It's Not Hard, People

Take a look at this photo.  Can you spot the error?

 

So close ... just a few more steps ....

 

 

If I were a sociologist, I'd solve the mystery of why carts are abandoned in parking lots, when the corral is 10 feet away. Or the greater puzzle of why we walk past said carts, go into the store, and get a fresh one.  Why do we step over a piece of clothing that has fallen off the rack at a store?  Further, why do we speed up to keep a car from pulling in front of us when lanes merge? 

 

Are we overly righteous or underly moral?

 

I silently judged the person that left their cart to die at Target, but then reprimanded myself a few minutes later when I realized that I could have fixed the problem by putting it away - and didn't.  Today, at TJ Maxx, I fixed one sweater that was askew on the hanger, but not the next five.  I let two cars go in front of me while waiting at a red light, but not the third.

 

Where do we draw the line? 

 

You see, I'm a stickler for putting a plastic divider down after I've put all my groceries on the conveyor belt, but sometimes leave my drink cup in the movie theater after the show is over.  I wipe down the equipment at the gym after I use it, but will pick my nose and then shake someone's hand.

 

I think the answer is in the quote by H. Jackson Brown, Jr.  “Our character is what we do when we think no one is looking.”   

 

Of course, nowadays, someone is always looking, which is all the more reason to behave.  Because you never know when the cart police will knock at your door, and justice will be swift.

 

 

 

 

Until next time, keep crowin' - and go the extra mile!





Gone Fishin'

After having already decided not to take a family vacation this summer, due to lack of time and funds, I changed my tune.  The tornado, plus a week with four children in my care - my niece (7) and nephew (1) came to stay - I decided a get-away was, in fact, possible. 

Of course, it was 4th of July week, so there was nothing available within a 500-mile radius.  It took a few days of pulling my hair out to finally find just the spot - a private home in a gated community at a beach that I had never heard of.

We made the 5+ hour trek and rolled up on our oasis.  It was a lovely house, and we quickly settled in. The kids picked their rooms, we unpacked the food, and I got dinner started.  My husband poured himself a cold one and headed out to the screened porch to breathe in the fresh air.  The kids soon joined him, and once I had the bread in the oven, I walked out the door to sit with my family and enjoy some quiet time. 

As I closed the door behind me, I heard a click click.

Now, if you have been reading this blog for any length of time, or if you know me personally, there are several things you can assume from this sound.

1.  It was not the sound of pennies raining down from heaven.
2.  It was the sound of us getting locked out of the house.

We realized immediately that there was no hope of re-entry.  All doors and windows were locked, and we were on the 2nd floor of the house.  Further, I had on neither shoes nor bra, having shed them both in the glory of freedom.

Being in a private neighborhood, we had few options.  We could start yelling for help, my husband could jump, or we could break down a door or window.  Before I pushed my husband over, fate intervened.

The Security golf cart came puttering by, and I waved the lady down.  After visiting a few of the neighbors, looking either for a screwdriver or a key, she found John, our guardian angel.  John had a key to the house.  John also kept the lawn for the owner, had some connections to our home town, and ran a business putting faces on tiles and lazy susans in case we were interested.  And as we would find out the next day, John also knew how to fix air conditioners.

All of that, and I didn't even burn the bread.

Several things struck me about our little Utopia:

 

The shopping. Must have been closed for the holidays.

The wildlife.  Here we have a two-headed alligator walking on a fluorescent water-type substance.

The security.  It is so safe, you can't even jump in front of the sensor to exit the neighborhood.  Going on a run requires fitting through that triangular space.

The tides.  They appear to be out during the day.  This gave our fellow sunbathers a healthy walk to squat and pee in the sea.  It was a sight to behold, all day, like a continuous stream of birds floating on the ocean.

The sands.  They sink under your feet like butter and dry like pound cake on your shoes.

 

 

Yes, it was a fool's paradise, full of sights and sounds that we had never experienced before.  On our last day, we ventured beyond the gates and found a little miracle - a Swiss Family Robinson State Park that offered white sands and rolling waves for a small fee.  It was like being on a deserted island for a week and then realizing a resort was a mile down the road.

 



Ahhh ... much better!

 

I can just make out Pocahontas .....

 

Regardless of the hiccups, it was away, and that was all we needed.  Sometimes you just need to get out of your habitat and spread your wings to tame the inner wildlife within.  I have already started planning my next vacation - because, let's face it, I could use one.

 

Until next time, keep crowin'!

