Archive for May, 2006
I have always been a list maker. I like the feeling of accomplishment I get when I make a “to-do” list and can line things out as they’re completed. Even better, I like lists with little boxes you can check off as you finish things. Anal, I know. But since I’m the aging queen of multi-tasking, without a list (or several lists), I flounder around as unfocused as a hummingbird.
I returned to the day job today, and found that making a “to-do” list was entirely too overwhelming to even contemplate. Here, I make lists of things I’ve done. Proof that I actually did something. I’ve tried to look positively on this exit experience. I’ve attempted to wrap my brain around the fact that there are some projects, committees or reports that need to be done just one more time, or five more times, or 12 more times. It isn’t helping. When you’re done, you are done.
I’ve always wondered how people who work in factories survive for 25 or 30 years. What must you do to get motivated and be excited and productive at work, when work is the same thing day after day? My natural father worked in an ink factory. I’m not sure how many years, and I know not enough to retire from there, but for many. I’m not even sure what he did there, despite the fact that I once had to do a report in elementary school about “My Father’s Job”. Wow, there’s a dater for you, I’m sure it would be illegal to demand such a thing from children today. For so many, their first question would be “which father?”. Anyway… Dad worked at an ink factory, let’s say putting the lids on the bottles, five days a week, for ten or fifteen years. My father was a musician, he played every windblown instrament. He loved music, and if it was his dream to play in an orchestra or a jazz band, it was a dream boxed up and shelved long before I came along. How did he get through the days without going stark, raving mad?
Perhaps I’m irrisponsible to chase a dream instead of sticking it out here until retirement. It is probably a selfish move that will heap pressure on poor old Papa Bear. But just this once, I don’t care. Once I’ve given it a good, honest, back breaking try… if it’s not working, I’ll happily toddle off to another day job. Even if it means I have to be a Walmart greeter.
Tiny Isobelle, less than a pound and small enough to fit in a teacup, has completely immasculated my dog. Since her arrival late last night, he has stalked, barked, paced, barked and barked at this tiny kitten, until he’s made himself sick and all the humans crabby. Isobelle is the picture of calm control. It is only when he gets close enough that she can feel his hot breath blowing back her silky fur that she attacks. Tiny claws aimed right for his vulnerable nose. Watching them this morning reminds me of the relationship between men and women. Like Isobelle, we usually know when to pick our battles, and we usually win.
Pap and the Bean made the long drive to Eastern Ohio yesterday. Reconnaisance to insure the grand girls Mom really did have a house. They’re supposed to spend the summer with her. It’s a shame my oldest talks better fiction than I write. When small lives are in the balance, I prefer facts.
We are funny creatures. In a phone call finalizing plans for a family visit, my sister-mom said to me ” Kar wanted me to be sure and tell you she got fat. She didn’t want you shocked when you saw her…” Who of us hasn’t gotten fat since the last time we all saw each other? But that isn’t what makes us funny. When I did see her, I saw the same girl I grew up with. The younger sister-niece. I remember a trip to Cal Expo when we were little kids. Kar was sitting on the edge of a fountain looking off into the distance. She was about 4 or 5, so tiny and sweet you wanted to hug her all the time. She had this head full of curls to her shoulders. On that day, she was sitting so still on that concrete edge, big blue eyes dancing in her little face, the sun glistening and sparkling in her amazing hair like a halo of stars. Even at 9, I remember losing my breath at the sight of her. Sister-Mom was standing beside me and also watching her. She says “Well, I guess I really did get that girl’s hair clean.” Isn’t that just like a hairdresser! Kar was always a sweet, nice girl. I wish I would have been a better sister to her. Now she is a bright, articulate, sweet, strong woman.
I’ve been so long away from my family, I forget how much we are alike. In our book preferances, morals and standards. I miss them, I miss having a spot in the family line-up. I miss having a crowd around that talks about the same things I’m interested in. It’s not that I feel out of place. I’m a bit of chameleon and can fit almost anywhere. But there really is “no place like home”. In my case, “home” is always people. I would like to be closer to Oregon, to watch Lindsay starting college and getting ready to be a teacher. To see Zach finishing up High School and turning into a man. I wish I was next door to California so I could spend some real time with Haley and Tyler. Have lunch with sister-mom, debate with Ben. But I want my kids and husband there too. We’re a strange family, since the depression, we just can’t seem to stay together. Spread across the United States like dandelion fluff, we’ve learned to plant roots, but never in the same field.
