Shirtless

Douglas left home without his shirt this morning. Stop laughing, this is serious. The humid summers here in Maryland are not conducive to dress suits and ties and leather shoes. The temperatures have lingered in the 90’s; inside the suit, it’s about 107˚ with no circulation. So Douglas leaves a few suits, ties and pairs of dress shoes in his office and commutes in shorts and a t-shirt, carrying his dress shirt on a hanger covered in plastic.  Once he realized he'd left without his shirt, he had two choices: return home to get it, causing himself to be quite late for work, or call me to fetch it.  

Douglas leaves for work before 7:00 AM; often I’m still in bed. This particular morning, I was up at 5:30 with him, wide awake in the dark doing a little yoga before breakfast. I had walked him to the bus stop on my way to walk in the park before the day got too hot. As we walked from the house, he was reciting aloud, “Tie, socks . . .” naming the things he needed to have with him. “Phone, Blackberry, badge . . .” I added. “Metro card . . .” he continued. All but shirt.

I had just stepped into the park when my phone rang and he asked me to get his shirt and meet him at the metro. I ran home. Ran. I’m not much of a runner, but when Douglas needs something, I can run a few blocks. You know that song, “But I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more, just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles to fall down at your door?” That’s Douglas.

When I saw the look on his face, I thought of that saying, “A picture is worth 1,000 words.” A facial expression communicates as much. I saw such disappointment on him. I don’t know what he felt, but I can guess. In one forgetful moment, he set himself up to look bad –  needy, incapable, maybe even somewhat selfish. 

What I felt was compassionate agony, yet pleased that he knew he could depend on me to help him out. I saw a busy man who had a life and mind full of obligations, a man who has set our lives up to enable me to stay out of the work force and make a home for us while pursuing my writing dreams and goals.

If the roles had been reversed, if I had left, say, for a trip and forgotten my passport and I had to call him to bring it to me, he would have apologized for not thinking to ask if I had it. And he would be sincere in that apology, realizing that had he asked I would have had it. If I had apologized for not mentioning ‘shirt’ on our way to the bus stop, he would have thought it ridiculous. But Douglas so wants everything to be just right and easy for those he loves, that he takes it upon himself when things go wrong.

When he (rarely) needs something from me, I feel everything from relieved to vital. I'm glad I have the freedom to drop whatever I'm doing to tend to his needs. I watch him step into these jobs and trainings with the Foreign Service and I am amazed, sometimes to the point that I feel like I’m stumbling just a little too much through life. To see him err makes me feel less stress over my mistakes while it reminds me of how vital a presence I am in his life.

I have become a homemaker, domestic, housewife – whatever you want to call it. And I’m still surprised daily at how much I enjoy it (most of it). It helps that Douglas notices when I’ve cleaned or tidied a room and thanks me. It helps that he truly loves and appreciates my cooking (most of it). He provides so I can be active in the church, take writing classes, fly to visit friends and family. So to see his face that morning when I handed him his shirt hurt me. I didn’t want him to feel all he was feeling. It was just a shirt, for goodness sake. But I know that I’d have felt the same thing.

I’m sharing this (with his permission) to remind all of my readers (all eleven or so of you) that those around you love you and want to help you. We’re glad we can help you. We’re glad you need us occasionally. We’d rather help you than see you suffer in any way. Douglas and I are watching our parents reach the time of life when they need extra help and we’re glad that they tell us when they need us and let us step in and help. We recognize that it’s not easy for them, but we hope they can keep some perspective and remember all they’ve done for us.

This writing is a sort of love letter from me to Douglas. Don't stifle the living love letters of those around you by not asking for help when you need it.

Out with the Old

When Douglas and I moved back to the States after living two years in Munich and two years in Uzbekistan we bought a small house and awaited the arrival of three shipments of stuff from three different countries. Thank God they didn’t all arrive on the same day. We purposefully bought a small house so that we’d be forced to get rid of things we no longer needed, wanted, used or recognized, things that were no longer operable, no longer fit, things with holes that shouldn’t have holes, rusty things . . . I could go on, but I’d only further embarrass myself.

It isn’t easy getting rid of things. I was raised by parents who are not hoarders, but will not get rid of something that can be of use. They still have two old toilets in the backyard (they’ve planted flowers in them – charming). The last time I was home I cleaned out the pantry and put no fewer than a dozen old butter tubs, dried, cracked shoe polish that left my bare hands clean when handled, a single boot lace to a pair of boots no longer in the house . . . again, I could go on, but I’d further embarrass my parents. My father would not let me get rid of the two rusty wheelbarrows, both with flat tires, one with a hole in it. I know it’s classic to blame one’s parents for one’s flaws so let me say that it is only their fault through the age of, say 25 or so, after that it’s on us. It took me a little longer. I’m 53. I've since learned that this goes way back in our family. At my grandmother's house my mother found a box full of white polyester pants, a drawer full of artificial corsages and the old coal bin in the basement full of jars. When asked why she had all this, my grandmother replied simply that she may need them one day.

