here goes

You've heard it all before

My father likes books, so each Christmas, I buy him a book or two he might not otherwise get.  This past Christmas, I got him The Facts on File Dictionary of Clichés. He watches a lot of CNN and MSNBC with occasional forays to Fox News.  He’s started keeping a notebook near the TV to observe the ones he hears.  It’s mostly stuff you’ve all heard before, but with occasional retired person’s thoughts thrown in.  By the middle, I started laughing and thought I’d share:

We are kicking the can down the road until we cross a lot of lines in the sand and even some chiseled in granite and until we pump it dry and kill the goose that lays the golden eggs and have to give up on finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and run out of silver bullets and reach the worst case scenario when we will finally be able to tell which came first – the chicken or the egg – and whether the glass is half-empty or half full and be able to tell exactly where in the pile of details the devil is hiding and we may have to go where angels fear to tread and some outfits are not too big to fail and we cannot see the forest for the trees and all work and no play makes jack and the darkest hour is before the dawn and we can’t tell whether it is a light at the end of the tunnel or an oncoming locomotive and if we have one eye one ear and one brain we had better take a listen and take a think and oil and water don’t mix and time wounds all heals and mother knows best and where is Robin Hood when we really need him and birds of a feather flock together and you can’t tell a book by its cover and you know God loves poor people because he made so many of them and if we do not hang together we will hang separately and there are people who think outside the box and not all that glitters is gold and the tail wags the dog and it’s my way or the highway and I couldn’t agree with you more.

Trickle-down leaves a lot of boats high and dry and even with lipstick it’s still a pig and in all that pile there must be a pony somewhere and some of my best friends are livers and she’s out of estrogen and she’s got a gun and we must keep our eye on the ball and our ear to the ground, our finger on the pulse, our feet on the level, our nose to the grindstone, our powder dry, our bowels open, our minds clear and Viagra doesn’t fix everything.

Hope springs eternal and sometimes prune juice just isn’t enough and a friend in need is a friend indeed and you can’t unring a bell and on the table is much better than under the table and it’s tough titty but we really need the milk and when all is said and done, more will be said than done.

I feel I have to take some responsibility for this because I encouraged him. You could say I reaped what I sowed and if my shoe fits, I should wear it.

 

Death and all her relatives

Death has been on my mind, and I haven't even been riding my motorcycle lately. My first and foremost sad news is that my close female relative died suddenly about three and a half weeks ago. My father and I just finished a weekend visit. I arrived on a Friday night. By Saturday afternoon, we drove the sixty miles to her nursing home and set up residence in the facility's guest cottage. My father had not seen her since before Christmas and he spent all the time he could spare sitting in her room and chatting with her. She had had a rough winter, with many changes, a loss of freedom and no very clear memory of why she had lost her apartment and was strong-armed into a one-bedroom apartment without so much as a refrigerator or even a door that locks. While my father and I read or worked crossword puzzles or asked her about the old birthday book we found, she lay on her bed in a fetal position sleeping. On Sunday, we spent time the same way, except that she made to the church service down the hall with us. On Monday, she napped less and even wanted me to wander the halls with her to see he she knew who might be visiting their relatives in the parlor. I went with her and we found a lady wearing green for St. Patrick's day who smiled at her. My aunt said “Hello. I saw you smiling at me, so I we must know each other.” I found it very sweet of her to think that people who smile at her are her friends and to have every expectation that she would find a friend where ever she goes.
We said good-bye Monday morning. We spoke by phone Monday evening. By dawn Tuesday morning, she was dead.
She fell during the night on Monday, hit her head against the concrete floor covered with a thin carpet and no padding, and died of a cerebral hemorrhage seven hours later. The blood-thinners that kept her blood from clotting in the veins in her head caused the blood to fill her brain cavity very quickly once it started seeping out there. Instead of going to the airport, I went to the hospital and the funeral home that day, St. Patrick's day.
Several weeks before my close relative died, I found that my godson, who I had not seen since 1984, died in a fire as a teenager, ten years ago.
Last night, I saw Leonard Cohen perform in concert. To say that death is a theme in his songs is an understatement. Many of his songs and poems address death and loss in at least some form. One of his songs, “Who By Fire?” is a variation of a prayer recited on the Rosh Hashanah, the Day of Atonement. It lists the various circumstances around which a person can die. As I sat not too far from the stage, enjoying Leonard's gravel-voice and the bright blue glow of the theater's argon lights, when the litany of fates overcame me and I wept right there for the first time that night.
Today, we went to the Page Museum to pay tribute to the animals that had died in the La Brea tar pits. Oddly, no raccoon bones have been found, but the tar pits were especially dangerous for the scavenging dire wolf. The wolves, seeing easy prey in the pit, would attack and become victims themselves. One wall of the museum was lined with hundreds of skulls from all the dire wolves who had died and been found millennia later. The skulls, mounted backlit in orange, all faced the same way as if the wolves saluted death and reported for reassignment.
Only one person so far has been found in the pits, a woman, who received only a couple mentions in the museum. She found herself stuck and sinking, waiting to die. The pits are still there, all potentially deadly, but their threats mitigated by eight-foot iron fences. We all can and do anticipate our own deaths, but we do not feel the weight of our fate until we are mired in the circumstance we feel will be fatal and that uncertainty saves us. It leaves us space for our tears, our hope, and our joy and sadness.