 



How to Deal

With summer in mid stroke, I think about when I was a kid, and these months off of school were a wide open field of carefree possibilities - the pool, friends, sleeping in, movies, ice cream, vacation, and lots of good old fashioned "down" time.  As an adult, summer isn't about hitting the pause button anymore.  Your employer doesn't skip June, July, and August so you can rest, and there is no school bus to take your kids to their activities. 

But still, we look forward to it because it symbolizes a slowing down, an opportunity to refresh your screen and get a new perspective.

I have definitely had a summer for the books so far.  Granted, there are books with more tragic and difficult stories, but since this is my blog, I will talk about mine. 

In the past, I have written about my backyard, and my love of the trees and the shade and privacy they provide.  That's my little oasis, my quiet place where I can breathe in the sun and lounge in arms of Mother Nature.

Until the tornado. 

 



Now that clean up is done, my yard looks like a shaved armpit with a bit of stubble.  And I suddenly have the ability to report on what the neighbors are cooking for breakfast and whether it is bath day in the big tub.

Am I lucky that no one was hurt?  Beyond belief.  Am I fortunate that my house and husband's car were not destroyed?  You bet.  And in light of those blessings, did I handle the dealings with neighbors and insurance and tree men and my do-it-yourself husband, in the most professional and positive manner?

Absolutely not.  I actually lost my mind, quite vocally, and then tried to commandeer a bobcat.

This photo has become known as The Determinator.

From that time on, anyone that came along, anything I was asked to do, any way the wind blew, I treated like a hostile witness.  The world was Tom Cruise and I was Jack Nicholson. 

Me: "You want answers?"
World: "I think I'm entitled."
Me: "You want answers?"
World: "I want the truth!"
Me: "You can't HANDLE the truth! ... My existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall - you NEED me on that wall ...  I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a d*mn what you think you are entitled to!"
World: "Did you order the Code Red?"
Me: "YOU'RE G***AMNED RIGHT I DID!!!!!"

It got a little ugly.

And then it got better.

Because what goes down, must eventually come up.  Sooner or later, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and realize you look like Norma Desmond and are scaring the neighborhood cats. So, the sun fought against the clouds and won, helping me to snap out of it and make a refreshing cocktail with the lemons of life. 

I also I remembered something I already had in my arsenal that had been locked away --- that when used properly, a sense of humor can be your most powerful weapon against evil.

Some excellent examples that I have bookmarked are two letters from disgruntled airline passengers.  They express their nightmares in a way that not only gets the point across quite effectively, but also leaves the recipients of their complaints actually ... smiling.   Click here for the first place letter, and click here for second place.

And that, my friends, is how to deal. 

Until next time, keep crowin' - and let a smile be your umbrella.

2 Miracles to Sainthood

Although I am not Catholic, I have a friend who is, and I have been doing some research on her behalf.  Because I am pretty sure that she may already qualify for sainthood - you just need two miracles and some beautifications.  And while my friend would cringe and deny and refuse to accept that title, I have been counting up miracles, and she fits the bill.

Every time we talk, she has an incredible story to tell.  Like the time her son witnessed a girl being bullied on the elementary school bus and then tormented himself over his failure to intervene.  He confided in a teacher about it, and the teacher's advice ("You did nothing wrong, but you missed an opportunity to do something right") marked a turning point in the young man's life.  He went on to defend the girl on the bus, to her parents' deep gratitude, and helped make a change.  He wrote about his experience for a prep school admission essay, and when his mom read it to me, I immediately offered my daughter's hand in marriage.

Fast forward a few years later, and the young man's brother became the victim of bullying on the same bus.  The bully?  The girl's brother.

Apparently, her experience was not as profound.

And that, I believe, is what tips the scales.  The willingness to receive the message, and the courage to change.

So what makes my friend a saint?  Well, in a nutshell, her experiences alter me, the way I look at life and at people.  It is easy to stop caring sometimes, when your feelings are hurt often enough, or a struggle is simply to big to overcome.  But she never gives up.  She never, ever gives up.

Her first miracle came in the form of a job.  She began working for a neighbor who is an attorney, operating out of his home office.  After taking the job, she soon learned he was going through a divorce and was quite the addict.  On the outside, one would never know she what she was enduring, and I didn't find out until 6 months in, when we were on the phone one rainy Sunday.

What came out of that conversation was that she had been called at home in the wee hours of the morning by this man, threatening suicide.  She had personally driven him to rehab and the mental hospital.  She had helped him through his DUI arrest - which occurred in her cul-de-sac - and she had handled his caseload when he was stoned out of his mind, without a smidgen of guidance. She had contacted his parents in another state - total strangers - to arrange for his after care.  At the time of our conversation, she had helped him move out of his home and was scheduling the cable TV hook up in his apartment.