Douglas and I were inspired in part by the popular book “the life-changing magic of tidying up” by marie kondo. (Lower case as per the book.) Part of the book is about deciding what to get rid of, part is about organizing what you keep. While she has some odd suggestions – saying ‘thank you’ to an object when getting rid of it – she has some surprisingly effective ones – holding each object in your hands before deciding whether or not to keep it. Douglas and I agreed to read this book before our stuff arrived and abide (more or less) by what it said. (Don’t tell Douglas, but I never actually finished reading it.)

When I began to unpack boxes some of the decision making was easy. When I pulled out an item and a heavy sigh was accompanied with the thought, “Where am I going to put this?” It went in the discard pile. Likewise, when I pulled something out, clutched it to my chest, did a little dance and called Douglas at work to say, “Guess what I found?” I kept it.

But what about all the in-between stuff? Ms. Kondo tells her readers to hold each item in their hands and ask, “Does this bring me joy?” This worked well with books and decorative things. My socks and the doormat don’t bring me joy, but I’m not going to get rid of them.

One of the most difficult categories of things to get rid of is memorabilia. For Douglas and I this included: school yearbooks, theater programs (from shows we were in as well as shows we attended), awards, souvenirs and gifts. Here’s how I handled it. I looked at my life overall and realized that most of those things came from a time in my life when I was a very different person and not as content with my situation as I am today. I realized, as I unpacked these things, that they brought back as many or more bad memories as they did good. Why would I want those reminders?

Souvenirs, for example. When I was young, I had shelves covered with things bought on vacations. Our family took great vacations – to Alaska, Vancouver, Santa Barbara, the Sierras – but every vacation came with a price. Growing up in my parents’ home I had no choice but to pay that price. As an adult I discovered that I didn’t have to pay any tolls I didn’t want to pay, I could turn and go another direction. And I did. Seeing knick-knacks from family vacations always stirred up the reality of my childhood situation deep in my brain, in a place that was so subtle and latent that I wasn’t consciously aware of its stirring. And whenever the little China doll or Lake Havasu playing cards or the seashell necklace showed up, I was, on some deep, buried level, forced to pay that price once more. I was brought back to my childhood bedroom, lying on my bed, escaping the turmoil of the day, trying not to bankrupt myself of happiness by staring at my collection of souvenirs and remembering the happiness I found in using my allotted money to buy that mini oil lamp or that turtle-shaped candle. Those times aren’t real anymore, so I don’t want the constant reminders of what was.

That’s the darker side of my benefitting from ridding myself of stuff. On the lighter side, we aren’t as tempted by every artifact we see, now that we’ve decided that we want less stuff. In Tashkent we both took Uzbek folk music lessons at the Embassy. Douglas learned to play the doira – an Uzbek fold drum – and I learned traditional Uzbek folk singing. One day, when returning to our compound after my lesson, I noticed a new gate guard and stopped to introduce myself. In my limited Russian, I told him that I was returning from my music lesson. He asked me what I was learning. I showed him my music and he started singing. I joined him, he started playing the doira part on the desk and this Uzbek, likely Muslim, man and this Christian woman stood eye to eye and sang smiling through an old folksong together. That holds more value than any piece of pottery, jewelry or rug. Stories instead of stuff; experiences instead of artifacts.

Today when we look at what we have, our eyes rest on things we truly love. The bookcases are filled with books we would buy again rather than those likely never-to-be-read. Our walls have pictures we have chosen in nice frames also of our choosing. The decorative bowls, glasses and art are all beautiful, at least to us, which is what counts. The absence of things past brings on a presence of today’s vital reality. It helps me move forward to becoming the woman I want to become – the one who strives for betterment – and leave behind the less developed person I was – the one who settled. I will continue to give the physical space in my house more thought than a director would a Broadway theater set. It will hold the things that my husband and I need to fulfill our chosen roles in the world’s stage, things that speak of who we are. And the memories I will keep where they take up no space – in my heart.

The Seven Stages of . . . whatever

When someone dies the affects are far reaching. There are seven stages of grief: shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing and acceptance. I have learned firsthand that when someone vows to live a healthier lifestyle (start exercising regularly, eating better) the effects are just as far reaching and, like the plagues against the Egyptians, one by one the stages descend (in their own way) on the one wishing for a hard body and anyone too nearby.

