A Toast To Bay Blossom

The easiest way to look at it is that a house is just a structure. It is simply a mass of wood, electrical wiring and roofing material. No big deal really. A flood can saturate it, a hurricane can cause severe damage and a tornado can decimate it. It is after all, a man-made dwelling for the purpose of protecting against the elements, as much as that is possible to accomplish. What are most often overlooked is the other aspects of a human dwelling.

This house has seen many milestones over the course of the last eight years. It has witnessed laughter, tears, triumphs, disappointments, growth, friendship and hardship, just to name a few. The first thought is that this man-made structure is being given human characteristics which it doesn’t possess. It has nothing to do with the house, but everything to do with myself and the others of us who have lived and passed through this home.

I stand outside of this place and see things that most people don’t and can’t see. I see Christmas decorations and Halloween dressing. I see friends streaming through the door to attend a Hawaiian theme party. I see friends coming in for a cook out and back yard bon fire. I see my beautiful daughter in front of the fireplace taking pictures for prom. I see my handsome son as laid back as ever in the recliner enjoying a game or movie. I see my wonderful Roberto working to replace the living room flooring with tile as a gift to me. I see many, many meals abundant with friends and family. I see games being played and birthdays celebrated. I even see the people who have visited who are no longer with us. I see Sunday afternoon Football with a room full of hearty fans rooting for their beloved Panthers while delicious smells waft from the kitchen or backyard grill. I see giggling girls working on their hair and determined guys preparing to go fishing or returning with their catch of the day. I feel the warmth of the wood fire in the fireplace. I see hopeful hands working on tiny gardens or planting trees they can’t wait to see grow and flourish.

I see things from the heart, because the heart is the only thing that gives me hope. So when I face the prospect of leaving the one place that I could truly make my own, could mess up, clean up or fix up as I pleased, could welcome the masses or sit back in quiet peace and enjoy, it touches me deeply. It was meant to be my ultimate accomplishment; to provide a place of stability for myself and my children. It was meant to be my open-hearth and opportunity to welcome loved ones in to feel comfortable and for my tiny family to feel they had a home. It saddens me to face the prospect of having that diminish. However, I understand that all of this does not end with the end of this one structure. I also understand that this structure had nothing to do with the feelings, love and laughter it contained. That having been said, I cannot simply look back on leaving this house without feeling that something is coming to an end. All of us who live here will spread out and take different courses as well, we all should. There comes a time when that should happen I suppose. My difficulty in dealing with this change is not that I don’t want my children or loved ones to grow but that this one nucleus where we all sought and found refuge, safety and comfort must now be disbanded.

For everything, there is a season. I will always love this place. It is the one time and place in my life that I worked to obtain, and make into something I could be proud of. It had nothing to do with the structure. I was proud to offer a place where people who loved me and who I loved were happy and comfortable to be. If nothing else should come of this experience, I would hope that it would be that those who shared my home or who enjoyed visiting it will want to provide the same for themselves and to those they love. With everything that ends, so too something new begins.

Here’s a toast to new beginnings! Here’s to the love, respect and appreciation for what was. Here’s to Bay Blossom, not to the structure itself, but for the times we had there, the accomplishment of having gotten there and for the courage to go on! Salute’!

The Politically Forgotten

You know me best for my mindless prattle. I enjoy it and most often use it as a sort of comic (though sometimes introspective) relief.  It is generally a brief vacation, if you will, from the more worrisome and depressing news stories and personal situations which have settled over this country like a wet blanket. On occasion I’ll depart from that format and write about something which stirs me more strongly. This is one of those occasions, so if you prefer not to participate in it I’ll bid you fair warning to leave me now.

Yesterday I attended a workshop at the Employment Security Office here in town. You will be delighted to know that this arm of the government has been handed over to the NC Commerce Department which dutifully and quickly renamed this branch DWS, The Division of Workforce Solutions. How’s that for a positive outlook?

Sitting in a conference room with about twenty other people, I took a moment to be observational. That’s nothing new for me, I’ve always been a people watcher.  Amid the somber faces, down trodden expressions, and fearful atmosphere one thing stood out immediately. The majority of my group were women in the age range of 45-64 (guesstimates to be sure, but much of this would later be confirmed in an informal conversation) 6 or 7 men were in attendance, 3 of whom I would gage younger and the others in the upper age brackets.

The workshop  carried on informing of us of new regulations and requirements set forth by the DWS and schooled us on how work search efforts were to be handled and documented. We were then left to be called each for a 1 on 1 meeting to review our lists and check our individual statuses. It was at this time that today’s topic was drawn to my attention.

At a round table, consisting of myself and 4 other women, we began to chat about the workshop and its implications and of course our personal circumstances and experiences in this land of the unemployed or under employed. At this point I was the youngest in the group by probably no more than a few years, but the stories were terrifying.

With resounding confidence everyone at the table listed their biggest problem in obtaining gainful employment to be age.  Lady A recounted her story of constant interviews for positions she was qualified for only to be told she was over qualified, over educated, blah, blah. In exasperation, she recently looked at an interviewer and asked to be told what they thought her difficulty was in being given an opportunity. She actually received an honest answer which was that her age was an issue. With so many young college graduates entering the job markets, and 20- 30 something’s looking for work they were inclined to lean towards the younger workforce.

Lady B added that without doubt, it was an issue and if you showed up for an interview only to be seated with a roomful of younger applicants, you might as well turn around and walk out the door. You wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. She then added that she was attending Community College with a group of 25 women who were all currently unemployed and within our age range, and all had been unemployed for six months or more.  Out of the group, only one had found employment…with her husband’s company.  They often talked about their job search and interview processes with pretty much the same tales and experiences to recount.

Lady C interjected that on her street, 6 women had been laid off over the past 4 to 6 months, all within the same age range, 3 of which resided in her cul-de-sac. Two have since found out their former positions were replaced by as many as 3 people, dividing her job duties and being paid far less in total than she had been paid. She added that she herself had been employed with one company for over 15 years and had brought millions of dollars into their bottom line through the course of her employment and was confident she had been aged and salaried out of the workplace.