Mundane mystery #1

So, I work in corporate headquarters of a Fortune 500 company (who'd'a' thought? It's a long way from the farm).

Not only that, I also work on the same floor of the same building as our CEO. This is more by coincidence than necessity.  I could be off in one of the new building outposts and he wouldn't miss me. But, every once in a while, I run into him as I'm heading for the restrooms and he's on his way out.  Or, he'll pass me as I'm in one of the two break rooms on our floor making myself a free cup of gourmet coffee.

Even though we have a cafeteria two buildings over and we have subsidized meals at lunch and dinner, from time to time I bring my lunch.

There are three mini-refrigerators on our floor.  The one in the break room furthest from the CEO's desk is packed with smelly foods. It's dirty. And, worst of all -- it ISN'T EVEN COOL!  I might as well keep my food at room temperature.

The two refrigerators in the break room nearest the CEO clean, cold and are nearly empty. Guess where I keep my perishables?  It puzzles me why the crappiest fridge is crammed and the two best fridges are ignored. 

Why use the crappy fridge at all?

It couldn't be the distance, could it?  From where I sit the crappy one is 107 paces away and the good ones are only 77 paces away. It has to be similarly close for half the people on our floor.

Could it be because people think the CEO will see them cooling things off?

It's a mystery.

The E-word

One bright morning on a typical third-grade classroom day, a teacher sat at a table with her students and showed them how to work problems for a new math lesson. A young girl named T. suddenly understood the new material and exclaimed, "Oh! That's easy!"

"We don't use the e-word here," the teacher told her. "This problem may seem easy for you, but maybe not for some of your classmates, It might hurt someone's feelings to say something is easy if whoever hears you doesn't understand it yet. You don't want to hurt anyone's feelings do you?"

And so, the delight of sudden insight turns into a cause for shame and guilt.

My dark-haired co-worker, who often smells of delicious exotic spices, didn't immigrate to the USA to give her two daughters, T. and R., any second-rate opportunities. Last year, she set up a conservatorship and trust fund for her older daughter, the petite young lady with the pleasant smile and lack of any math ability. This year, she hopes her younger daughter, the slender, tall, athletic one, will be accepted into a prestigious private school,
T., the younger daughter, does well in school without studying and may soon get over the brainwashing she endured five years ago in third grade,

My co-worker, V. discovered her daughter's condition, when T scolded her at home for using the E-word. V wisely said that "classroom rules" don't always apply at home And at home, it is okay to say something is easy.