Shock. “You exercise?” People who knew me back in the day don’t know whether or not to believe me. In elementary school I couldn’t even run once around the speed away field in PE. I took no physical education classes in high school and only what was required of me in college, so it's also rather surprising to me that I exercise. I still feel like I’ve wandered into a parallel universe when I walk into a gym. When I exercise at home it’s like I’m rehearsing for a role in a play; it’s not really me. 

I started exercising in my early 30’s – I’m 53, I think, so it’s pretty much a habit now. I’ll declare one day, “I will not exercise today.” Then, like an out of body experience, I’m putting on the costume. "What the . . .?" Then I’m on the bike having had no say in the matter. I get off the bike and, like an abductee who lost time while aboard the mother ship, I look at my sweaty self and stumble off for the shower where, in the stream of water, I come to. And the real shock? After exercise, candy (my major food group) doesn’t even sound good. It’s like I’ve been brainwashed: I’ve been known to eat salad. I’ve been known to eat broccoli.

Denial. Years ago: No! I will not take exercise clothes with me on the cruise. It’s a cruise! I don’t care how many pounds the average cruiser gains. Now: I can’t believe I’ve actually taken exercise clothes with me on the three cruises I've gone on. And I used them – for exercise!  

“That’s not me in the mirror.” I try to tell myself. As I’m the only one in the gym, it’s a hard sell. My thighs have shadows. I could dress behind what hangs from my arms. After all these years spent diligently exercising, how can this be? Don’t even try telling me it’s the chocolate. Or the Pepsi. I won’t have it.

Situation: Douglas and I in Toronto staying in a very expensive hotel. The guy behind the desk wanting a $20 gym fee for each use.  Me informing him that I'm a guest. (He knew that; if I hadn’t been a guest it would have cost more.) Me not buckling to this modern day highwayman climbing up and down the stairs – 40-something flights – twice a day to keep up the habit. Gads.

Anger. This sweat is gross. What’s the point? I still have cellulite. Sell-you light? Sell-you-leet? I don’t even know how to say what covers 30% of my body. I still can’t do a chin-up. Yeah, yeah, I know. There are higher reasons for exercise like growing old gracefully and having a strong heart. Keep telling yourself that, sister, keep telling yourself that, but I’ll tell you that if I ever have a heart attack, it’s all off.

The treadmill gives me blisters, the bike gives me diaper rash. Once, when I was in the gym in Munich, the marines came in to work out. Great. There I was on the mat in the last 10 minutes of my abdominal routine, face 9-1-1 red, the small of my back sticking and releasing making loud farting sounds. The marines decided it was a good idea to exercise outside.

If I hadn’t eaten a steady diet of Vienna sausages and Spaghetti O’s in my youth I wouldn’t need this torture. So help me if I get diabetes it’s all off! No more of this misery. This is my mother’s fault. And my father’s. He always wanting ‘gedunk’ and she . . . she . . . she something!

Bargaining. If I exercise today I can have the Pepsi. If I do an extra 10 minutes I can have the Doritos. If I eat salad for dinner I can skip exercise altogether. Hmm . . . If I eat salad, which has practically no calories, and I exercise, then I can have the Doritos and the Pepsi. 

I know, I’ll give up sugar for Lent and reward myself with See’s Candy for Easter. Yeah, but Sundays don’t count. I can eat candy on Sundays. Sunday begins at midnight so I can stay up late Saturday night and have whatever I want. Because it’s Sunday. If I accidentally eat something really, really early Monday or latish Saturday it shouldn’t count because it’s Sunday somewhere and with Douglas’s and my Foreign Service lifestyle it’s hard to acclimate so it’s not really my fault.

Depression. I don’t like broccoli. I’ve been forcing it down for years now and I still can’t stand it. Supposedly it cures everything from anemia to zits. But if I get cancer it’s all over. It’s me and chocolate from then on out.

And I don’t like getting so tired on the bike. It scares me. You know that primal fear feeling in the pit of your stomach? Isn’t that supposed to be a warning of some sort? Flight or die? And it’s hard pushing against the tension of that machine. Oh, man, it’s come to this. I have to put myself on a machine just to try to get in shape. No matter how much weight I lose, no matter how much I exercise, my thighs are still bulbous, dimply and pudgy.

I had surgery once - had a couple of things removed. Afterwards I went right home and excitedly weighed myself. Only I could gain weight after having something removed from my body. What’s the use, man? I gained weight when I first started getting serious about exercise. “It’s muscle weight.” My friends said trying to cheer me up. Right. And where is all this muscle? Buried underneath seasons of blubber, never to be seen.