I asked why they thought (beyond the more obvious answers) that age was proving to be a hardship within the job search. We had all been told initially that employers were eagerly seeking more stable, dependable and experienced workers so that age should actually be an asset.  The primary reasons everyone gave were the economy in general and the looming healthcare laws.  Younger workers are eager to take positions and will willingly do so for far less salary scales than employers believe older workers will be satisfied with. One lady was told that they felt she was so over qualified for the job that they felt hiring her would be a waste of their time and money as she would most likely exit to the first opportunity for a higher salary elsewhere.  Everyone felt that  employers at large are thinking far more about their labor costs in the immediate return than production and return for the long run due to the sluggish economy.

They also felt that Obama care from an employer’s standpoint could be influencing their decisions for employing older workers, being concerned about health implications. At the very least, they were sure that if this was an issue, employers were holding off for the Presidential election to get a better determination of what might be in store.  Also in unison, they felt that older women are perceived to be far more likely to have health concerns than older men.

As one by one, we were called in my table dwindled down to myself and Lady D. As we continued the chat, we were discussing personal difficulties and dealing with the stresses of job loss. Lady D was in the early sixties range and was terribly distraught. Tears came into her eyes as she explained that she was having a difficult time coping. She said she cried constantly and felt terrible about her circumstance, even more so when her three-year old grandson tried to comfort her. I mentioned difficulty in trying to hold onto the mortgage and this prompted a laugh from her. She had long since lost her home and at this point was struggling to simply hold on to her cell phone.

Our portion of the population and the voting public clearly has a different set of worries and issues. As women, we are largely past the point of being concerned about contraceptives and the cost of these things, though we still may have concerns for our daughters in life and in the broader spectrum of “sisterhood”. But we have now lost the luxury of being overly concerned about them, and are forced to face our own daily issues of life. We aren’t talked about in the political forum, but boy do we exist. We are not retirement age and/or are not ready or wanting to retire. We are viable women who have knowledge and expertise. We are not seeing ourselves as being lumped into the senior set whose only concern is health care and social security. Of course we’re concerned about those things, but we have a much broader set of problems to work through.

Of those who had some sort of retirement plan, savings, 401-K etc., it has already been depleted in an effort to sustain life in the big picture. There is no tomorrow in that picture, there is simply one day at a time at this point. While acknowledging that the woman who questioned women’s rights in the workplace during last night’s Presidential debate, had concerns of her own, the responses were vague or referred only to those women who have young children.  While that is understandable it still leaves an ever-growing portion of the population without consideration.

What are we to do? We are considered “over” everything…qualified, educated, aged, past-salaried etc. Yet we are not old enough or ready, or prepared for retirement.  More than this, we have no voice. We are not of a demographic which garners attention or need for it in the fierce political foray inundating us all at the moment.

That being said, by and large, we are also not made of the kind of material which simply dissolves. We are from an era and a generation which believes a way can be made, somehow. Perhaps circumstances of these times has been what has caused us to fear more now than we ever have before.  For most of us, however, simply giving up is not an answer and giving in to the fear and uncertainty, not an option.

For this reason I have termed us the Politically Forgotten, but it doesn’t stop there. The “Politically” portion can be replaced by “Employment”,  “Respected” or any number of valid situations.  We’ve fallen into a bit of a black hole at the moment, but most of us won’t tarry or languish there.  We may have been Politically Forgotten, but rest assured we have not Forgotten, Politically!

 

So’s My Truck!

A moment of enlightenment passed between myself and my boyfriend the other day. Perhaps I should say I was enlightened. He just spoke from the hip. I won’t give you the subject matter, content or sway of the conversation, only the part of it which set me thinking. There are various reasons for that, but in large part it makes it more interesting if I don’t go into detail. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

After a rousing conversation filled with lively banter, each making our own points, he stopped me in my tracks. My statement was “Honey, I’m not a young girl anymore. I’m older now.”  Without missing a beat he promptly replied “So’s my truck and it runs great!” I stared at him blankly for a few seconds noting the sparkle in his eyes and the grin that was playing around the corners of his mouth. When I could hold it no more I burst into huge gales of laughter. We both did. We’ve shared that joke a few times since but you know me, of course it became something to look into more deeply.

This is what I’ve surmised. Consider a man’s old pick up truck. It has a few dings here and there, the windshield might be cracked and the paint job wearing thin. It most likely needs new tires and a front end and  rear end alignment.  It doesn’t always crank on the first try and sometimes needs a little coaxing to get it going. In order to keep it running well, it needs a little more tender loving care and attention. Everything needs to be checked out a little more often and engine parts repaired or replaced to keep it humming along.  It just ain’t what it used to be on the outside or inside for that matter.

When a man sits inside his pickup, the seat is well-worn with his own personal butt imprint. It’s comfortable. The seat is always just where he left it along with the position of the steering wheel. A man’s truck is his castle on wheels. He can be himself. He jumps in without knocking the dirt off his boots if he wants to. He can drive along at complete ease and perform whatever socially unacceptable actions he likes, from gaseous eruptions to nose cleaning. The old truck just chugs along. He can leave his coffee cup there for days and throw water bottles on the floor and track dirt all in it without a care in the world. The radio is always tuned to his favorite station, though it’s known to sputter and the volume to increase or lower without warning on occasion but he doesn’t really mind. It works in the long run.

Another great attribute of the old truck is that it’s sturdy. How many times have you heard him say “they just don’t make ’em like that anymore”. Of course he’s right. Those old trucks have been through a lot and are still out there running the road with all those big tricked out newer models, doing the same job and in a lot of cases, a better one. They can hold just about anything he throws in it and even if the motor groans or strains, it will carry that heavy load all the way to its destination.

Maybe the best thing about a man’s old pickup is the fact that she’ll take him just about anywhere he wants to go. A good old truck will go down dirt roads, pull a boat, tramp around a swamp, heave around the beach or riverside, get him to the job site, carry his tools, hunting or fishing gear and still make it downtown for a fancy dinner or night out if that’s where he wants or needs to go. That old truck is dependable. He can always count on it.

