Thoughts From A Member of Life: Beam Me Up, Scotty!

Thoughts From A Member of Life: Beam Me Up, Scotty!

How Bout Now? No...Now? Grrrr.....

Writers block can be frustrating, intimidating, and, well, downright discouraging. I know, because I have it. It seems the more I force the situation, the more the writers block just digs in and says, "Um no. You are not in charge of this part. Go for a walk, fold some socks, or just throw your tantrum in the other room. It's not a good time to be writing anything today." Now after I have gone for a walk, and folded the socks, as well as throwing my tantrum in the hallway so I don't mess up any creativity MOJO that may still be lingering on my writing space, .... I'm still blocked. Now what? Um, it's still not time! This is about when I notice how writer's block is like other areas in my life. I simply don't have control over the timing in these areas, either. And no matter how I prepare, or manipulate the elements in that area, the TIMING is simply not mine to control. For instance, the birth of my 2nd son. 1. I had a date narrowed down, ... sort of. 2. I had a route to get to the hospital, ...unless there was traffic/construction/tidal wave, etc. 3. I had an idea of who would be delivering my baby, ...mostly. 4. I knew without a doubt that the epidural would be my choice of pain control...-ish. Yah. This is how it really went down: A. Waiting, Waiting, Waiting. B. Wishing and willing the boy to start his engines so I could keep my schedule. C. Waiting and waiting and waiting some more until I was tired of using my Vulcan Mind Tricks on him. D. Desperately walking and watching TV while practicing eating ice chips. Pretty soon I just took a nap because, after all, I could continue to will him to get moving in half an hour or so, as I was dang tired. THAT WAS ALL ON MY TIME. Now, it seemed that as soon as I let my guard down, the actual plan went into motion. I was yanked out of my sleep by huge pains coming about a minute apart. I was hyperventilating before I realized what was going on, and knew I was having my son right then. I was no longer in charge, I was simply watching what unfolded, along for the ride. SOMEONE ELSE tracked down my husband. SOMEONE ELSE bundled me in the car. SOMEONE ELSE chose their own way to get to the hospital, AND how fast to go, AND which bumps and potholes to use or avoid at their own discretion. I didn't pick who wheeled me to a room that I didn't pick out because there was no time to get settled first. And I certainly wasn't the one that made the decision to let me have the baby naturally, simply because my muscles were too clenched to safely get the epidural in my back. You want to know what I was in charge of through that small but revealing time? My attitude. That's it! Through the whole ordeal, I got to choose how to deal with what life hurled at me. And, no, I didn't rise to the occasion right off the bat. My exact words were, "But I didn't take Lamaze class this time because I planned on using the epidural! Never mind. I am not ready yet. Not like this. Please make it stop. I don't want to do this. Noooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and I'm pretty sure there was a swear word in there somewhere. How did life respond to my response? The pain got worse!!! Eventually I stopped complaining and concentrated on working with the process to get through it. What that looked like to me was finding a specific 1 inch square spot on the ceiling that I could concentrate my will, my force, my pain, my everything that was not my body, and just breathe. I got very quiet and just let myself breathe. Once I got to that point, My son came quickly. Actually I screamed my bloody guts out right before he came, my mother tried to soothe me by saying, "SHHH... it's ok. Don't yell." And I told her, in my least demonic voice, to shut up. (Side Note: I have never told my mom to shut up until that point. It was kind of freeing. I am hoping she doesn't remember that part.) And THENNNN, my son came. And I found that I was a part of life that I wasn't in control of. And Life Still Played On. Again, freeing. To bring it back to my writer's block, I can do all the exercises I want, but when I write best is when I am simply part of Life. I think I will leave the directing to those who really have the schedule down. In the mean time, I just clipped my nails and reorganized my shoes, which I have never scheduled into my life before, so I guess that's good too. Otherwise I would never have thrown out the furry muk-luk boots, complete with tassels, that got handed down to me by some relative in Alaska.

Who says a Camry with a messed up fender can't be the next Wonder-mobile, anyway?