Testing. Maybe if I just live more actively I can skip formal exercise. You know, clean up the house a little every day, work in the yard. I’ll bet farmers never get on a exer-cycle. And I really think I’m on to something with that salad and candy theory. It all comes down to calories, right? Candy is empty calories, that’s bad. Bok choy is empty of calories, that’s good. If I choke down the bok choy and eat the M&Ms it should even out in there. If everything I put in my mouth besides candy and Pepsi and cookies and ice cream is nutritional it ought to work.

Gravity is the real enemy, not chocolate. If I spend more time inverted then the flab won’t creep down and hang around my knees. I’ll just stand on my head equal time . . . and . . . I . . . someth . . . I awoke being slapped in the face by a well-meaning janitor in the gym at the Munich Consulate.

Acceptance. I’m paying for the sins of my past. I guess it’s not that bad. I’m bound to sit on that bike for at least a half a sweaty hour a day for the rest of my life to support my habit. It’s not like I’m in prison being punished for crimes against society.

I’m not fat. I know this. I just want my legs to look more like Angelina Jolie’s, only shorter. I have two of them and they work and that’s good. I’m told I look good for my age. Uh, thanks.

True acceptance, it is written, comes from seeing who you truly are and knowing what you are capable of and being serene when faced with what you will never be and so on and so blah . . .

True acceptance for me is, “Yes, please. I'll take the chocolate mousse. Make that two, it’s kind of like Jell-O and there’s always room.”

Holy Week

I've been attending a church in Bethesda, Episcopal Church of the Redeemer. I'm singing in the choir and meeting some great people. In preparation for dwelling “in the house of the Lord forever” I decided to attend every service during Holy Week. (That’s eleven services in eight days folks.)

Years ago, I had a job singing in a Polish Catholic church in Saint Paul. I will always remember struggling to read Polish hymns. I will also remember women weaving palm fronds into crosses and roses on Palm Sunday like fidgety children given something to keep their hands busy. Years later I was given a book on the art of palm weaving and I look forward every year to Palm Sunday so I can create little figures. So it was with joy on our Palm Sunday that I wove roses for my new friends in the choir. It was infectious; soon someone was weaving a cross and another was braiding hers.

Monday evening was a Taizé service with Eucharist. Taizé is an ecumenical monastic order in France. From is has come many short, simple songs with lyrics often taken from the Psalms or other scripture, I always savor the campfire-like ambiance of the Taizé services. Replace the campfire with candlelight and add a flute, cello, piano and violin to the guitar and you have a Taizé service. I look forward to sinking into meditation singing the short, gentle choruses over and over.

Tuesday evening was my first Reconciliation service. I had to look this one up. I wasn’t sure if I should try to invite my estranged sister or just show up with my tail between my legs before God. It turns out the latter was more appropriate. I have long breathed in the priest’s absolution – literally inhaling deeply – taking in the spirit of forgiveness when it's offered. I left Monday’s service with full lungs and a newly baptized feeling.

Wednesday was a double header. At noon there was an intimate Eucharist. I actually looked up to see if I was allowed to partake in the Eucharist so many times during one week. I didn't want to get in trouble. As I had been feeling some distance building between me and God, I decided that as long as my heart and thoughts was present I could be intimate with Him more often that I was accustomed; perhaps the physical act would promote something soul-soothing. 

Wednesday evening was my first Tenebrae service. As I mentioned, I love candlelight and darkness so the symbolism of the Tenebrae service was engaging and moving for me. Seeing the single flame emerging from the darkness near the end stirred feelings of how alone Christ must have felt. At the end, when Cricket (our rector) slowly made her way to the piano, I thought she was going to give herself a pitch to chant. When she fell head first onto the keys I nearly sprang up to administer CPR. Thank God I realized that was part of the service – the strepitus, which symbolizes the earthquake at the moment of Christ’s resurrection. Very effective, very effective . . .

During Maundy Thursday’s service I felt like I’d had enough. Thoughts of “we’re going to sing all these verses?” replaced “Christ in Heaven I honor You.” My mind wandered to the pub at the Irish Inn and what their soup of the day was during the Eucharist. Robin (the associate rector) calls this “monkey mind.” I held it together as best I could. It helped that I was singing in the choir. Singing engages me (usually) and as I was in full sight of everyone I couldn’t very well excuse myself. Part of the Maundy Thursday service is the stripping of the altar to symbolize Christ being literally stripped then stripped of His life. Thank God (literally) we’ll never know how Jesus felt being stripped. And mocked. And scourged. And hung. When the service ended, I stayed in my seat comfortably reflecting. The darkness gets me every time.

Friday’s stations of the cross and performance of Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater (a hymn to Mary’s suffering) was inspiring. I’d never heard this; it was a huge contrast from Rossini’s. I told our organist, Christ Betts, that the organ occasionally reminded me of a calliope – the music was carnival-like. My friend Judy, who sat next to me, agreed and added that it portrayed the unreal atmosphere that must have prevailed on that terrible day. It left the image of a freak show in my mind – so oddly wrong that people can’t look away; so popular they can’t stop it from happening.