Yesterday I spent the entire day in the yard. That is one of my favorite kind of days, nothing else to do but dig in dirt and heave things around the yard. I love the immediate gratification of seeing the winter ravaged flower beds turned back over to rich brown earth and then carpeted with colorful flowers. This year it’s snapdragons, marigolds, red rockets and raspberry freeze. Some droopy blue viny things and some round leaved tall blue things. I never care what anythings called, I pick flowers at the nursery by shape and color, read where they should be planted and name them something else. By the end of the day, with the mulch in place, my arms tingling with sunburn and my back aching with muscle strain, I feel like I’ve really done something. I’m reminded that I’m okay.
The process of “getting the yard in order” is different from “taking care of the yard”. I take care of the yard every day. Stolen moments watering, trimming, mowing or picking at something. Twice a year I put things to rights. Once in spring when it’s the season of new beginnings, and then in fall when I try to prepare it for the long freeze ahead. My best life planning is always done in the garden.
I am an overachieving lazy person. I know, it makes no sense. But, it does. I’m great at starting things… formulating a long term plan, tirelessly plotting out the details, but then, the follow through sucks. I think I drive people crazy with this behavior. But because I’m a good talker, no one would dare tell me I’m driving them crazy. They just stop contributing, stop calling, stop e-mailing. Princess is the single exception to this trend. But then, she’s also an overachieving lazy person, so it doesn’t count.
Memorial Day weekend coming up, the annual running of the Indianapolis 500. Sister-Mom and Ben-Dad are flying in with Kar and the kids before they go to the race. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the family, so of course I’m freaking out. The house has to be clean, the yard has to be perfect, the dog has to be on his best behavior. The day job has to be put in order so time off can be taken, two books to edit, and Papa Bear still under the weather with his leg surgery. If I were just an over achiever, I’d be spending this time I’m writing about the things that need done, scouring the house. I’d rise at dawn tomorrow to sweep the deck, water the flowers and put the mulch in the rose bed before work at 8. From 8 to 4 I’d slave away wittling down my “in” box at the day job, and even skip lunch. From 4 until dark I’d mow the grass, plant the rest of the flowers, feed the fish, walk the dog and try to get the garage organized enough to close the door. From dark until I dropped from exhaustion I’d get the laundry done while finishing the editing on one book and the newsletter. But… I’m an overachieving lazy person. So chances are none of this will happen.
A new “stress-relief” book by David L. Mocknick of Philadelphia, called “Who’s Fred, Ha!” (described in December in New York’s Newsday), prescribes a game based on the German name Frederick, which Mocknick said has curative powers. A stressed person listens out in public for words that rhyme with Fred, and hearing one (e.g., dead), he says, “Dead! Fred! Who’s Fred, ha!” And that makes him feel better, says Mocknick. An accompanying CD suggests versions of the game based on double Freds or Freds with clues (“What’s thermometer liquid called?” “Mercury.” “Freddie Mercury (the late singer)! Who’s Fred, ha!”) [Raleigh News & Observer-Newsday, 1-9-06]
The fact that this technique exists is not the least surprising to me. That people believe it, buy the book and practice it, makes me shake my head in disbelief. Oh duh.
Authorgeddon: (adj) Term describing that moment in time when the number of people writing books exceeds the number of people who read books. It is projected that this will happen in 2052.
I found this term on a surfing expedition and thought nothing of it until the morning news today. A perky reporter was enthusiastically enlightening us on a program that is teaching dogs to read. Only single words right now: speak, roll, sit. But hey, with a little work, I’m sure we could use this to combat the devastating result of an authorgeddon. If people are going to give up reading anywhere but the internet, then we writers have no choice but to branch out into the animal kingdom. Princess stories for Poodles, Lake stories for Labradors. Why stop with dogs? Goldfish have a memory span of 15 minutes, sell them one book and you’re good for another sale before your sitcom has wrapped up.
People crack me up. We get goofy and obsessive over the simplest things.