Sometimes life comes at me in little ways, like when I'm doing laundry, dishes, or vacuuming, and a piece of flotsam or jetsam gunks up the works. I have to stop what I'm doing to get rid of it, dispose of it, and then decide if I want to go back to the mundane, or play video poker online. Other times, life throws me a curve ball that takes more heart. Like through the kids. For instance, I got to have the talk...THE TALK... with my 7 yr old today. In a casual way. I wasn't ready for it, but I took a deep breath and just went. It turned out better than I thought, but still received the look from her that said, "I cannot believe you actually knew about this for so long and still acted so NORMAL!..." THEN, there are the times that life winds up and whacks me in the gut, no holds barred. OOF! ZONK! KA-BLAM!!! Those are the times that I find out what I'm made of. Usually, I'm not that impressed. Why? Because it's me doing it, silly. I know the why of why I do what I do. When there are life changing decisions to be made, or decisions being made whether I like it or not, a part of me says, "OOF! Oh, that stings! I don't really have a choice in this, so what am I going to do with the facts?" And... there is also a leeettle part of me that says, "Wait! Not yet, not yet, NOT YET! I'm not done being comfortable. Can't I wait for the next commercial/day/week/vacation?" That's when the decision comes. The choice of when I decide to be strong, calm, and turn lemons into lemonade.... or to run screaming small profanities and cause panic to the masses. I'm currently about 40/60 for my record, I believe. Other people can say how brave, strong, patient or amazing I am. It's been said of many women after all, when husbands/partners/coaches see them give birth, that they could NEVER go through that and survive. Um, for crying out loud. I just think, "Where is that special corner I can curl up in and rock back and forth?" I don't know that I do all the things that I do because of any noble causes at all. The truth is, hero's aren't a special breed of people. They are just people that crap happens to and they didn't run. Maybe their mind went blank and they didn't have an escape route. Maybe they stumbled on their shoelaces and then it was too late. Or maybe the circumstance reminded them of when they were humiliated in 7th grade and this is a way to redeem themselves. Who knows? It just happens that for whatever reason, they stayed and kept going. Not as romantic as being born with red tights, a magic tiara, and a really fantastic set of boots, but still. Here's a secret. Most of us, by far, are heroes. We are someone else's hero. In some way. I think that's the cool part, because I cannot see myself in a cape or a cat mask, no matter how hard I try. But I do see others as my heroes, complete with the persona. My just-in-the-nick-of-time guys, my WHEW! YOU JUST MADE IT!'s. Yeah, I am amazed by them. It is amazing that they show up when I need them, don't ask for payment, and I usually forget to ask for their name until they are gone. So I just think of them as Bob or Frank, or Edna. Those are noble names, right? I Don't have to know em, to experience the talents that are unique to them. Especially when Frank is in a suit and tie, or Edna still has curlers in her hair. HMMMM. In fact, the good news is that we all have secret identities. I could care less what I JUST THOUGHT YOU COULD USE SOME TIME AWAY FROM THE KIDS SO YOU CAN GO TO THE SPA gal does for her secret identity. She shows up and whisks my kids away to the park and I end up making it through a really hard weekend. Where in that saving grace does it say I have to approve of her shows,her occupation, her bedspread, or cooking skills? I DON'T CARE. Other than to know that she is capable with my kids I mean. She just noticed I looked tired at one point in the 3 hour Sunday ritual and thought it might be something more than hearing the TRAVELAMONY that Sister So-&-So was citing. She was right. At no point will I be looking for the labels that I NOTICED YOUR CAR BROKE DOWN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AND I HAPPEN TO BE A MECHANIC guy wears on his shirt. Don't care. He is still my hero of the day. I'm just thankful that he happened to be flying my way, you know what I mean? So is it so far fetched that we can be someone else's hero? I mean really. I got to be CAR BATTERY GAL on Wednesday morning, and it didn't occur to me that I did anything out of the ordinary. I just happened to be driving up alongside a woman in an ENORMOUS car who's flashers were on. I could have passed her by, as A. I'm a woman and not a mechanic so what could I do? B. I'm a woman, so I would probably make it worse for whomever ended up rescuing both of us, and C. This is stupid. The light is going to turn green and she needs help. So I roll down the window and ask if she's ok? She says she just put some gas in the car, but she thinks she will need a jump. "Hey! I can do that!", I think. So I pull through the light, through the gas station that is literally 20 feet away, and pull back into traffic. Yep, I'd have to stop up a lane a bit to get into position to help, and did I remember at all which thingee went on black, and what thingee went on red? Crap.... But I still did it. The lady had her own jump cables, and knew what to do so I didn't have to look like too much of the idiot that I felt like, at all. Within 15 seconds she was up and running, and I was back on the road. Sure I was a bit late, but it wasn't a big deal. It hit me then that the term HERO is a term that others give to the person. It isn't self inflicted. Much like "Jerk" or "Molly Mormon/Peter Priesthood" or even "Workaholic". We would more likely call ourselves "Strong willed" or "Devout" or "hard working". Don't those sound nicer? Honestly, when life throws us little curves, or big curves, or even an entire CURVES building, it is up to us to label ourselves, listen to the labels that others give us, or just quit caring about the label at all and just go. I'm much more effective as just someone who gave a crap than anything else. That works well for THE TALK with my daughter, or vacuuming and doing dishes when the flotsam gets in the way, or even when deciding if my life is better lived at 40% or 100%.

Dina won't you blow, Dina won't you blow, Dina won't you blow your hor-or-ornn.....

A very wise woman, lets call her .... Dina....., once told me, "Life isn't tidy." She's right. At least in my case. And , alright... in the case of my house. Now, at the time, she wasn't talking about housework, per se, but I'll get to that in a minute.