V. hopes that, if her daughter's application to private school is denied, perhaps her last bits of E-word thinking and that she'll turn competitive and start studying harder. V. doesn't like the American fantasy that young kids benefit from being protected from the rigors of competition and from the disappointment of finding they aren't the sharpest, fastest or most likely to succeed. In her native country, student rankings on tests and final grades are made public from the kids very early ages. When parents there ask a teacher there, "How is my child doing?" they expect to hear how their kid compares to the other kids.

T's teacher's efforts to install empathy -- a woefully rare trait -- is commendable. Children need to learn that their words can cause hurt feelings. However, trying to protected kids from the pain of learning their personal limitations undermines the credibility of anyone who attempts it. The kids learn about no matter what adults do.

If the most pleasant feelings and expressions associated with learning are routinely crushed, it is no wonder the high school drop out rate in the USA is 30% or more! Also, how can teachers in good conscience hope to protect young children from glimpses of the pecking order we expect from the free market meritocracy we ostensibly inhabit? So what if some children pick up new material faster than others? Why scold the fast learners? Did Marie Curie's teachers scold her for her mental agility? Was Jonas Salk asked to curb his intellectual enthusiasm? If they had been treated that way, would we still have enjoyed the benefits of science we enjoy today?

Vampire vacuum cleaner -- it sucks!

So, W. and I recently went with our German hosts to a Kaufhaus (the German version of a Walmart). We wanted to pick up avocados and jalepenos and other ingredients for guacamole. This store was packed with all kinds of Walmarty items at Walmarty prices in an oversized Walmart-like building.  We found everything we needed for the "avocado dip" except for cilantro.

I had to laugh and take a photo when I saw the vacuum cleaner brand Kaufhaus offered on sale. It's the Vampyr and it's only 80 euros.  When I showed W., he was amused, too.

If I hadn't been just in the middle of reading, The Historian, by Elizabeth Kostova, I may not have been nearly so interested or in-tune with vampire products. Kostova's book kept me busy on my new Sony Reader for the whole week-long trip. The book engaged my interest until, I felt, the plot started getting bogged down in cliches about one third of the way through. Her descriptions of great Slavic and European cities (funny how her plot's American cities received no glowing praise) colored my experiences of several of the great German cities.  Her skill at describing architecture certainly dampened my enthusiasm for writing a travel journal this time.  Maybe her next book will stick with travel accounts and skip the lame Dracula slayings.

The "usual plus one" rule of forgetfulness

Today, I'm positing the rule of "the usual plus one" for forgetting things. There is no correlating rule for "the usual minus one" reason for forgetting.

The scenario goes something like this -- usually, I carry one purse and no accouterments. When I carry two things, I'm likely to get distracted and forget one. For instance, I met a friend for coffee Saturday morning and, as we neared our cars in the parking lot, I realized I carried only my umbrella, but not my purse.  I ran back to the coffee shop, and miraculously, the table was still empty and my purse was under it. Why did I remember the cheap-to-replace umbrella but forget my expensive-to-replace purse? Because of the usual plus one rule!  I had one extra thing to keep track of and my brain couldn't handle it. Yet another pleasant good-bye went awry. Sigh.

This scenario also applies, embarrassingly, to forgetting to zip my pants after I use the restroom. Usually, I wear jeans.  The routine, ingrained after many years, is 1) button and 2) zip. Sometimes, I wear dressy pants with a two buttons and a zipper or maybe a hook and a button.  Almost every time I use the bathroom when I wear pants like that, I forget to zip.  Why? Because after 1) hook and 2) button, my mind thinks I'm done. I forget 3) zip nearly every time.

All these common actions, like carrying bags and zipping, are tied in to muscle memory somehow, not consciousness. Once the appropriate amount of processing time has passed, my mind unconsciously says, "OK. That's done. What's next?" whether or not the task is actually done.

The "usual minus one" isn't an issue for forgetfulness because my body feels naked without a certain type of weight on my shoulder or cloth wrapped around my thighs.  For instance, if I put my wallet in my jacket pocket instead of carrying a purse, I am always sure I am missing something. I obsessively touch my valuables every 2 minutes and would notice any missing items immediately.  If I wear a skirt, there's often no need to use zippers to go to the bathroom and, due to the mechanics of the situation, no chance I'll forget what to do with my underwear.