I was so into the routine of the service that during Good Friday's evening service I went up with the Eucharistic ministers instead of waiting my turn with the rest of the congregation. I didn't make it all the way to the alter, thank God. I slid into the front pew hoping no one noticed. Yeah, only 12 people were there. They noticed. The feeling of wanting to be done with church for a week or so lingered through that service (unconnected with with my jumping the gun to get to the bread and body). I felt bad, guilty. Then I realized that Holy week wasn’t supposed to be easy – it certainly wasn’t back in the day – so I relaxed.

Saturday morning’s service was blissfully brief, but Cricket said something that affected me. Basically she gave us permission to be sad, to be disturbed during that time. This fit in with what I realized during Good Friday's service. We tend to look at Holy week as Easter week and, in looking forward to the resurrection, overlook the horror that Christ’s public torture and crucifixion brought on those who knew Him and believed in Him. We don’t like sorrow and fear; we avoid it. But we need to know how to handle it. What better way than in the company of the church and God? What better time than when we have the luxury of knowing the end of the story?

Come Easter Vigil I was just plain tired – vocally, physically and spiritually. The presence of a brass quartet awakened me. I wonder if not attending services when Chris has such fine music as this is not in itself a sin. If sin is separation from God, then it is indeed because God was in this music.

The quartet played again Easter morning. We had a houseful – including 20 or so students from various African countries joining us for the service. Cricket spoke poetically and movingly about stained glass as we all enjoyed beautiful visuals in the church’s windows to accompany her stories. The service ended with Widor’s Toccata from Syphony No 5 – organ plus brass quartet. It was as though a dervish was loosed on the organ. Chris’s fingers flew relentlessly for the six or so minutes it lasted. The melodic punctuations of the brass brought the performance to a grandeur fitting a Cathedral on Easter morning.

I came out of Holy Week hoping to keep the practice of small, occasional services even if I do them on my own. Douglas and I have a Book of Common Prayer, a hymnal, a Lectionary and, of course, a Bible or twelve so I ought to be able to do that. Hopefully in a few months I'll write another blog sharing how spiritually filling it has been to sit at my altar at home and read and sing the services. 

Friends with Benefits

Warning: This may not be about what you think it's about.

As I plod through writing my novel I see some themes – unintentional as well as intentional. One is recognizing that we all live here together for a reason. We do not each inhabit an island or cave alone because we need each other and we are each needed.

I woke up this morning thinking about friends of mine – close and distant – and what I’ve learned from them and in what ways I want to be more like them. I’m going to share some with you in hopes that you will recognize things in your friends worthy of emulating as well as your own characteristics that strengthen those around you.

I’ll begin with my friend Victoria. I met Victoria in Tashkent where she held the position of Community Liaison Officer. Victoria is very social I spent two fun-filled years with her. We often ate out together in large groups. Now I must pause for a confessional. I am not a dainty eater. Douglas and I once ate out at a restaurant where he ordered a chicken salad and I ordered the half pound burger. The back waiter brought our meals, plunked the salad down in front of me and the burger in front of Douglas. “Uh-uh.” I said as I swirled my finger to get him to rearrange the plates. (I ate the entire burger, fries and Pepsi.) I wish I could eat more like Vica. She’ll first take a moment to look at her food, point out this and that to her neighbors then take out her camera to photograph it. My food lands in front of me? My fork is in my hand. Vica will gaze around the table to be sure that everyone is served and will sometimes wait to eat. I go by the old standby that if both your neighbors have food you may eat. She’ll eventually take a bite, often comment and ask how everyone else’s food is. She’ll have another bite then get involved in a conversation. I do more listening when I’m eating. I’m pretty good about not talking with food in my mouth and since there is usually food in my mouth when I’m eating out, I listen. Vica will leave her seat to visit other parts of the table to see how everyone is while her food is sitting on her plate. She’ll chat, return to her seat for a bite, then visit another part of the table for another conversation. It takes Vica 45 minutes to eat what I put down in about 12. I wish I was more like Vica when I eat. Thank you Victoria.

My friend Rachel whom I met in Munich always looks good. She looks her best whenever she goes out. Rachel is not a clothes hound nor does she overdo make up, she just looks good always. She’ll pair unexpected colors or pieces of clothing together and always has at least a small accessory on her. She does not always lug around the same purse. It really doesn’t take that long to look good and I wish I’d take the time to do it. I want to stop thinking “I’m just going to the grocery store” or wherever. It’s best to be consistent. I got busted in Munich after confessing how handsome my neurologist was when I’d put myself together for an appointment, but not to go to the store. Thank you Rachel.