If it stands out on a crowded street it’s most likely because of the work it needs rather than the sleek, shiny and tricked out newer versions riding along in traffic with it. Sure, he’ll turn his head to admire those nice new trucks with their beautiful design and sparkling paint glistening in the sun. It will cross his mind to wonder how good it runs and what’s under the hood. That’s just natural. But eventually his mind will get around to thinking about what it would cost to buy and maintain a newer model and what he’s heard about the dependability of it.  He’ll lean over then and give the dashboard of the old truck a loving pat and tell her what a good old girl she is. Remember that an old truck is a classic. With a good scrubbing, buffing and waxing, she can manage to sparkle a little too and in the process some of that rough exterior and blemishes can be toned down and not so noticable. Yep, she can look good too, sometimes.

Another man might pull up beside him at a stoplight who is sporting a nice new truck. He might look over at the old truck and shake his head, but if he has any experience in life at all, he’ll secretly wish he had one too that he could go anywhere with, rather than worry about scratching up a paint job or getting stuck in the mud. Men like a truck they can be real in, be themselves and be comfortable in. In a perfect world that all-purpose vehicle would be brand new and shiny too, but it just doesn’t usually work that way.

So when you consider all the attributes of a good old pickup truck, being compared to one isn’t such a bad thing at all. It might just tell you a little more about your relationship than you first thought. I might long for the days when I was a shiny new pickup of racy design, but I sure do enjoy all the fun of being a dependable heap that has a blast in the process! If this particular perception isn’t right on target, I’ll just continue to pull the choke out and tell myself that this is all the right way to see it! That’s what makes my engine run smoother!

The Lawn

At dawn, the sun rises over the battlefield. The enemy is laid bare, exposed and unprotected. There is no time to waste, I must act quickly. After preparing for hand to hand combat, I am ready. Sneakers tied securely, tank top, shorts, sunscreen, sunglasses and hat are all donned or applied and I am ready to face the enemy. I take a deep breath, put on my best commando face complete with stern brow fixing and step into the back yard, hands on hips. The tall weeds shiver in terror at my approach. Well okay, maybe it’s the slight morning breeze but I prefer to see it this way.

For quite some time, the neighbors have allowed me a certain unspoken grace for the disaster that is my lawn. After all, a single mother of two kids and very busy manager of a hotel, they understood. However, I’ve been out of work for about two weeks now and they have figured out that I am not on vacation and this appears to be a more permanent arrangement. Now the friendly waves and hellos have been reduced to slight nods of the head followed by blatant stares at my lawn. To make matters worse, I could always count on the guy next door who may have run a lawnmower over his lawn twice a season and even then half-heartedly. He made even me look good! The neighbors across the street were about in the same boat with two little babies and work schedules of their own to juggle. But next door guy got some sort of bee in his bonnet at the beginning of the season and I was completely dismayed to see contract landscapers hard at work. Suddenly there was laid in sod, vegetable and flower patches, nice shrubs and even a rain barrel catch for irrigation. The nerve! As if that wasn’t enough of an insult, the young family across from me got in on the act and now there is a landscaper toiling away over there. Curses, foiled again! Unable to afford the cost of a landscaper in my now nonexistent financial state (not that I could even when employed) I am faced with the daunting task of taking care of this myself. The tall grass and weeds have taken over to the point that when I let the dogs out in the morning they simply disappear from view. I can’t be sure they are able to accomplish their business because I just can’t blooming see them anymore. I’m forced to assume they have when I can see the weeds billowing a little path with their approach and then watch them emerge and saunter back onto the back porch.

Now determined and prepared there is only one thing which stands in my way. That would be the beast. This is the rusted, faded element worn machine that sits in the middle of the back yard where it has been for several months now. I can see the handlebars clearly enough but the rest of the thing is pretty much enveloped by the weeded monstrosity. With one deep breath I march over to the beast, firmly plant my foot on the frame, prime a few pumps then aggressively pull on the cord. It is laughing at me. So help me the sound that comes out is: hahahhahhahha…….sputter….sputter….sputter. I try again, same response. I check the gas, the filter and the spark plugs. All seems well to me, but what do I know? As beads of sweat build up on my brow I assume the position and try again…and again….and again. The beads are now full-blown tsunami’s washing over my face arms and entire body. Beast be damned! I try again, more forcefully now and still a few times more. The beast sits quiet and defiant

I retreat to the porch and down the bottled water of reinforcements waiting there for me. That helps but not the sore arms and aching back. The weeds now fairly twitter with joy. A smell of triumph rises from the beast in the form of its gas flooded engine. Retreating further still, I return to the air-conditioned comfort of home base and contemplate the matter. After some thought it occurs to me that weeds and grass are living things in nature. Can’t we all just get along? Why should they be persecuted and eradicated? I’m sure they were here long before humans were after all. In fact, some of them are rather lovely with bright little yellow flowers or wispy, willowy snow-capped balls. I think I’ve stumbled on something here. I will just present my case for nature to my neighbors and they will see the light, understand that they are doing a horrible injustice to a once proud and viable product of nature. I will be the savior of the weeds and turn wicked wrong doing into peaceful living harmony. That might buy me two weeks. By that time maybe I can either scrape up the money to repair the beast or pay the kid down the block to come take care of it. I’m going back to bed.

The Emergency of Nursery Rhyme Proportions

I recently posted a tongue-in-cheek remark on Facebook to remind those who share my household with me to round-up wayward cups and glasses and forks and return them to the kitchen. The post proclaimed an emergency of Nursery Rhyme proportions for it had appeared the drinking glass had run away with the fork. This set me to thinking.  The Dish and Spoon have been cavorting around for generations. This we know even from childhood. It would only stand to reason then that the other utensils and dinnerware, left to their own devices would eventually take a shine to one another. This called for further inspection.

