me: You're right. It IS on the list....

And that's the decision. In fact, it is what all my choices come down to. Self Control, or Live In The Moment?  I'd say it is a 50/50 split right now.  I do wear high heels without Scholl's gel inserts (see a prior story for that), so I practice self control wearing them in spite of the pain, all day. They go with my outfit, after all. BUT, I don't wear SPANX as often as I could (or should, for that matter. I do have limits in my daily dose of discomfort.). I choose salty pickles and chips on my sandwiches every time, but will skip eating ribs, steak, or red meat, usually, and choose a salad instead. Does it balance out? the teeter totter of  having both control AND indulgence? Not really, but I am currently in the place where I pick the choice that makes sense at the time.

My mom would groan and turn away if she knew. (She doesn't currently read my blog, I don't think.)

Mom told me, once, to make a choice, make it once, and live with the consequences.  Then you never have to make it again, and you are free to do other things. (My mom got along with Robert Frost on a few things.) Sound advice, really. It is how she balances her checkbook. It is how she knows when to iron shirts, and darn socks, and what time to make dinner or breakfast. Or make her bed. And when to send out birthday cards, I believe. She is amazing!

She used it, she said, for choices like, "Does she date young, or at 16?" and "Will she pray before a big decision, or not?" and "What type of companion will she marry?"  I agree with her philosophy on the life changing things. And, I wish I would have listened. MMM, I listened. I just didn't emulate a whole lot. 

Oh how I envy that woman sometimes.  She came to the forks of her life a long time ago, I believe.  She sat in the dust, or the pavement (or she just brought one of those folding chairs that she got in a Church auction, with her), and, with a legal pad and pen in hand, would write down the pro's and con's of the decision. Then, she would keep the pad with her in her purse, to be referred to when needed, and would simply take the road that made most sense. And keep on down that road.  ( I am pretty sure she has the legal pad to this day.) Did I say she even taught me how to do it? I saw her balance her checkbook every Monday and iron Dad's shirts on Tuesday. 

 So why do my choices still look like me running, pell-mell down the road and then screeching to a halt at the last possible second, only to put a foot in both directions, walking it out until I do the splits?  It's because I want it all. I am a road dweller because I want both Self Control AND Instant Gratification.  Can it be done?

My legs hurt.

I do know this. I have started to pick myself up and go down one tine of the fork in that road. And then, cut across and go to the other side, knowing that I will probably run through prickles and milkweed sap and tumbleweeds. But when I get to the other side, I get to experience ... more.  Even if that ...more... is the wrong way after all, so I have to book it, double-time, back the way I came.  Even if, when I get to where I was in the first place, I look a bit sticky and dirty and tired. 

Usually, though, I am smiling because I got to see both sides. I got to look at both roads and THEN pick. Again, my mom would groan. So would Robert Frost.

I am not my mom. I will take her lessons and use them a lot of times. But sometimes...SOMETIMES... I will pick up my chair and my legal pad and just fling them into the weeds, running fast for the other road.  Sometimes in my heels, never in my SPANX, and when I get to the problem of whether to go gray or natural, I may wander, then, as well.  

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Stop the words! I'm drowning!!!

I grew up with words being coerced, coaxed, pleaded and applauded out of me. As a baby, adult faces would frown when i didn't do what they asked, and shine when i got it right. Words let me know which paths were the easiest and the hardest, which food was hot or cold, which items were off limits, and what happened to the bad guys in fairytale stories.

As i grew, i heard more complex phrases which, put together with the correct punctuation, let me know when to come home for dinner, which friends i could hang with, and why my soup was too bland.

In teenhood, words became everything. EVERYTHING (along with the right eye liner) could be accomplished with words. Add an essential eye roll, a few facial expressions, and world peace could be solved.

All through life, words have been my companion in making my world vivid. I couldn't have have this vivaciousness about words without my elders. I was fortunate enough to have fine arts and liturature imbued into the very air i breathed. But, i do enjoy being lax, thanks to texting, facebook, and looking out the window as i tap away at the keys. Also, i like to write as i think, lately, and that is anything but high-falutin.

Which is why it is particularly silly when i get words, phrases, and even punctuation wrong, by accident. I was corrected about a few phrases, this afternoon, by a woman whom i could barely understand. She had no accent. She was from the same region as i. Yet i struggled mightily to let her words (and the blueberry muffin i was eating at the time) fight it out in my mouth for room. (I was saved by milk.) "You know, the correct term for ....blah blah.....is....bleetily blow, bliy bloo bloo..." and she sat there haughtily, waiting for me to do something. Bow down and say, "I'm not worthy!" or maybe "You have changed my life! I will now be a blow-torch guy!" (The term is welder.) Her eyebrow was pulled up to an almost Vulcan-ese hight, and the left side of her lips had been scrunched, while at the same time being pulled down slightly. And there she was. My grandma. Ouch. (And Ba Ha!!! She even had the mole!) I am not clear what she wanted from me, except for me to immediately stop offending her with my hill-billy ways, and move around her. This put me in mind of Dr. Seuss's story where two furry yet naked beings came across the sand, one from the north, and one from the south. Instead of either of them moving to one side so they could continue their journey, they found ways to share with the other about how important they were. And how IMPERITIVE it was that the other move, simply because of how important they were. The words got more self-important. Words like "Sir" were traded for "Young Man", and then on to "You couldn't possibly understand how important it is that you move aside so I can move forward, Simpleton"-ish attitudes. And a freeway was built around their haughtiness. It was like that, but the woman had clothes on and was slightly less furry. I believe she simply corrected me as she had been corrected by her elders, and wasn't even aware that she did it, honestly. And I was schooled. I said "Thank you." And moved aside so she could get her own muffin. To anyone that has been corrected, or even looked at, by me, in the oh-you-poor-creature way that she had given me, i apologize. It's hideous. For the next 2 weeks on Facebook, or texting, you have my permission to correct me. But only if i get to see the eyebrow-raising gesture at the time. Or the lips pursing together with those crinkly lines making you look 30 years older than you are. Send those pics in! Just the flaring nostrils and eyes and lips, mind you. Cause that would make one heck of a montage (homage? mobile?...) to the elders that have started turning over in their graves at my lax use of their lessons lately.