My friend Julie, whom I also know from Munich, is joy walking on earth. Example: I was walking down a new area of town to meet with the Creative Group. I was a little nervous about finding my way, but succeeding when I heard a light sing-songy voice warble my name, “Lau—raaaah!” It was Julie. I was so comforted to be able to walk the rest of the way with her and her voice will ring in my ears and memory for years. If Julie will forgive me I must say that that is not always the best way to get someone’s attention. Julie and I were meeting up with Rachel at some crowded, noisy street even in Munich. We spotted her through the crowd a short distance from us. “Raaa-chelll!” Julie warbled. No good. Rachel couldn’t hear her. “RACHEL! “ I bellowed. That she heard. But back to Julie. She is not artificial nor is she devoid of negative emotion. She sees the proper time for the airing of grievances and sorrows and separates that from the time for relaxing in the company of good friends. There was a time I met up with my friend Karen who had moved away. We missed each other dearly. While we were having lunch she kindly told me that I was so negative that she was having a hard time with it and was worried about me. She was right, I was negative – complaining and noticing everything wrong and pointing it out. I changed after that, but Julie shows me that there is another level I can achieve. Thank you Julie.

Since I’ve mentioned Karen I’ll tell you something else I got from her. Karen has great posture. She’s tall. Many tall people will not carry themselves to their fullest height, but Karen does, it looks good and it rubbed off on me. Thank you Karen.

My friend Calliope is witty. Dorothy Parker witty. Winston Churchill witty. Oscar Wilde witty. And I wish I was. I wish I could recite poetry, conjure up verbal picture with my speech, sing songs with all the lyrics and cast off quotes – and cite them – the way my friend Calliope can. She writes as well as she speaks. Why she’s not published I don’t know. I wish I was as clever with words and had the recall that Calliope has. Thank you Calliope.

My friend Jennifer laughs beautifully. She laughs even when she's heard the joke too many times. She laughs even when it's not that funny. She laughs, I suspect, to let the person know she appreciates their effort and to encourage lighthearted behavior. I'm guilty of repeating favorite stories and jokes so, thanks to Jennifer, I've decided that I can laugh when I hear my family or friends tell me again about the time the cat got stuck in the toilet or whatever. It brings them delight. Jennifer's laugh brings delight and I hope mine can too. Thank you Jennifer.

Sometimes acquaintances and strangers make impressions of me. I’ll see the way someone handles an awkward situation with grace and think, “I can do that!” I was a fan of Walt Richardson and the Morning Star Band when I lived in Phoenix. One night while they were performing some guy jumped up on the stage with a beer and danced around singing into the bottle. Walt didn’t move, he just watched the guy. After about 20 seconds or so the guy jumped down, laughing and pleased with himself. Walt waited to catch his eye. When he did, he simply shook his head and said “Don’t do that, man.” He didn’t say it into a microphone to embarrass the guy, he just said it to him. The guy caused no more problems. How many people would have reacted in frustration or anger? How many would have called for security to remove him? Not Walt. Thank you Walt for setting a good example.

I recently read about a guy who decided to do one good deed a day for a year. I’m ashamed to admit that my first reaction was to roll my eyes. One good deed a day??? Ooohh . . . Then I thought, good for him. Then I thought, I’ll do that. (Thank you stranger.) I’m trying to not do the same good deed every day, though that’s hard as one of my good deeds is to carry a plastic sack with me when I walk to pick up recyclable litter strewn in the streets. I’m hoping to set a good example so that others will. I’m also hoping that those who are lazy and selfish enough to litter will feel guilty seeing me pick it up. The other good deed I’ve decided to do periodically is to visit an elderly neighbor when I’m on my way to the grocery store to see if he needs anything. Picking up the trash is gross, but asking your neighbor if they need anything from the store is easy. Consider yourself challenged, dear readers.

It's Curtains for Me

I've been away for about five weeks, visiting friends, visiting my parents in Phoenix . . .

And now it's curtains.

Douglas and I bought a house in Silver Spring Maryland last October and it has a rather largish bay window with no curtains. Those of you who knew our house in Saint Paul - which we lived in for about twelve years and never hung front room curtains - may be wondering, "What's your hurry, Laura?"

Well, I'll tell you. Douglas and I have been living in effort to consistently raise our standards - eat better, toss out clothes with holes, rid our shelves of pans with missing Teflon, etc. - and as we moved in this house we agreed to certain things, like curtains. There are more, but that should be another blog.

As with most things I procrastinate, instead of actually doing it, I'm philosophizing and writing about it.