I do have a room in my house that is tidy. It moves around a lot. Sometimes it is the living room (with the exception of that one spot behind the sofa, where son #3 stashes his dirty sock, his homework from last week, his bowl of cucumber salad, and my daughters latest stuffed unicorn for blackmail purposes. This goes without saying). Sometimes, my bedroom is the tidy spot. This happens when i proclaim that my room is "my space", and all kids and/or husband has got 10 seconds to get their blankets, shoes, homework/work laptop, and swords out of it RIGHT NOW, or someone's going to get whipped with a wet noodle. And on rainy days when i get in a mood, the tidy spot could just be the kitchen, although i know that as soon as i clean it sons #1 and #2, along with the friends they have chosen for the day, will promptly walk through the front door, drop their backpacks/shoes/blades and/or boards, and raid my fridge of anything remotely resembling sandwich material. What's the point of cleaning it then? So it can be tidy for the minute and a half before the kids come home. Silly. You know, the calm before the storm? Sometimes the journey of getting the room tidy is satisfying enough, knowing it will be a memory before long.

And that is a good point that i missed, until Dina was kind enough to talk with me about it. Although life isn't tidy, striving for tidiness can be fulfilling. AS LONG AS we realize that we are fooling ourselves, JUST a smidge. Playing a practical joke on ourselves, really. We know we can't always be tidy, but tidying up a bit makes us FEEL like we are closer to the end result. And if we have 1 part of life that is tidy, well then that is the part we will show to the public, right?

Now, I come from an environment where perfecting ones self is just part of the package. It's what we do, it's who we are, it's how we roll. So perpetual guilt about falling short of that perfection is also part of the package. And so is tidiness. Or striving for tidiness. How freeing, then, for the notion that life isn't tidy can come into play. "WHAT?" i thought, sitting on the other end of the sofa as Dina dropped the bomb. " I have assumed that life WAS tidy, and i was the one dropping the ball!" WHEW!!!!

Did it occur to me that in an environment where we seemed to run around sweeping up after ourselves and others, that all these people occasionally dropped the ball? Nope. Not once. I assumed i was odd to not want to keep tidying up all the time. With plates of cookies for the downtrodden, and good-natured snooping on the police scanner,( just to see who's house the ambulance was going to, in order to keep them in our prayers, of course), the tidying up of self and others went on and i assumed the look of tidiness was real.

What a fantastic release to know that i could live next door to a freak, just like me, with a corner of the living room that has a hidden mess. Maybe they have a fridge that also has sticky chocolate syrup on the 3rd shelf, still not cleaned up after 2 weeks. ORRRR..... they might even have some lint behind the door of the downstairs bathroom. Gulp. Think of the possibilities!!!!! Well, its just a logical leap to think that the guy across the street may have a dark side too. Does it mean i will stop asking him for a cup of sugar? NOPE. After all, at some point i would have to supply my OWN sugar if i did that. Silly. I don't care if he brushed his teeth before bed last night. And do i keep myself awake at night about whether there is an oil spot on his driveway? um, no. I just think it's fascinating that it took me a while to realize that no one is caring whether my shed that has garden supplies in it is organized or not.

What the???? How did this happen?