In my case, the dishes have settled down and remained rather loyal. Teaspoons and sugar spoons however are of a sneaky sort and have managed to slowly slip away. I determined this was due in large part to the fact that they were well covered by their elders, the soup spoons and tablespoons. Those being larger in shape and size and of less demand in my household  were able to camouflage the fact that the little ones were slowly becoming of short supply. This then led to an inspection of knives. Those are most certainly of gypsy heritage.

Any knife with a sharp or serrated edge was missing from their places. No matter how you might spoil them by giving them their own special place of residence such as a butcher’s block or individual sheafs, own personal drawer etc., they will not be satisfied. Their destiny is to travel. They have been known to take over the job of their odd cousins, the scissors (who are never wont to stay put) and thereby make their way to various and sundry sections of the house, yard and boats. Once they have traveled to a far-flung destination, they are rarely returned until or unless some bored soul is taking up a deep cleaning or looking for something else and stumble upon them (more likely the case).  The sharp knife’s brother is the butter knife. Rarely used for its real purpose, the butter knife has come to think of itself as a tool and continues to suffer under that delusion. It travels to any location where a flathead screw can be found in need of adjusting and there will remain.

The fork is a complete enigma. It can only be determined that it has a wanderlust. The fork can travel to the far reaches of a bedroom in the middle of the night or scattered around the living room, especially during Football season. Having reached a location, it tends to slip away to sometimes be found underneath a chair or in the corner of a bedroom in fruitless attempts at escape. However, the rapid fire manner in which forks have been leaving the kitchen is rivaled only by the drinking glass. This led to my conclusion that they are in cahoots.

The drinking glass is by far the number one violator and should the fork be seeking escape, could pick no better accomplice. Glasses are criminals. I have actually watched them walk out my front door in quite bold and brazen fashion. Despite my cries for return or threats of the consequence, they continue on their way without a care in the world. I can understand how the fork would be impressed. These drinking vessels are the true world-class travelers, and adventurous sort,  and go in style. They take long and short car rides. They visit various work places. They are known to travel on boats and take long walks. Glasses enjoy a good party, though often left outside to the forces of nature or found precariously perched on a mantle piece or languishing on a bathroom sink, forgotten and forlorn. Clearly they enjoy video games as well. After all these exhausting activities, they do need their rest and are most often found in sleeping quarters in large groups, some left with a vestige of beverage still and others completely spent laying on their sides in the throes of death. They do lead a dangerous life. Many will perish, broken or cracked. Others will be left to roll around in vehicle floors and boat decks, unwanted, ignored and imprisoned under beds or worse, shivering in the grass and sprinkled with dirt in the back yard. Cheap reinforcements are brought in constantly, but alas they all leave eventually, unable to stay put. It is their very nature.

After my son walked in the house returning the lost jars of peanut butter and jelly, I was intrigued to consider the pantry. True as I said, the food was also making a run for it. You can always count on canned tomatoes and any type of bean, as well as most types of vegetables to remain loyal. Though spices may make their way to the backyard grill on occasion, by and large they are not ones to wander off. Bread however, will lead a tragic existence. Though it has been known to leave in bulk, it is most likely left with the end pieces and those other pieces closest to it, to grow hard, edgy and mold covered. It has to constantly be monitored. Canned soups, pastas and the like never stay the course.

The refrigerator is a burial ground. For some odd reason, when a bottle of ketchup reaches near the end or one swallow is left in a juice container, it is abandoned. Anything with just a drop left will be branded a pariah and left in their weakened states to simply die until I make my way in to give them proper burials. Leftovers suffer the worst fate. Once wrapped in shiny tinfoil or placed in neat little plastic containers it is akin to a burial shroud. Leftovers are shown no respect and get pushed and jockeyed to far corners where they become forgotten and left to rot. Any kind of luncheon meat will suffer a quick death, along with their freezer counterparts, pizza and french fries. Pickles, olives, salad dressings, barbecue and steak sauces will retain their places near the back of the structure and serve only to keep the refrigerator company and give it a false sense of security. Fruits will suffer a horrible fate along with their counter parts, fresh vegetables. They will languish for days until someone comes across their shriveled appearance in disgust at which point they are merely complained about, but rarely given a proper send off. Any type of drinking beverage is a dead man walking. If it survives a day, it can be considered elderly.

In defense of the utensils and dinnerware making a getaway, maybe they are just trying to get home. After all they are most often left in the drainer in a bleak society where these different cultures are forced to exist together in morbid despair. It is rare that they are properly returned to their rightful places of birth and natural that they should rebel. It’s only fair to consider the circumstance when accusing household items of dessertion.

Finally, as in my Facebook post, with all of this condemnation of wayward kitchen occupants, there are those who deserve a commendation, praise and to be uplifted as examples to those who would revolt. My final perusal of this society left me to come to rest on some items of the house which always remain in place, most often untouched and rarely regarded with respect. So today I am honored to award the Mop, Broom, Dishrag, Dustrag and Lawnmower the distinguished Household Medal of Valor. These are the heads of state and military affairs of the household. Those trusty items will never leave, nor will they be persuaded to. They stand at the ready to serve and perform their duties, though sadly are rarely called upon. Their steadfast companions and army of cleaning chemicals and supplies also receive sound recognition for their support and allegiance.

Consider your inanimate household today. It is indeed a world unto itself which receives little to no respect from the human society  with which it shares its very existence.

Valentine’s Day Hangover

We’ve all heard the term. I myself heard it on the radio. Although it was two days ago, I’m still hearing about it. Why?? My opinion of the “holiday” is that it was hyped up to create a marketing blitz for merchandisers as a remedy for the proverbial Christmas hangover. Yes, I know there is a Saint in there somewhere along with a history but that has been long forgotten amid all the exploitation. In seeing all the commercials, talk shows, tweets, posts and everything leading up to this event as well as all the gushing during and after I wound up actually feeling a little sorry for men. There, I said it.