I first thought, on the plane on the way home, how odd it is that we live in a society, buy houses only a few yards from other people and instantly set up boundaries to shut ourselves out of this chosen society. We put up fences (I know, I know, it makes good neighbors), we lock our doors (I know) and we hang curtains so no one can see that we are doing the same thing they're doing.

I think the fence thing may have more to do with marking our territory. We can stand back and think, "That's mine." Thank God our husbands don't piss it off any more.

Locking the door, obviously, is too keep our intruders from our inner sanctums.

But are we not in a society because we are needed and need each other? In a good society would we not share what we have with those in need? Of course we would, but on our own terms, not theirs.

I wondered, my first night back in my own bed, if maybe, just maybe the peeping Toms and thieves have it more right than the rest of us. Are we supposed to be this shut off to everyone else?

I remember taking a walk in Florida with my friend Blair. The homes in the neighborhood where we walked were rather grand and sat up on yards with sloping front lawns. Many had their curtains open and lights on. I commented on one room I saw that was lined with bookcases. "That's the kind of room I could really settle into." I then said something about how I shouldn't be peeking in their windows. "No," he corrected me. "They want you to look." And so we talked about what we saw. It was delightful. Voyeurism as a past time was new, so I felt delightfully naughty.

Once in St. Paul, Douglas and I were walking along a similar street and I heard a piano being played. I knew it was live and not a recording so I decided to be bold, encourage the player and knock on the door to tell them how much I enjoyed hearing it as I strolled by. The man looked at me blankly and said, "I was playing Hanon." (Hanon, for you non-piano types is a standard book of very boring exercises.) I was a little embarrassed that I hadn't realized that. Then, in my flustered state, I told him the truth. "It was still nice hearing a piano being played."

So, as we vainly tried to in St. Paul, I must now hunt for front room curtains. In St. Paul Douglas found a curtain merchant (I don't know what to call her) who would bring samples to your home. One of my problems committing to curtains back then was my lack of ability to visualize them in the room. I was excited to see some curtains hung from which we could pick. She arrived with tiny fabric samples, no curtain samples. I lost interest in about five minutes and left poor Douglas to see her out.

My mom asked me if I'm going to buy sheer curtains. I told her I didn't know, then I got all philosophical again. If we hang sheers we can tease people with a veiled look into our lives; if we hang black out curtains we can not only shut ourselves off from the world, but we can shut out the world from our lives. I will say, if there were such a thing as sound proof curtains, that I would be very interested in as we are partially surrounded with yapper dogs.

We are awaiting delivery of a couch and love seat for the front room; perhaps I should wait until they arrive so I can get a better feeling about what would look good hanging in the window. And we really should hang those pictures because they may dictate what color would look best.

So, as per Scarlett O'Hara, "I'll think about that tomorrow." And, just so I'm in good company in my procrastination, Shakespeare: "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day." It will come.

To my faithful readers: As I mentioned, Douglas and I are trying to raise our standards. In keeping with that we are accepting financial donations . . . just kidding. I want to write better so I want your critical input from time to time - not too often. For example, in this blog I wrote short paragraphs. I did this for three reasons: to elicit a laugh (see paragraph #5), to make a point (paragraph #8) and to get you to pause and think (paragraph #13). Was it effective? Was it too choppy?

Is a Rose Still a Rose?

I'm a writer. I like words. I don't have a particularly extensive vocabulary, but I'm working on it. As a writer and lover of words I should probably appreciate etymology a little more. While I find it interesting, sometimes even fascinating, how words come to be, I apparently don't like watching it happen. I'll explain.

I was working on my novel the other day and one of the characters said that she was 'empowered.' I cringed after I wrote that and sat back and considered it. The woman had gained an important lesson and, consequently, life skill from a dream she'd had. She came away from that dream truly empowered. I have new-agey images that come to mind with the word empowered. I see people rolling their eyes and waving their hands in the air, "Oh, she was empowered, was she?"

That's too bad. I kept the word because that's what I meant because that's what she was. When a word is overused, used in the wrong context or is associated with a certain stereotype it loses impact, even definition.

I don't like seeing what is happening to words like appropriate. I'm so aggravated with parents who watch their child hit another child on the head with a sand shovel and say, "Now, Titus, that's not appropriate." Do they know what the word appropriate means? 'Suitable for the situation' is my definition. Just when is it appropriate for little Titus to hit little Carlos over the head with the sand shovel, mommy? Call it what it is: it's mean, it's cruel, it's wrong, it's (gasp) bad.

But we don't like using (truthful) words like that, do we? Oh how we are cheating the coming generations out of a recognition of truth and clear, truthful speech. When adults use words haphazardly like that, they miss out on wonderful teaching opportunities. Teach Titus that, though he is a good boy it is a bad act to hit Carlos on the head with the sand shovel. Why would a good boy like you, Titus, do something like that?