Ever been in over your head? For me, I have never had the experience of diving in to something over my head. Ohhhh, no. It's usually something that i dip my toe in, decide to go thigh high because i can handle the gentle swaying on my....hips?....., have no problem with the tugging of the water on my...torso..., and then...gulp!.... How did i get to floating flat on my back, hoping the fat content in my body and visualization of me with dorsal fins will keep me afloat in this pooh-storm? Now that i think on it, it's kind of my signature. In fact, if you are a distant, casual, or recent friend/relative/parent, you will have probably pulled me out of the pooh a few times. And honestly, the ones i really should be thanking are any recent/distant/casual guardian angels i've had the privilege of burning out. No, No! I have no illusion about me burning out my share, believe me. The latest one was last night. I'm going to chalk that one up to the guardian angel, lets call him Stan. Stan and i went with a friend to a 5 band punk concert at a place i'm pretty sure my 2 oldest boys would think was Suuh-LAAAMIN. they would have been right. I ended up in a mosh-pit. I'm not dead, don't worry. But that was the time that i went, "What the??? How did this happen?" Again, i didn't walk in the doors, and stroll down the isle to the 12 men and 2 women/beasts that were a spinning vortex of smiles, booze, and aggression. No, i started out in a rational, mature state of mind. As a side note, I had no idea there was mosh-pit etiquette. It goes like this: 1. Anyone, of any age, may mosh. Assuming you are allowed into the establishment in the first place. Basically, if you have the guts, we have the slams. 2. A few elbows to the ribs and shoulders are perfectly acceptable to the outside crowd near enough to reach. This lets them know you are interested in another partner (as the previous one just slammed her head on the cement floor again, got up laughing, but is a bit more woozy than normal.) 3. If anyone falls, all slamming and pushing ceases around that person while the guy/girl is picked up, dusted off, and put back on their feet, or carried to the nearest chair so they can finish bandaging the puncture wound that was inflicted by the woman with 5 inch stilettos, the result of a playful step on the forearm RIGHT before saying sorry and helping the unfortunate up. (p.s. the polite thing for the victim to do is to bleed OUTSIDE, so as not to alarm the rest of the crowd that moshing might be dangerous. no one needs to see blood when they are having a good time. really.) 4. Shaking a beer in a bottle and spraying it into the moshing mass and/or crowd that might be watching in horrified fascination is perfectly acceptable. This is what makes the night....interesting.... Please watch your step. The logical thing would have been to get away from this if i was not interested. That would be logical, however, i was ALREADY IN OVER MY HEAD, being stuck between the stage, acting as bodyguard while my friend shot pics for the gig she had gotten, and the fight-or-flight-reflex I was supposed to rely on, being stuck in neutral. Again, this didn't start out with the mosh pit. This started out with the 2nd experience as my friend's (lets call her...Flo...) "assistant". Flo has the hookup to some great shows. 1 All-access press pass for her. CHECK. 1 evening of Look-the-other-way from the bouncers for me, the lucky friend that gets to schmooze backstage with the bands, joke with the M.C.'s and enjoy the music on the pretense of being an assistant to the "official" photographer for a local radio/internet station. CHECK. Now, as i didn't do the concert scene growing up, and feeling slightly ripped of for it, i had no problem living my teen years again, this time to see what i had been missing. (dip of the toe) Besides, i reasoned, it didn't hurt to know what my boys were listening to now. (and it reaches my thighs) Lastly, i had already done this once and was an immense help to Flo, keeping people at a reasonable distance while she used the inside of the crowd/cattle guard fence to snap shots of the lead singer, bass, and drummers. (And, up to my bellybutton.) A few differences this time around: A. I had my own press pass. B. I had more confidence. C. There was no safety rail between the stage and the crowd. D. Did i mention i had more confidence? OKKKK. The night starts off on a great note. And if by great i mean the bands of choice were local scream bands, heavy on the drums and light on any intelligible words, then yes, great. I'm not knocking this genre of music. It's just new to me. But, as an observer, i can handle this. (Key word in my sticky situations seems to be OBSERVER) The M.C. is hilarious and i'm enjoying an easy conversation with he and Flo, looking at potential spots for Flo to work her magic. As the night progresses and the booze begin to flow, i again observe the distinct differences in logical choices people make on their first beer and their fourth. This is not new to me. where i grew up, there were not a lot of teenage things to do, so LOGICALLY, the crowd would turn to booze/partying (and toilet-papering trees/cars/people. Why? because we were bold, but not THAT bold.) My known role in this was always to watch others drink. I've been told i don't need any alcohol for me to be a spaz. I think it's true. I think most of you reading this know it for a fact. ANYHOOOO..... Like i said before, enjoying the entertainment on stage, off-stage, and back-stage was great. I was not a mom, a wife, or a survivor of the days batterings of appointments, arguments, and daily decisions. Nope. I was just me, and living in the moment.... A moment that was lengthening into alarm. I'm thinking the haze in the air wasn't COMPLETELY from the smoke machine on stage after the 4th band. I'm thinking that front and center isn't always a good idea, when the casual observation is that we are the shortest, most petite, and sanest people in the crowd. and I'm thinking that the black broken-in casual boots (you know, the ones with the deep crack running the width of the shoe on the left side?) will soak up whatever is on the floor. Dang it. This is when i look around, and that tingling sensation in my belly tells me i'm probably the only one in this place that doesn't exactly fit. It's ok, i reason to my belly. I'm just OBSERVING. Calm down. Back to looking for good shots, nice angles, and oh-click-on-the-fan-that-is-over-the-top-excited-and-tries-to-clamber-on-stage-but-her-shape-and-current-state-of-mind-prevents-it. Fast forward to the last band. The headliner. The legend band that everyone has gotten keyed up to see. Silly me. I had NO idea what that meant. Did i put together the facts? nope. Did i put together the clues that were warning me to move to higher ground? NOPE. Lets recap, shall we? 1. lots of people, front and center, no safety rail whatsoever. 