When it comes to things like this a lot of men (I didn’t say all) are forced into romanticism. This is one of the first reasons I’m not a fan of this media overkill event. What is romantic about being obligated to be romantic?? If you’re going to be romantic, you’ll do it whenever you darn well get the urge or not at all. But this is the day that men are expected to turn into Don Juan and sweep you off your feet. Women all over the country woke up Tuesday morning feeling expectant. Tell the truth. You EXPECTED to get a “surprise” that day. Yes, I’m a woman too but I’ve been over Valentines Day a very long time. I do remember how it was eons ago however.

For some guys this is easy. Shell out a few hundred bucks for the roses, the candy, teddy bear or sad eyed stuffed dog followed up with dinner. You wake up the next day satisfied that you pulled it off while reaching for your wallet which is now considerably lighter. Not a lot of creativity there, but easy enough and it gets the job done. I’ll bet you didn’t know that you could get through  this heartless day  with equal or better results while spending little to no money. Before I continue understand that I’m not speaking for all women. If you have a blood sucking, money grudging, center of attention kind of gal on your hands, you had better stick with plan A above times ten. Lavishing the Vampiress with expensive tokens, special deliveries and five star restaurants is your only option. If you’re that guy and she’s your girl you can stop reading right now. Nothing that follows will help you in any fashion.

Okay, so we’ve all seen Pretty Woman. We’ve all thought how nice it would be to be treated like a queen, prance along Rodeo Drive buying anything our little hearts desired, being whisked away on an airplane and out of the country for dinner and having our knight in shining armour deliver us from the societal dregs in that trusty white steed of a limo. Or how about having him march into that grubby factory where we’re slaving away at an oily dirty machine and having him literally whisk our sweaty smelly behinds into his arms and carry us out of our misery while the rest of the jealous women applaud? Damn. Richard Gere makes it really tough on a guy. So you may have seen a few of us whimper or shed a tear during An Officer and a Gentleman or Pretty Woman, it’s not what you think. We’re just pissed that Debra Winger and Julia Roberts got to have all that fun. How many women have I heard say “Now why couldn’t that be me?” even though we knew in reality that never happened to a single living woman on earth and I don’t know too many who were willing to go work in a dingy factory to try to make it happen. I’m not even going there on the whole Pretty Woman thing. Plenty of women sell themselves for baubles, they just aren’t honest about it.

The point is, that real women (Vampiress and Gold Digger aside) can easily buy into a little romanticism and it doesn’t have to cost you a lot of money. Sometimes, no money at all. Women want to be recognized, they want attention and most of all they want to know that you’re thinking about them when you’re not around them. They want to believe that you truly understand and know them. If you listen and watch them, you should know what they truly like. Some women’s favorite flower is indeed a red rose and that’s fine. For others of us, it’s over the top cliché. For instance, my favorite flower is a weed. Really. It grows wild along the ditchbank behind my house and sometimes creeps into my back yard. It fascinates me because it only blooms at night. When it blooms, each blossom is a huge billowy white wonder and when the weed grows really large there may be a mass of a dozen or more of them. I have no idea what the true name of it is but I call it a Night Flower. If you’ve known me for any length of time you will at some point have heard me describe it or perhaps show you a picture. If you’ve been paying attention at all and you want to get me a flower you would know how impressed I was to realize that you had not only listened but filed it away for just this moment.

Hand writing a letter is something else that I find impressive. I’m  not talking about typed and emailed. I’m talking about that archaic form of communication, that lost art of putting pen in hand and words to paper. It shows that you invested your time and made it very personal. You don’t have to be a poet or award-winning author. It doesn’t have to be pages long. It need only be personal, authentic and heartfelt. You can choose a card that you like, but do us a favor and write something in it besides your name. Okay so you let Hallmark do the talking, we can deal with that and appreciate that you even walked in the store but at least write something in it.

Humor is not a bad way to go either. A lot of guys miss that.Kudos to my daughters boyfriend. Okay so he sent the obligatory red roses but he made up for it with the box of cupcakes. Why? For starters he lives in California and she in North Carolina at the moment. When he was here with her there was a sort of inside joke about a local cupcake bakery. I don’t know all the details but here’s the clincher. He remembered that silly little thing and went out of his way to contact the florist and have her pick up the cupcakes from that specific little local bakery. Brilliant! She broke into a big smile when she saw the flowers but an absolute belly laugh when she saw the box of cupcakes. Her eyes even teared up a little. It was endearing. He made it personal and made her feel that he cherished even the small, funny little moments of time that he had spent with her.

If for some reason, you decide on jewelry. Here is the number one thing you MUST do: pay attention to her. For instance I wear white gold or sterling silver. I rarely wear gold. In fact I know someone who is allergic to gold. Talk about sending the wrong message! Giving someone gold who doesn’t like it or God forbid is allergic is the absolute worse thing you can do. You’d be better off to walk up and say “I have no idea who you are.” Although I like a lot of gemstones and have very few, you should have heard me say by now that I would love to have a black diamond and that I adore emeralds! Of course we’ll appreciate whatever you have gone out of your way to bring us, but nothing is more wonderful than to know that someone has paid attention enough and truly wanted..to know me.

A lot of you guys think wowing a woman is complex. It is actually very easy. You just need to pay attention. If your woman is a workaholic and/or mother. Take care of the kids get them to sleep, send her off to a bubble bath with a glass of champagne while you cook dinner for just the two of you. For most of us, it can be just that simple. I’ll even tell you a secret. I spent Tuesday night at the ER. Yep, my boyfriend was feeling terribly ill so that was necessary. Now I would find it hilarious if next year on Valentines he picked me up, picnic basket in hand and drove me over to the waiting room at Cape Fear Memorial. Damn, I’m a special chick.

Finally, if you REALLY want her to know how you feel, then do one or more of these things or any personal thing throughout the year. NOT just Valentine’s or her birthday or Christmas. Just pick a random day, weekend, week…whatever…and make it yours and hers. And to any ladies out there who might have read this: whether you agree or disagree with anything I’ve said, know this: you should not only expect to receive but to give as well. Maybe he’d be floored by tickets to the big game or whatever it is that trips his trigger.  Just be real, people. It’s that simple.

Now maybe I can get over this hangover and move on. There’s plenty of other things to bitch about far more worthy.