That way, Titus not only learns that he is good, though a living contradiction at times, he learns that good people can do bad things. Maybe mommy hasn't learned this yet.

The next time, and I bet I won't have to wait long, I hear a gay couple introduce each other as "my partner," I'm going to ask, innocently and wide-eyed, "Partners in what?" That ought to bring about some stuttering. Why do they insist on referring to each other as though they are half of a law firm or vaudeville team? Why can't they introduce their lover as their lover? They obviously aren't ashamed of their love since they have come out as a couple. I don't get it.

I'm disturbed at how many times people describe an area hit by a hurricane or earthquake as "a war zone." I'm betting most of those have never been in a war zone. Maybe I'm wrong. I've seen pictures from war zones and earthquakes and, yes, I see how alike the aftermath can look. I just think it's not a good idea to toss out the comparison between man's atrocities in war to nature. I know we like short cuts. We don't want to take the time to say, "houses are leveled, bodies are strewn, cars flipped over into ditches, burned out buildings . . ." I fear we may be missing out on the impact it has had on those who suffered the tornado, or whatever natural disaster. Those people see every bit of the destruction I listed (and more, probably, I don't know) bit by bit with every step they take through their neighborhood. They don't have the luxury of abbreviating anything now. They must collect every body, haul away every piece of debris, rebuild every house. (Instead of that sentence, I almost wrote that they must 'deal with' the aftermath, but that, too would have been an inappropriate shortcut.) Perhaps if we reported more truthfully - what actually - happened we'd have more empathy.  If we're short on time just say, "It was utterly destructive."

I'd like to, even just once, see a sign at a business that, instead of reading "Sorry for the inconvenience" says "Sorry we failed to think ahead." Or, "Sorry we're too dependent on computers, which we know to be are unreliable, and they're down right now ."

The attention-grabber of the month is not usually 'speaking out,' they are being interviewed (likely for pay and a make-over) or relishing their 15 minutes. Speaking out sounds like they have something to contribute that is unknown or hasn't been said. Too many of those people are just on the show for ratings, self-glorification or public pity-party.

Awesome is a word that particularly bugs me. Awesome got popular during the time in my life I was getting serious about God. A skateboard trick is not awesome; God is awesome. A picture your child drew for you is not awesome: a lightening storm is awesome. The home run you just hit is not awesome; an approaching habub is awesome. I love the definition of awe. It's a blend of "reverence, fear and wonder" according to the New World Dictionary. I guess a skateboard trick could be awesome, like the acts in Cirque du Soleil. I still say the word is overused, no - misused.

Since I was raped I take the time to tell people that, no, the bank didn't rape you with all those fees, they charged you or they over-charged you. Know your audience folks when using dramatic language or it has strong unintended consequences.

One more. Discovering that your skirt got caught in the top of your thong undies is not horrifying to you, it's embarrassing. Now if we're talking about me and I've managed to tuck my skirt into my thong and you use the second definition of horrify, "shock or disgust" (again New World Dictionary) then it is indeed horrifying for those who can see it, but not to me. To me it remains to be embarrassing.

I do understand exaggeration, I really do. What I want to know is why isn't being embarrassed strong enough? Why bring horror into it? Actually, I think I have the answer. It's the same reason the word 'excellent' won't do for some, that it must be 'awesome'. And the same reason someone wants to say that being robbed was like being raped. We want to dramatize our experience so we exaggerate. Those exaggerations become overused, popular catch-phrases that others grab at rather than thinking of how to express themselves. We are guilty of a limited vocabulary. And we are not utilizing our creativity in expressing ourselves.

Instead of reverting to 'awesome' (in the above situations), how about 'fabulous' or 'Picasso would be proud,' or 'Just like Al* taught me'.

Instead of saying over-charged, robbed or raped, get clever. I had a friend who miscalculated his expenditures and the bank bounced about a dozen checks. His issue was the order in which the bank bounced them. There was one check for a couple thousand dollars and twelve for under $100 or so. The bank processed the largest check first, in effect emptying the account, then proceeded to bounce - and charge fees on - the rest of them. He called the bank and said, "Do you want me to sing the 'I'm stupid' song? I'll sing the 'I'm stupid' song for you right now." They reversed the charges on all but one. (I don't know what he sang.)

If embarrassing isn't good enough when you find yourself exposed, try "It was like I was open for business." It will be much more meaningful, showing that you can laugh at yourself. And memorable, though there are some things we'd prefer lost in the cosmos of time.

*Alex Rodriguez. For those readers who, like me had I not written this, would have no idea who this is.