2. late at night/early morning, and lots of booze flowing. 3. 4 other scream bands to whip the crowd into a frenzy, waiting for the main attraction. 4. no body armor or spikes at ALL. Silly me. I'm just an observer. Plus i have Stan, my guardian angel, don't i? he's a good guy. The M.C. introduces the band, the crowd goes wild, and the snapping of pics commences. At first, i actually thought i'd look at the stage and see the band. Or at least get through the band because, lets be clear, i was deaf from the noise, blind from the smoke, and my taste buds had turned to ash from wondering what was on the floor. (did i mention seeing the nice girl alternately yarking and squatting at the bottom of the stairs? All in good fun, i'm sure. She probably won't even remember the reason i will have lengthened my therapy sessions by 3 visits.) I turn to the stage and think thoughts like, "As an observer, i think this guy had the best power scream of the night. I am a bit put off by the drummer with spittle flying from his mouth. So this is what would be fun for my boys...." when WHAM! I'm elbowed in the neck. all in good fun, by the way. I turn around and see that the entire crowd behind me, Flo, and the 1st row has moved to make room for 14 entertainers who are checking for any other takers (thus the friendly elbow to the neck check). My thoughts immediately turn to Flo's last statement, which was, "Can you create a bit of space on my left so i can concentrate and get steady shots without anyone jostling me?" and i think.........ummm lets see if i can do this or not. Side note. when getting ready to fend off a band of drunk hoodlums, do these things first: 1. plant your feet. check. 2. visualize the bubble of positive energy surrounding yourself and friend (learned in a moment of zen) Check. 3. get the attention of the woman next to you who, with 2 beers in her hand (drinking from both AT THE SAME TIME, might i add), readily decides to champion your cause by saying, "un gotcha baaak, yo." And steps behind the oblivious FLO in her 4 inch heels, pushing and jostling the swirling assorted limbs coming at us, causing the ENTIRE MOSH PIT to come attack her, and us by proxy. It was at this time that it occurred to me that i was no longer an OBSERVER. I was a PLAYER. Yo. I'm thinking the bubble of energy worked. Or maybe the moshers saw the deer-in-headlights look on my face, and being the gentle-moshers that they are, took pity on me. Or who knows, they could have been taken in by the miracle of a woman chugging 2 beers at once. I choose to believe that Stan did a stand up job. The crowd missed me (and Flo) by millimeters, the beating that 2-beer bula took was welcomed and reciprocated, and time started ticking again. My body regained feeling somewhere on the ride home. Now the interesting thing is that, looking back, i find that Stan, or his predecessors, do a fantastic job of keeping me afloat through the pooh-storms. I just can't figure out why i get so many chances. I'm thankful, though, don't get me wrong. I could tell you about the time the raft i was on flipped over and Flo and i went through the rapids on top of the raft, no handholds at all. (Flo still has the halo that was given to her for keeping me calm while my reflex was to splutter, cuss incoherently, and drown.) I believe Jethro was the angel on duty at that time. Or i could expand on the time that i went on a train, current occupation as a newly licensed financial adviser, to visit family, but ended up chatting harmlessly with a wealthy, bored elderly gentleman who wanted nothing more than to pick my brain, be fascinated that i could be a mom/wife/career woman, and ultimately frown when he was turned down as i was invited back to his "cozy little car up front". Note to self: Do not divulge you know anything about money to a stranger in a confident way with no thought as to whether they will ask your advice, invite your opinion, shoot the hypotheticals, and eventually have a cozy 3-way chat with just you, the nice gentleman, and his stock guy. Even if it is all casual, hypothetical, and entertaining. My guardian angel that night was Evan. Now retired. I could even touch on that one night as a teen in the back of a car with 2 very drunk just-turned-21 yr olds careening down a mountain path right through the surprised looks of 2 cops and 2 parents that just happened to be looking for us. this turns into a police chase and involves dumping 2/8ths of a ton of warm beer and other assorted alcoholic beverages on the front lawn of some lucky senior citizen, and ends with me eating mints on the doorstep of my mom's house and knowing i'll be yanked out of school. WISH GRANTED. Nope, again i didn't die, wasn't harmed in any way and came out the better. Thanks Ed, Joe, and Bob the current guardian angels pulled from nearby to assist angel Jack with my current situation. But, i won't bore you. Needless to say, I have a lot of thank you cards to write (FAX? PRAY? how does one get a thank you note to those shaking, retired angels from long ago? And maybe they would rather have brownies anyway....) Each time, my reflexes are getting better. By the time i'm 80, i should JUST ABOUT be able to listen to the tingle in my belly before the waves go over my head and i pray that the pathetic doggy paddle will hold out a bit longer than the lack of good sense i seem to have. HMMMM i wonder if i'll remember the doggy paddle when i'm 80..... Man i hope i haven't run through all the sensible angels by then. Maybe i'll get the goofy one that looks pretty but can only count up to potato.....