 

Snack,Squat,Live

Though I put it off for quite some time, I finally watched Eat,Pray,Love the other night. I have not read the book. While I found the movie trailer compelling and interesting, I was also put off by it. Now why on earth would I feel that way? Mark it down to simple jealousy. Who among the broke population of the meagerly employed or completely unemployed  has the financial status and time to go explore the world in order to find themselves? Good for Liz that she did and for anyone else out there who does. Trust me, if I only had the money I would be half way through my journey by now. But that begs the question, what do women who don’t have the same opportunity do when they wake up one morning and realize they have lost their passion for almost anything in life? I’ve thought about it in-depth and believe I have the answers.

SNACK

One of the first things that seemed to peak her interest in her journey to realize her passions and self-awareness was to comprehend the lilt of another language and appreciate the taste of food again. I applaud her choice in Italy. Of course having a boyfriend of eight years who grew up in Italy and spending a great amount of time with him and his family gives me a bit of a leg up on this one. But what if you’re not in that situation. Where can you go to experience other cultures and revel in the languages if you have a quarter tank of gas and little to no money? The answer is simple and right under your nose. Listen closely. Go to bed early and set your alarm for midnight. Wash your face and dress for the occasion. When visiting another country, you usually try to be inconspicuous, not wishing to stand out like a sore thumb. Of course you will, not matter what, but just to humor yourself and get into the culture you try. Make no mistake where you are going is another country. Pull on your sweats. It matters not if they are tattered, faded or have large holes. If that doesn’t suit you, then squeeze into those jeans that your belly erupts like Mt. Vesuvius over. Depending upon the weather (or not) you may next choose a too-tight tank top, floppy oversize shirt or whatever suits you. It would be better if whatever it is doesn’t match anything else you’re wearing. You may choose a pair of high heels to complete the ensemble or bedroom slippers. Either would be appropriate. Do not brush your hair or put on makeup. Get into your car and drive straight to the nearest Wal-Mart. You’re not going to buy anything, but get a shopping cart anyway so that you at least look the part. You may begin in any section of the store which suits you though I would suggest that you simply listen before choosing a direction. You will likely hear Asian, Indian, Spanish and urban Redneck. Choose that language which interests you most and follow them. This will take skill. You mustn’t let them know at first that you are tagging because you don’t want them to call security or more likely pull a knife on you. You’ll need to follow at a respectable distance sometimes choosing another aisle to throw them off. Don’t forget to pick up merchandise and consider it closely when your target is stopped so that you may also. You’ll also need to add something to the cart now and then no matter how ridiculous. Don’t be concerned with feeling responsible for having to put it back on the shelf. You are on a journey of the mind and spirit in which you will open your senses to those around you. You’ll ditch the cart later. While holding an item in your hand as though studying it, turn your back to your language mentors and close your eyes. Listen intently to the lilt and sound of their language. Allow it to fill your ears and penetrate your very being. Listen to the tones and pitches of the voices and most importantly consider the body language. Notice the Redneck absently scratching his butt or adjusting his crotch as he speaks. This is not for effect, he is just unaware but it is still an important part of his communication. Note the swiftness of speech within the Asian shopper and the strong vocal pitches. Pay attention to the loud and demonstrative Spanish.  Word of caution: if someone begins beating their kid you might want to make a hasty exit or choose another mentor. Lose yourself within these cultures and surely you will regain a little passion for your own. The second and important part of Snack is food. You will need to leave the country of Walmart for this. You will need to obtain a passport for your next destination. This may be accomplished through a newspaper ad or by inquiring for a day pass. Proceed to Sam’s Club or Costco. Here you will find delectable offerings of free morsels from all walks of life. Savor the tastes of cheese, pretzels,crackers,tiny shivers of ham,exotic chocolate morsels and shrimp portions. Close your eyes and use your tongue to move the food around in your mouth, allowing you to fully experience the flavors. Then wash it down with the thimble cups of soy milk, unsweetened juice and Ensure. Swish it around and let your taste buds explode in ecstasy.  Care not about others in the store who are staring at you drop-mouthed with horrified expressions. Now both your quest for language and food have been satisfied.

SQUAT

The next part of your journey is the age-old search for serenity, meditation and prayer. Who among us has not wished for even one of these to fill our soul and uplift our spirit? How seldom experienced! Fear not my broke ass friend. Serenity is within reach. It may not be India, but it will help you fulfill your destiny. For this leg of the journey you are instructed to wear comfortable and loose-fitting clothes. This is about your ability to free yourself from all these chains that you have wrapped yourself in for so many years. The constriction of garments is therefore a distraction. You need not be concerned with style, makeup or outward appearance at all. Your goal here is to obtain peace. Before opening this door, commit yourself to the spirit of the exercise. Enter your bathroom. Close the door behind you and take in your surroundings. You will note this is for poor people such as yourself, a very small room and of sparse decoration. This is good. Breathe deeply (refrain from choking if the visitor before you was inadequate with the air freshener) then slowly release. You are now to squat and sit on the throne. Keep your back erect, feet spread for balance and poised on tiptoe. Allow your arms to relax on your thighs, hands outstretched palms up. Form the okay symbol with your fingers. Keep your chin up and eyes closed. Attempt to clear your mind. This is a bigger challenge than you first perceived. As you breathe in then slowly exhale attempting to form a relaxing vision for yourself you find only one image dominating your mind. In large and 3D vision you see without obstruction the last thing you saw before closing your eyes: that huge stain on the shower curtain. When did that happen? Who did it? Why didn’t I see it before? Should I wash it or just throw it away? I can’t really afford to spend extra money right now, but gee whiz that is just awful. I wonder if bleach would ruin it. Probably so. Maybe I can find one at the Dollar Store decent enough to get by….STOP!!! You are frustrating both your body and mind and are at complete counter-purpose. Try again. Ok, lets see. Crashing waves, bright sunshine, white sand beaches, swaying palm trees, cooling tropical breeze, oh this is nice. You fart. That’s okay-you’re relaxed. Really, stop laughing. It’s not that funny. GO BACK TO THE DAMNED BEACH! Okay. Crashing waves, bright sunshine, white sand beaches, swayi…..MOM!! Where are you? I can’t find the ketchup! Cabinet doors bang, glass crashes to floor, MOOOOOMMM!!! Pull your pants up. It’s over.