After digesting detail after astounding detail, I finally said to my friend, "You have done more than any human being on the face of the earth would do.  At some point, he has to figure this out for himself.  You have sacrificed enough of yourself."  To which she replied, "I know.  But he has no one else."

She is his miracle.

Perhaps that's why, last week, when she and her two sons were driving down the road, they stopped for a young man who was panhandling in the median. Without a word, her older son rolled down the window and handed him money out of his own pocket.  They drove off, but could not shake the image - the homeless man seemed young and too well-dressed to be in this predicament.

Returning a short while later, they stopped and talked to him.  He saw the older son's t-shirt, advertising his prep school, and remarked that he had gone there as well.  Had the same coach for track too.  (My friend contacted the school - everything he said was true.). And over lunch, he explained that he was home from college and trying to start a new life, without family support or resources.

My friend gave this intelligent, polite man her husband's phone number, because he volunteers with a homeless ministry. All he has to do is make that call, and his life will change for the better. So far, he hasn't.

It's a God-thing, when the right person is put in your path - you just have to see it.  It reminds me of this story:

This is a story of a man, who was a firm believer of God.

One day it began to rain very heavily. It kept raining and a big flood came.  The man climbed up on the roof of his house, and knew that he would be ok. God would protect him.

It kept raining and now the water had reached his waist. A boat came by and a guy in the boat said: “Hey, jump in. We will take you with us.”

"No thanks,” said the man. “I’m a firm believer in God. He will rescue me.” He sent the boat away.

It kept on raining and now the water had reached his neck. Another boat came by and a guy in the boat said: “You look like you could need some help. Jump in and we will take you with us.”
“No,” said the man. “I’m a firm believer in God. He will rescue me. Don’t worry about me.” The boat sailed away.

It still rained and the water now reached his mouth. A helicopter came by and a guy in the helicopter threw down a rope and said: “Hi there my friend. Climb up. We will rescue you.”

“No,” said the man. “I’m a firm believer in God. He will rescue me. I know he will.” The helicopter flew away.    

It kept on raining, and finally the man drowned.

When the man died, he went to heaven. When entering Heaven, he had an interview with God. After giving a polite greeting and sitting down, the man asked: “Where were you? I waited and waited. I was sure you would rescue me, as I have been a firm believer all my life, and have only done good to others. So where were you when I needed you?”

God scratched his confused looking face and answered: “I don’t get it either. I sent you two boats and a helicopter.”

Do we miss the signs?

My friend's story was still fresh in my mind yesterday as I drove to Target in my little cocoon of a community.  It was 95 degrees outside, the wind felt like 155, and I was finishing some errands.  All of a sudden, I see a woman with a baby on the hot asphalt, begging for food and rent money.  On any given day, I may have passed her by. But because of my friend's example, I went into Target, got her a gift card, and then took it back her with water and bananas I had just bought at the grocery store. She thanked me and immediately gave her child the water. When I returned to Target I was shaking at the thought of that poor overheated baby, and the complete hopelessness in the woman's eyes.  I called my friend. I thanked her for being an example to me. And then I cried in the school supplies aisle.

So, by my count, that's three miracles, more than is needed for sainthood. The miracle of unconditional love, the miracle of charity, and the miracle of inspiration. She's as good as in.

Until next time, keep crowin'  - and take the rope!

Race Relations

I went running yesterday as part of the "Let's Do Better"campaign.  Today, I am hobbling around like a chimpanzee.  However, I am told that pain is gain, so my grimace is laced with optimism.

Anyway, I'm jogging along my usual path along the river in 90 degree heat, when I pass three women walking towards me wearing traditional Islamic garb.  They had on the hijab and jilbab - a head scarf and full robe, so that only your face is showing, as dictated by the Qur'an.  (Before you get impressed, yes, I Googled all that.) 

It was an unexpected sight in my corner of the world, but shouldn't be treated as such. And I am so sensitive to discrimination that I worry I go too far in the other direction.  Like shaking someone's hand extra hard or snorting at a lame joke, just to show "we're all one people." 

So, when I saw these three Muslim women walking along the path, I evaluated my choices. 

1.  Ignore them to show, Hey! No biggie!
2.  Smile at them to show I respect them (but is that over-eager?)
3.  Turn around and run away. 

Luckily, on the first pass, my choice was made for me.  I have the luxury of transitional lenses, so they couldn't see my eyes looking away behind my glasses.  But it didn't matter, because I was focused on the pretty little starbursts floating in front of me.