None of this forgetting has anything to do with getting older. Why? Obviously because I've always lost things and forgotten to zip. This carelessness is so indicative of my character, that W. often asks me, "Do you have your keys?" or "Do you have your purse?" or, the even less helpful, "Did you forget anything?"

So to you W., and to everyone, I say it's not a matter of "forgetting,"  it's just a numbers game. It's the number of items I track, not the items themselves. That's why I almost always have to go back into the house to retrieve things when we go to the store, when we leave for a trip, when I head to work, when I go to the health club. I always need extra the amount of stuff -- a shopping list, luggage, access card, workout clothes.

When I actually do start forgetting things, yikes!  I'll need a lady-servant or something.  It won't be pretty.

Messiah of the printer cartridges

My boss moved out of state and is managing us remotely.  The four of us ladies left work in a cluster on the second floor.  The finance people moved a while back, so we have no competition for the nearby printer. I really don't use it that often, but for the past month or so, the toner has been low.  Three weeks ago, I shook the old toner cartridge and moved a new toner cartridge box right next to the printer, thinking one of my co-workers would transfer it into the printer eventually.

But no.

Today, I finally put the toner in the printer and emailed the group.  I received emails gushing with thanks.  I cannot believe that my days of wrangling printers is so unusual. It's so easy the only instructions are a series of eight drawings on the flap of the toner cartridge box.

Wow.  I'm stunned.

Oh, that I were a messiah about more substantial things! Like, changing out USB port cards or something.

To meditate and not to multitask

A growing number of my friends and acquaintances are taking up meditations. Many are gravitating toward a somewhat Buddhist outlook.  So, I decided some years ago to read up on it.  In some ways, I think that was a big mistake.  I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a meditator. The little reading I've done has already giving me something new to feel guilty about.

Every time I read the newspaper and eat a breakfast bar at the same time, I think about something in a book I read about how valuable it is, how important and precious to be present in the moment. This means, among other things, doing only one thing at a time. For instance, if a person is eating, that person should just eat. If a person is reading, the person should read.  If talking, the person should focus on the conversation. I am not sure if this is realistic for all practitioners, but I get the sense that the focus of meditation trains the meditator to be able to focus his or her attention in the course of daily events. Being present with oneself is a benefit of meditating.

So, after reading this, even years later, every time I sit down with my paper and eat my breakfast at the same time, I feel faintly guilty. Every time I take a magazine with me to the bathroom I feel guilty. Every time I take a drink of water while driving, I feel guilty (okay, not really on that one). After years of contemplation, I can honestly say that I am just not willing or able to only read the paper without also having breakfast or watching the news or drinking coffee.

However, I will acknowledge that many, many people in my life wish I would be more present with just one thing at a time, or maybe with fewer things at a time. For instance, my friend K. and I drove to Yosemite last week. K. nearly panicked when I 1) held my diet Coke bottle and the steering wheel in one hand, 2) held and moved the steering wheel in the other, 3) used my foot to accelerate through the mountain roads and 4) carried on a conversation with her about where we should stop next. This reminds me of C., who would sometimes talk to me on my cell phone during the course of our campaigns.  He was always appalled that I talked on my cell phone while driving.

W. sometimes gets irritated with me while I talk on the phone AND do the dishes.  He doesn't mind my multitasking if one of the activities is talking on the phone as long as the other activities are not noisy, such as running water or crinkling paper of some kind. That's only fair, because I get irritate when I hear him typing while he's on the phone with me (unless I'm lost and I've called him to ask him to look up directions for me).

I'll grant C. and W. and K. that maybe driving and talking, or driving and drinking, or driving and reading maps, books, or tourist guides maybe don't mix. It's harder for me to stop mixing food and newspapers, though.  It is such an ingrained habit that I admit defeat in even thinking about change. At least some part of my paper reading time will almost always involve food or drink.