Life happens. I just talk about it.: Gratitude. It's the key to abundance. So why have i lost that key so many times?

Life happens. I just talk about it.: Gratitude. It's the key to abundance. So why have i lost that key so many times?

so about death and feet....

Ever had your weakness turn into your strength? It's a bizarre twist to me. Sometimes odd things happen in moments of ....panic....or grief even. To me, anyway. I tend to let go of the script about how things should look in society and just.....go. Sometimes that is good and sometimes is turns out to bite me in the hindparts. Look at this, for instance: I used to hate feet. HATE them. I used to fixate on how ugly my toes were, how yucky other peoples feet looked, and even wondered what sorts of oddness lived in between the 2nd and 3rd toes of the grumpy cat neighbor 2 doors down the street. So imagine my surprise when, years later, i embraced and loved on some feet at a nursing home. Hmmm. Some explanation may be necessary. Several years ago, I was in a nursing home hallway, getting ready to visit my grandpa. He had just had a stroke, and some of the family were gathering around. Clearly, it was a somber occasion. As i geared up for this I thought, "The same man that used to call me 'kiddledid' and sneak me out for ice cream was not the same anymore", and i knew i'd be crying soon. So this was the mood as I walked in, and saw the "RESPECTFUL" society space that people gave him. Then I got a look at my Grandpa, and all I could think of was this: "Sheesh. He needs his toenails clipped!", because he did. Here was this dignified, strong, amazing man, and the toenails, well, they were just hanging out on his bare feet, getting long and unattractive. Grandpa wouldn't want that at all! While people were shaking their heads, tut-tutting or wringing their hands, his toenails had been overlooked, and they looked like they must hurt. I just assumed he hated nasty feet as much as i did, and being the unwilling occupant of such was not ok with me. What I did then was something that crossed the line. The TABOO don't-touch-him-he's-dying line. I grabbed some clippers. They were conveniently at a shelf by his legs, and maybe this is what gave me the motivation. Now he couldn't talk very well, if at all, and people basically talked at him, or around him, so when i walked up to him and just started speaking with him a bit, touching him, and rubbing his legs and feet, people hushed up in a hurry. I didn't notice them till later, in fact. I just did the natural thing. I didn't worry that there was some shocked looks on faces as i joked with Grandpa, the patriarch of the family. I just gave him a quick touch up with the clippers. I just assumed he was ok with me touching his feet. His legs. His TOENAILS. I took that risk without asking. The unmitigated gall, eh? Seriously, if I would have been conscious of the looks I'm now pretty sure I was getting in the beginning, I probably would have stepped away and apologized. After all, who was this young whippersnapper, coming in and being so assumptive? A few years later, my mom let me know I was very tender with him and had a way with people. None of the perceived taboo backlash ever did happen, but I thought it was because my mom did damage control or something. Later I realized that it worked out well because it felt right to me. I didn't ask permission, I just went with it. Life lesson learned. wahooo! It is still odd to me that no one had thought of dealing with my grandpa's toes, and maybe they were icked out about feet too, but I'm thankful for the opportunity to get over myself by doing some service. He still passed away. I'm still sad, and I wish he were around, but I loved serving him. Strangely, that was a good memory for me. It goes against the ick factor directly, and yet, feels natural and right for me. OK.... it isn't like it was some heroic thing. I'm not saying it to be about Grandpa at all, really. I'm just saying that sometimes the things that we ick out about can be turned around and used as a growing point. I know now that I have no problem getting into people's space when others will back away. In fact, while some people bake brownies and funeral potatoes for life's tragedies, and to be of service, I am more at ease giving a back rub, or holding the hand, or listening to the heartache. I would not know that about me if I hadn't grabbed those clippers in the first place. I just had known, up to the clippers point, that I was uncomfortable in "old people" places, and hated feet. 2 very shallow ways of being, looking back. Now when life gives me an uncomfortable situation, maybe something that I would automatically discount with, "um I don't do...that", (cooking, for instance...), I can choose to take it on and looking for the good that comes in growing up. After all, who am I to say I don't cook well? My dog likes my cooking. Sometimes. Now if I can just clip the DOG's nasty nails...Hmmmm another opportunity. For later.

Gratitude. It's the key to abundance. So why have i lost that key so many times?

I think The Clapper is ingenious. You lose something, like light in a dark room. You clap for it, and BOOM! There is light! Now put it into play with my keys, which I am constantly losing. If I wasn't sure I'd look like a wilderness kid clapping to scare the bears away, I would hook the clapper on my key ring so I can hunt it down effectively at 6:33 AM when I'm running out the door to work. Hmmmm, now let's think about it for a second. I would be grateful for the Clapper, if it were attached to my keys. But, I would still trip over the cat, the last pair of jeans i wore, the unicorn Paint-By-Numbers set that my daughter was working on, and the book, "Dr. George Washington Carver" (it's a good read. i highly recommend it.). Because i still would run into the room, late at 6:33 A.M. and be in too much of a hurry to turn the light on! But that's just me. My common sense doesn't kick in until at least 8:07 A.M. i wish i had a clapper equivalent for gratitude. i mean, really, there are so many great things that come with life. Lessons, good or bad, have a consequence and a silver lining sometimes. But i find that the gratitude gets lost sometimes. Somewhere under the books, the pets, the business of life, the gratitude for those very things can get lost. And don't even get me started on lessons and gifts that are coming my way every day! The miracles that show up every day seem to fade into ordinary routine, until gratitude is factored in. For instance, I don't think about electricity, until a snow storm makes me frantically look for a flashlight (ANY flashlight, including the pink one under my daughters bed, or the pen light on my keys... which i can't find in the dark, without the Clapper). Also, I never think about the battery in Hoss, my ridiculous but comfortable vehicle, until I'm running out the door at 6:34 a.m., slide into the leather seats, anticipating the warmth of the bum warmer as i turn the key, and i hear the "CLICK-CLICK-C.L.I.C.K.-cli..." and then nothing. Then I'm thankful for the battery chargers that son #1 automatically has in his truck as he fixes me up and sends me on my way. You know, stuff like that. Gratitude is the key to abundance. It is just up to me to find the silver lining when the lessons that come my way aren't easy, or fun. Thus the Clapper idea. Of course, that would be too easy. When son #3 says he doesn't like my cooking (again), i could just clap at him, and I'd be grateful we had food at all. Or grateful that i didn't strangle him with a wet noodle. Maybe i should get a gratitude Clapper for him. Then he can be glad i didn't make him eat my hamburger/eggplant/noodle surprise.