LIVE

You can’t go to Bali. Get over it. Up to this point, you have learned a lot about other languages and culture. You have learned to savor, taste and appreciate food. You have learned about achieving harmony and peace and that the best time to attempt it is probably 3am. You have had to face many things about yourself and the world around you with an open mind and heart. You have learned that its okay to embrace your creativity, allow yourself to fart without regret and open your horizons so that your possibilities are now endless. You feel as a born again free spirit who has opened herself up to the universe, to God and mankind so that your path may now be realized. Now….it is time… to get over yourself. Go on back to the real world and get a better foothold on what you need to be concentrating on.

However….allow yourself to have fun, give yourself some alone time and never, ever limit yourself. Oh, and stop watching chic flicks before you choke on the fluff. Unless Johnny Depp is involved or there’s a voiceover by Morgan Freeman or Sam Elliot.

Shopping Protocol 101

People get on my nerves. I entered the gas station the other day only to realize that in front of me was a lineman at the counter. A lineman is a defensive player and very crafty. You must stay on your toes. Convenience stores and gas stations don’t have roped off lines. Unlike the grocery store where you have defined aisles, the convenience store is a free for all, every man for himself. Let me set this up for you. I walk in and the cashier has a customer. Standing about 3 feet back is an older gentleman who is frantically shifting his vision between myself and another customer who is making her way from the back of the store towards the counter. Gas station protocol would be that he take a step forward to secure his place as the next customer and let me and the other girl fight it out as we’re approaching at about the same time and speed. The lineman however, feels the need to set up his play. He shifts his stance from one leg to the other still whipping his head back and forth to judge our positions. Will either of us attempt to run an interception? The veins at his temples are pulsing. His breathing is becoming labored. Then it happens, the customer at the counter completes his transaction and snaps the ball back to…the defensive lineman-what a play! The lineman lunges to the counter and finally exhales. Meanwhile back myself and the young lady have approached the counter area at the exact same time from opposite sides of the store. There is now no defined line. The younger girl doesn’t think twice about it as her last few strides become giant steps. She lands snuggled up behind the lineman leaving no question about who is now next in line. The lineman exits and I resist the urge to slap his backside and tell him “good game”.

Even though the grocery stores have more defined aisles, they too become something of a game zone. First of all, we all know these defined aisles are composed of candy bars, magazines, tabloids, lighters, lotion, balloons, playing cards and almost anything the grocer can think of which we might just say at the last-minute, oh gee, I really need that, been looking for that, forgot I needed that or the absolute best-selling point of all: I want that. The good part of this is that if your line is long and you are broke, these items are inviting only in that they provide a distraction. Still, I can’t help but notice my neighbors. The ones that get on my nerves as bad as any of the rest is the Way Back. The Way Back is that person who stands anywhere from 5 to 7 feet behind the customer who is currently with the cashier. I can’t figure them out. Do they view the contents of the customer’s purchases to be of such a personal nature that they feel like a voyeur if they get too close? Are they afraid they’ll catch some sort of customer virus? Are they such reluctant shoppers that they are trying to put as much distance between themselves and the register as possible? Trust me I understand the reluctance for paying those outrageous prices but in the end there is no good alternative to not paying for toilet paper, so pay the man and let’s move on already. Whatever the reason, the Way Back causes problems and seems not to care about those who have joined the line behind him/her. They are forcing the rest of us to expand our line way beyond normal line boundaries. We are now lined out into the traffic aisle and even across and half way down the food aisles behind us. We are impeding the traffic of other shoppers and have created a cart jam. This creates a domino effect of uncourteous people. Those in line are reluctant to move out-of-the-way of those traveling for fear of losing their spot in line. Those traveling are just trying to get to the next aisle and become irritated and their level of aggravation doesn’t even compare to those in the aisle who are just beginning to shop. So you see, the Way Back is a terrible problem and must be banned from all grocery stores.

Of course there are those of us who might still prefer the Way Back rather than the Snuggie. The Snuggie is that person behind you in line who gets so close they might as well crawl into your clothes and share your skin. NOBODY can dispute that they are the next person in line. The Snuggie is so insensitive or uncaring that they don’t even understand they’re seriously invading your personal space and are in danger of serious repercussions. You move your right leg and step forward, Snuggie follows in perfect time. You step back, they follow and you realize you are in a miserable game of shadow or mime. You know the Snuggie was that kid in elementary school who thought it was hilarious to mimic your every word while you were speaking. I like to try to fake them out. If you move forward slowly, then back swiftly you can sometimes trip them up and force an apology in exchange for your fake one. The Snuggie doesn’t let up though until you reach the register and there is now a shopping cart between you and her and you have hurriedly crossed the border into the safe zone of the pay station. But keep your eye out! I once was in the safe zone and looked up to see a Snuggie with one item in her hand stepping around the cart and heading my way. I gave her a long, hard reproachful look to which she replied to by stopping in her tracks on the borderline at the corner of the register. Snuggies are probably stalkers. Creepy.