However, when I turned around and ran the other way, there they were.  Feeling like an idiot, I looked up, made eye contact with the one on the end, and smiled.  She smiled back.

It was a nice moment.  She wasn't judging me for running around in shorts with my muffin top jiggling out, and I wasn't judging her for wearing all black on a hot summer day. 

My thoughts turned to a movie I had seen with my daughter the night before. We joined 170 other women and girls for a screening of Girl Rising (http://girlrising.com/), a movie that depicts the impact of education on girls in third world countries.  One of the themes of the movie was that while there wasn't hope for the adults in those countries, the children still had a chance.

I disagreed.  I think, I HOPE, that grown-ups can always find a way to do better, and to prevail. Granted, I can't compare my life to that of a family living in squalor, surviving on scraps found in a landfill.  I will never know that type of suffering, nor will I ever be able to comprehend it.  What I am referring to is the human spirit, that thing that keeps you digging in the dirt, pushing forward when the world is pushing back even harder.

I was riding that high, thinking about that lofty goal, when I logged on to Facebook.  Here is what was posted by a resident on my neighborhood's group page:

Neighborhood watch. On May 15 at one thirty in the afternoon, I saw a tall (six foot three) mulatto man walking west on Forest Pond drive. His hair was short and he had a trimmed beard. He wave at me and I waved at him. He was carrying a small green box in his hand.

Dear God, call the troops.

After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I thought about my niece and nephew.  Two absolutely beautiful, amazing children, who have a white mother and black father.  I called my sister-in-law and asked her, "How do you feel about the term mulatto?"  I was told immediately and without pause that she and her husband did not care for it AT ALL.

So, I replied to the post, just behind my friend who, having my back, posted as well.

My Friend:  "I'm just curious, why was this cause for concern?"
Me:  "Coming from a mixed race family, I am trying to understand where the concern is? Is it possible he lives here or was visiting someone? Also the term mulatto is not widely accepted."

Four people "liked" my comment, but here is the response I received from another resident:

Neighbor:  "I would be concern if it were not a familiar face, mulatto, green, white or black, walking around our neighborhood. We have a sign in from of the neighborhood NO SOLICTORS. Lived in New Bedford for 27 years and am cognizant of anyone walking around that I don't know and still don't know all my neighbors. Caution is good thing. I don't know (name withheld), but appreciate his concern. Caution is a good thing."

When I saw this response, I evaluated my choices.

1. Ignore him so I don't stoop to his level.
2. Correct his usage of "concern" and "from" and spelling of "solicitors."
3. Remind him that it is not easy being green.

As of this moment, I have picked #1.  Not because I am afraid of a fight or am complacent, but because Rome wasn't built in a day.  Everyone is entitled to their opinion, and I can't assume that this is a case of racial profiling.  What I CAN assume is that neither of these neighbors, who happen to be white, have ever been black men.  So, they can't understand what they don't know.  And I will continue to voice MY opinion until my brother-in-law isn't afraid to walk down his own street at night in his own neighborhood, for fear of the police being called.

And yes, I realize that I have never been a black man, either.  However, I have discovered a DNA test for 99 dollars that can tell me if I have ever been a black woman. And I can't wait to find out.  Because, in truth, on the outside, we may all look different, but our innards are the same.  How wonderful would it be to spend more time acknowledging our sameness, rather than our differences?

Until next time, keep crowin' and caring.

Writer's Block

It has been one month and one day since I have written anything, and that is wrong for so many reasons.  It means I haven't made time for it, haven't been inspired, or haven't found myself that interesting.

I will say that life has overwhelmed me the last month.  It is very hard to re-enter the Earth's atmosphere after a zen-like, Utopian week of Spring Break.  We have a place we go that is truly my Disney World.  No people, no cars, no schedules.  I wish everyone could have that type of escape.

Coming back to the real world was shocking.  Like having your hair pulled out by your roots during a deep sleep.  I really am ready to retire, but since my kids are only 13 and 10, that's not an option.

I hit a few walls upon re-entry, and re-evaluated some things.  The older I get, the more often I have these "what needs fixing" talks with myself.  So, I looked at work, volunteer, and miscellaneous.

I can't quit work because it is part of the household income.  But, I was letting work dictate my schedule, rather than the other way around.  Being self-employed is great, until you realize you never clock out.  For instance, my biggest client sent me an assignment at 5:00 p.m. one day for an entire web site project that was due by the following morning. 

Did I stay up until 1:00 a.m. to finish it?  Yes, I did. 

Idiot.

But, I 'yam what I 'yam.  Can't help it.  However, I can complain about it and get some more money for it, which I did.  And then I created a production request system so that it wouldn't happen again.