So a trout walks into a bar, and orders some Spam....

INFATUATION. Yark. Not because it isn't fun. Yark because, well, infatuation is the limbo of the harsh reality of love. There is a start. There is a middle, and sometimes, there is an end. Infatuation comes in like, ummm, like...like the spam on a hook to bait the unsuspecting river trout. Trout: Just floating along, maybe looking for a bug, or a bit of Flotsom to chow on. Maybe just feeling out the current. Then WHAM!!!!! A bit of Spam is just dangling along in the current with him/her. "What kind of goodness is this?" He thinks....And takes the bite of apparent goodness. Only, after he takes that first blissful bite, with maybe a bit of perma-grin as he looks around at his trout-posse, knowing THEY don't have Spam in THEIR mouths.... does he realize that this goodness comes with some commitment. And that's what I'm talking about. The hook. Now this hook is just there, shoring up the Spam of love, at first. We may even call it fun, a tool, or no strings attached....Spam. But there is, each time, a leee-eetle bit of e-ouch!-what-was-that?...ness.... It may even be that as long as it does not start to pull too much ,too hard, or too many times, that we can get used to that Spam flavored hook. Ok enough with the fish stories. All hooked fish end up getting pulled out of the river of comfort to be dashed against the rocks of reality at some point. Depressing? YOU try having a spam covered hook in your mouth, with all your friends laughing at you..... I guess what i think about infatuation is this: It HAS to be that alluring, because if we knew or thought about what happened AFTER the infatuation, we may just pass on it and go back to the safety of our ho hum lives. OH YEAH..., our lives seemed so ho hum, before infatuation came sniffing around. All of a sudden, it doesn't matter how late we stay up, how little sleep we get, how many dollars we may spend, or how many daydreams float by at work, as long as we can get just a LITTLE bit more of the elixir of love. DANG IT!!!!! And while we are at it....Have you ever wondered about how stupid we look to others when we are infatuated? like the fish with a hook in his mouth swimming around looking smug. What his friends see is a fish that's going to get it in the end. But the hook guy is happy about it!!!!!! Ok well , the same thing happens on dry land. Our friends look over our heads at each other and roll their eyes. Or when we are texting with that stupid perma-grin look on our face?..... Yeah, they roll their eyes then too. Now why do they roll their eyes??? BECAUSE THEY KNOW THE DIFFERENCE between love and infatuation, apparently. The only ones that don't get it are the ones going ga ga in stupid meeting places, like across a crowded KFC to get together for 1/2 hr of what-if-ness. Like i said before, Yark.

If he laughs at THAT joke, he must be a horrible guy....