Perhaps that new found humility will let me get somewhere new in my meditations. I could give up driving and phoning at the same time, I suppose.  I could...  Maybe...

Now if I could just stop thinking about Dante's Divine Comedy every time I use my cell phone, I would be getting somewhere. (Long story.)

Wiser or just older?

When I was growing up, no one ever conceived of sitting a child down for a “time-out.”  Instead, when my behavior did not match the ideal my parents and teachers held dear, I was spanked, slapped or scolded. Only on rare occasions did I endure the timeout’s cousin, the go-sit-in-a-corner. A youngster in time-out gets to sit in a designated spot and contemplate his or her actions. Sitting still in church and keeping my mind occupied during the long sermon at age five or six was about as close to a time-out as I my experience with punishment regularly came. I remember shifting my butt from side to side, swinging my legs vigorously back and forth, rustling and folding whatever papers I managed to remember to bring from Sunday School. If I fidgeted too much, my father or mother would grab my wrist take me out back of the church and swat my bottom a time or two. I never could understand how that would make me more calm.

Adults now call this activity of sitting still and contemplating one's miniscule place in the world “meditation.” Some consider it a privilege and even a necessity.  I have, in fact, taken up meditating about 10 minutes a day in hopes it will keep me calm during my period of writing thank you notes to people who supported me during my campaign and while I suck up my pride and do some data entry in hopes of future contact with people I don’t even know who gave me money. Rather than dwell on my sins of losing, I concentrate on my breathing.  As an adult, I find time counting my breath soothing, but I undertake it with a sense of irony. When I was younger, I probably would have considered it punishing.

Not all former punishments are now pleasures.  Some former pleasures have become more punishing.  Most of my life, I would stay up till nearly dawn reading any book I found at all engaging.  My parents, I am sure, grew weary of scolding me when they woke up in the middle of the night and staggered down the hall. Sometimes, they would detour past my room to check to see if a light came from under my door.  Odd to think of it now, but no one ever spanked me for reading too much. I suppose a book-work girl is less embarrassing to a parent than a restless one. But, now when I try to read near bedtime, I fall asleep quickly.  My sleepiness puzzles me.  Is it due to biological changes of my brain slowing down and my responsibilities mounting? Or am I falling asleep because my mind and life are so much more complex than they were in my youth that stories that once held my interest now bore me and fail to hold my attention.

Perhaps my tastes are just more discriminating now that I’ve piled up a few experiences.  Some evidence that my palate is more refined became clear a couple nights ago when my spouse and I went to our favorite restaurant. I ordered a steak medium rare. When the waitress delivered it, she wanted me to cut into it to see if it was cooked to my satisfaction.  I cut it in half and noticed that it was well done.

“It’s fine,” I told her. “I’ll eat it anyway.”

After four or five bites, disgust overcame me and I stopped eating it.  I remarked to my husband that it was too late to send it back and that when I was in my twenties, I would not have noticed how a steak was cooked.  Any steak would have been delicious to me. I choked down a few more bites and told myself that I will never accept a well-done steak again.  Even as I thought this, I marveled that I have become a sort of person who cares about such things, or even notices them.

Are these changes due to finally knowing myself and my body well enough that I have actually formed opinions and habits?  Or are the changes more sinister? For now, I will stick with the idea that I just know what I like better than I once did, that I am able to articulate fine-grained differences in sensual experience that would even have eluded my perception as a younger person.  That is to say, that I’m not feeling more aches and pains, I merely know my body well enough to notice them more. Yes, that must be it! For instance, heavy books now make my back hurt when I prop them on my chest. It must always have been so, but I just didn't notice before.  So, I'll buy just a book holder.Three cheers for being both wiser and older!

Being there

Today, I'm glad that I can provide support for a friend who is going through a difficult time. This particular thing is a bit hard to be thankful about because I'm saddened that my friend is facing trouble.  Maybe I'm being a bit neurotic about this, but over the years I have felt guilty that this friend helped me through several traumas yet never approached me to help with any. 

I am thankful that my friend has accepted my offers of help and support.

Maybe that's not neurotic at all.