Another wall was my volunteer work.  This year, I was in charge of the food/supply drives at my son's elementary school.  We collected items for underprivileged students in our area, and it was the best volunteer job I've ever had.  I met some amazing people - the librarian who ran a book fair all by herself, the assistant principal who started a food pantry for his families, the students who saw us roll in boxes and got excited about soup. 

I loved this job, but the loading, sorting and hauling was killing my back.  And after 11 visits to physical therapy, my insurance company cut me off because, according to them, I wasn't getting better.  Or, maybe they thought I was pathetic.  Either way, I had to give up the heavy lifting.

Then there was my Presidency with the theater awards group.  As is so often the case in my life, what began as a hobby became a career, and suddenly I'm in charge.  I stepped up to the plate because someone else was having a nervous breakdown.  But, they are doing better now, and so I rinsed off the plate and handed it back.  No more Presidency.

As for the miscellaneous, well, I'm working on it.  I realize I am a flawed human being. Every day, I wake up and tell myself, "Let's do better today."  Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't.  And sometimes God or Karma or Publix step in to remind me to try harder.  Like when the cashier said to me after scanning my purchases, "Wine is wine, right?  Doesn't matter how much it costs if it tastes good."

I didn't know a person with a custom wheelchair seat and meth-induced drawl could also moonlight as a sommelier, but far be it from me to judge.  Must be one of those Up With People programs.

At any rate, I have every intention of getting my groove back.  Not sure how I will do it, but it's on the agenda.  And if I'm smart, it will be a top priority.

Until then, keep crowin' and don't lose sight of yourself.

Sweating the Small Stuff

I walked into the physical therapy office the other day at 12:55 pm, and when I started signing in, I noticed the person before me had written 12:57.  Now, human nature would be to write 12:58 and have a seat, but I didn't get there at 12:58.  I got there at 12:55 and I wanted credit for those three minutes.  So, I wrote 12:55 and complimented myself on my punctuality.

Now, before you think I am pillar of accuracy, I will freely admit that when running late to the pediatrician, I have interpreted their office clock to be a minute or two fast at check in.  'Cause that's different.  Those minutes could mean the difference between waiting 15 minutes for a room, or being labeled late and waiting 45.

Which got me to thinking - is the devil in the details?

I certainly think so. Consider last week when I went to the antique store to buy a pre-lit Christmas tree ($55 for a 6-footer, thank you very much.)  As the store owner and I chatted, she inquired as to my occupation, and determined that I was exactly who she needed to help her redesign her website.  We talked turkey, and made an appointment to compare calendars.  And just when I had convinced myself that I could handle a new client, she released a giant fart cloud over my head.  "So," she says, "I barter, and for this service, I can give you a dining table."

Yeah, no. I don't think the power company accepts Lazy Susan's as a form of payment, so that bird won't fly.  Would have been nice if she'd led with that tidbit, but I suspect she's done this before.

Then there was Reservation-Gate at a XXXX restaurant.  I was planning a surprise party for my daughter's 13th birthday.  I emailed the owner - no reply. I called the restaurant - was told a manager would need to call me.  No call.  I physically walked into the restaurant at 11:00 am one day.

Stupid Hostess In Training: "We're not open."

Me: "I am not here to eat. I need to confirm a reservation."

SHIT: "Take this business card and email us."

Me: "I have done that. I want someone to call me."

SHIT: "OK, what's your name and number?" Writes it in dry erase marker on a menu.  Upon hearing my name, "Oh yeah. You're here in the computer, see?"

Me: "Thank you."  And a pox on your house.

So, that weekend, the surprise goes off without a hitch, and now everyone is seated and enjoying the moment.  My cell phone rings.

"This is SHIT at XXXX and we are wondering if you are still planning to come in tonight.  Your reservation was for 6:30 and we haven't seen you yet."

Mother of God.

So I walk up to the hostess stand and there she is with two underlings.  

Me: "I just got a message asking me if I am going to honor my reservation.  I am here."

SHIT: "Oh, well, when you changed the number in your party it caused a problem and you actually have 2 reservations in the sys- ME: "I. AM. HERE."

Underling: "And we're so glad you are!! :) :) :) 

I walked away, and then smiled brightly when SHIT was called into serve me my meal.

Details.  They are important.  And just like a misplaced comma, they could mean the difference between someone's life, or death.  (i.e., Let's eat, Grandpa vs. Let's eat Grandpa).

Let's not eat Grandpa.  Let's care about details and get them right.  Except when it's not convenient for me, of course.

Until next time, keep crowin'!