Always keep a quarter in your purse, just in case... Keep your ankles decently crossed.You never know who's looking..... Have a friend call with an "emergency" when you get in trouble.... Look in his bathroom medicine cabinet. THAT says a lot about him... If he goes for 1st, 2nd, or 3rd base on the first date.... RUN!!!! (and be very angry when he doesn't call later)... I have more. Every woman does. It makes us feel better when we are giving advice to an innocent woman. I think every teenage chick, and most pre-teens, have something like this in their arsenal. These are the tools that we have for the battle. Um, THE BATTLE.... The Battle Of The Sexes??? Yyeeah, it's still going on. At least that's what I hear. And fear. This is what I was armed with from the time Adrian B. got booted from my house because "girls don't play with boys" when I was ... 8? Little by little, Adrian, Matt, Steve, and...What's-His-Face... the guy with the curly hair and dimples????... got culled from the neighborhood play group and tossed into the boys club where trucks, trees, and anything that got them dirty and scraped up was acceptable. Us girls usually were led into Barbie play dates, dress up, and cooking. (For the record, I hated Barbies and cooking. My cooking attests to it.) I think it was just easier for moms of girls to get that look on their face... the one of disdain and just a leeettle bit of nausea, when boys got older (the unmitigated gall!) as their girls did too. And like a light going on around the neighborhood, mom's would tug on their daughters apron strings and tell them little things to make the culling a bit easier...."Well, you are getting too old to play with him. He is paying too much attention to you." And all of a sudden the question was, "Is that bad? Am I bad? I was having fun playing in the trees/scraping my knees/playing Barbie with him". The next thought being, "boys have fun this way, and girls have fun that way..." and never the two shall mix. All of a sudden, we were DIFFERENT. Instead of there just being friends, it was Boys, and it was Girls. We knew that already, of course, but suddenly it mattered to the moms, so it had to matter to us. The leap from friends to US VS. THEM looked like this: A. we are different from boys. B. mom doesn't like us to play with "different" anymore. C. Different must be BAD D. BOYS ARE BAD and must be watched out for.... I know. Guys, if you are reading this, you either have a story like this but it's turned around so the girls are the enemy, or you are scratching your goatee and saying, "what the?????" Does it explain why girls got so creepy from about 8 years old on? Now you know the secret. We were told you were the enemy. Its true. Ask any girl in G-ville. (They are all on Facebook anyway.) In fact, just look in my Facebook friends for the girl that was in your neighborhood. She's the one you used to hang out with, and then BAM!! kicked you in the shins when you passed them. For no apparent reason. Now you know.... Here's the reason I bring it up in the first place: I'm a little bit bitter about it. I lost some really good guy friends when I was 8. Well, I (being the stubborn girl I was) hung out with them, off and on all the way until high school. Maybe, Neighbor Friend Around The Corner, you were just as stubborn as I was, and that's why we didn't care what our mom's said, but still.... Guy Across The Street And 2 Houses Down, we got the short end of the stick because my mom and yours were of the same mind that we both were the devil to the other.... The point is...... Ladies....... What if the boys/guys/men in our lives weren't the horrible people we were supposed to watch out for? What if there are guys out there that are gentle, kind, and want whats best for them and us? What if, dare I say, we are so conditioned to watch out and identify the bad in the boy that we don't know what to do if a good guy walked up to us and treated us right? I'm pretty bold to say that there could be amazing men out there. I know it because at any point now I'll get some emails letting me know I've been brainwashed. Here is where I get really bold, though. What if it is the WOMEN who have been out of the loop? What if we are so worried, and freaked out about getting taken advantage of/ripped off/hurt (and sometimes for good reason), that we have forgotten how to be open to the good that a guy could bring to a friendship/relationship????? hmmm? I speak about this because..... well..... I was dumped. By a really good guy. A really really excellent guy. nope, not my hubby. although he is a good guy too. I'm talking about someone that is no longer able to talk to me because he has been forbidden. By his love interest. His love, lets call her Brenda, is not assuming I will seduce him, necessarily. She assumes HE WILL CAVE. For the reason that he is a man and therefore BAD, he must be reined in with the friends that he has. As in, no women friends. Did I mention I've known him all my life? No? Well, yeah, I'm bitter. But really I don't have anyone to blame but my womenfolk. Do we know lying, cheating jerks? yup. But the real question is, DO WE KNOW ANY GENUINELY GOOD GUYS?.....Cricket....Cricket..... These are guys that have been upstanding through life. Made mistakes, sure, like we all do.. But have learned from them and used them as stepping stones. Just like the goals the women who have struggled in life strive to reach. And here is the scarier question: Do I know any women who are genuinely good? OF COURSE..... (I look past my own flaws, don't I) :) And I look past the flaws of my friends and any woman I admire..... yada yada..... Do some of us women to know what to do with a guy that is just good? And, is it just me that flounders with how to treat a guy that isn't a perv, a creep, and a loser? I'm at a loss. Mostly because I realize that somewhere down the line, it went from guys hanging around and being in the club of life, to creating the "What does he mean by THAT comment" girl only club that turns everything into a nuance or need for a comeback. Not good. Not good for me at all, and Not good for us as the genteel, tender strong loving powerful compassionate ladies we are capable of. Competition and competitiveness just has it's drawbacks here. What if a guy wants in? What if he means what he says? What if he wasn't meaning what we thought he really meant? The questions all come down to this: Are we, ladies, strong enough to let that in? Guys, this might also answer the question of why, when you are being genuine, the lady you want to impress (or had no idea you were impressing) got that odd look on her face that says, "SURE your a nice guy. Sure I'll take what you say at face value" but the attitude is like being back handed by a tennis pro. I'd love the input, not from the moms that have never had anything go wrong with their kids, but the moms that were the kids. I'd love input from the guys that were put in their place by the women they unintentionally offended and didn't know why. Or the dads that have insight to us crazy women.... Or the men and women that know what to do when a nice guy/girl shows up in their space and they buy in. Not necessarily because they are infatuated, as this could be a co-worker, a potential friend of a spouse, or a waiter/worker/server that you see isn't out to make you bleed. But infatuation could play in just the same. Ladies? What input do you have as to knowing that there are jerks out there because we have all dated one, had one for a (possibly) brother/uncle/cousin/dad/grandpa/nephew..... but how to treat a guy that isn't a jerk? What if we have been conditioned to watch out for the bad so much that we don't recognize the good? Ever happened to you? And..... GO.