Beware the Chatter. They make a comment to you while you’re in line which demands a response. Your best bet is to proceed with extreme caution. First you should determine whether you are in the mood for idle chatter with a complete stranger. Secondly, review your position. How many people are in line ahead of you? Is this the Express Lane or do you have heavy laden time consumers up front? This will help dictate how much time may or may not be involved if you opt to engage. If you determine you’re in the mood for a long-winded conversation with a Chatter then amuse yourself and forge ahead with a complete verbal montage of reply. Enjoy! If not, understand that your response to the Chatter has to be completely non-committal, showing no interest and a tad aloof without appearing rude. This may take a great deal of skill and practice to perfect. You don’t wish to offend, you simply aren’t in the mood and this can be conveyed easily enough. A warm smile, nod of the head and appropriate shrug of the hands or shoulders should most often suffice. The Chatter normally leads with a comment regarding the terrible state of the economy, growing price of food etc. Do not speak. Use your body language then look away as soon as possible. Pretend you got a terribly urgent text, stare intently at your phone. If the Chatter presses you may then reply with “I’m sorry, I have an urgent message from my son/daughter/boss/doctor/priest/congressman or perhaps one of my favorites: my parole officer.  You may now check your email/surf the web or play a game on your phone without interruption.  No matter what, NEVER pretend you didn’t hear or realize the person was speaking to you. This move has a tendency to backfire. The Chatter will sometimes persist, speak more loudly, move closer or in some cases refer to you in an unflattering manner to others, including the cashier. The last thing you want is an uncooperative cashier. Take my advice on that.

Perhaps the best option is to pay at the pump or to utilize the self checkout stations at the grocery store. Ah, but therein lies another set of obstacles and protocols. We’ll leave that for another day. In the meantime, shop with caution and consider yourself educated.

Lesson Learned

I notice him as I am washing dishes. He sits there quietly and says nothing. In fact, were I to have to guess, I would say that he is oblivious to what’s going on around him. Yet when I run the water or clank a pan aside the sink or clink a glass beside another, I notice a change in his expression.  While he continues to stare at nothing and pays me no direct mind at all, his ears twitch and head slightly turns a quick quarter turn, then back at nothing. His tail twitches and his eyes slowly blink as if to remind me that he’s totally unaware of my existence, yet I know that every small sound and movement does not escape his attention. The family cat notices everything.

As I continue washing dishes and watching the cat’s nonchalant expression I become keenly aware of the sounds in my own house apart from those I’m making. What hits my ears the most strongly is the sound of young girl’s voices talking vigorously about their boyfriend dilemmas. They talk openly to me about this as well and I’m always a willing listener, but perhaps on this occasion because of the stance of the cat, I’m listening more closely than before. What I hear disturbs me.

These girls have defined who they are based solely on the treatment they receive from their boyfriends. Yes, I do remember those days so don’t judge me. I can understand that except that from several of these girls, the treatment I’ve witnessed from these boys has been degrading, demeaning and bordering on if not full-blown verbal abuse. Before you jump too far onto the reverse merry-go-round (yes there are far too many girls doing the same thing to guys) I’ll ask you to hold your water and allow me to comment on exactly what I’ve seen and experienced.

This is what my commentary is trying to refer to: My beloved words which I have always held dear, have become weapons in this day and time and to make it worse they are viewed as blunt weapons. Words don’t hold the meaning they used to hold. There is so much texting, tweeting and facebooking that words are not being revered in the way they once were. It’s easier now to say “oh he didn’t really mean that, or “I took it the wrong way because it was a text and I didn’t catch the tone”, or “It was a misunderstanding because he posted it when he was angry” or any number of similar justifications.

We now hold the power and convey more with the written word than we have as individuals in a very long time. Even this we have chosen to misuse and abuse.  While the opportunity to describe, convey and express to one another in an instant things that with the spoken word might have taken days or months to do is upon us, it seems we chose to use it to express degradation and anger more quickly than any other emotions or thought processes. I’m not a promoter of nothing but the Sugarland Express method of expression, but I’m left a bit nonplussed by the choices taken to take more joy in expressing the bad over the good.

It feels as though we are taking the opportunity to hide behind technology when feeling anger. How many of these things would we have said face to face without it? Some for the better, others for the worse. I suppose that therein lies the human condition of which we are all a party to in some method or other.  I guess its my old school method of thinking which causes me to view words as an opportunity to describe, involve, capture and imagine. I have no problem listening to  how these changes are taking effect on today’s society without judging. I recognize that times are always changing with or without my involvement in the process. I also recall the disdain my parents expressed while watching the changes that encroached on their generation. It is the passage of life and times and evolution because we as humans are constantly evolving.

I would endeavor to hope that some portion of the population however is paying attention to these changes and learning what sounds normal or abnormal, what sounds brash against the good or what portion is crossing boundaries and which aren’t approaching closely enough. Perhaps there is no measuring cup for a society as a whole, but an internal measuring cup by which we should each determine the portion of each ingredient of life which makes our individual recipe complete and easily consumable, digestible and healthy. Attached should be a reminder that all tastes are at the discretion of the consumer.

Then again….perhaps the family cat is the only one who has the whole picture. Listen…pretend you don’t hear…keep your mouth shut…then go about your personal business. Weezerkat is never too old to learn and never too proud to do so even from a cat.

Bah, Humbug and all that Jazz.

I’m not exactly Ebenezer Scrooge, but I could be a close cousin. Not when it comes to money, heaven forbid! I’ve always found it rather difficult to be fond of something I’ve never really had. But perhaps when it comes to Christmas he and I are kindred souls. Yes, I am highly aware of how rotten that sounds. It’s that time of year again when you can’t even go to the grocery store without the joyful sounds of  alms for the poor. I’m not knocking the poor, heck I’m one of them! It just always makes me feel guilty when I find myself without cash or pocket change to drop in the little buckets or jars. Must these people always be so darned cheery? And of the ones who stand and look bored and depressed, could you perhaps pick it up a notch? There must be some sort of happy medium for that job, surely.  Either way, they serve as a grim reminder of my own stagnant circumstance and that just make me grumpy.

It crossed my mind last night and then again this morning that I should drag out the decorations. On each occasion the thought made me throw up a little bit. Seriously, why do I even bother? It’s not like I have little kids in the house anymore. The dogs certainly don’t care and the cat is clueless about everything in general on a daily basis. I remember one year when in my usual state of financial lows, I couldn’t afford a tree but still had some decorations in a box so I strung lights on a telescope tripod, hung up a few stockings, sang Silent Night and told the kids there was no Santa Claus. There you go. Merry Christmas and all that fun stuff. I’m pretty sure that was the year they ran away from home.

While pondering the idea of decorating, my mind began a mental trek through the house poking and prodding as I tried to remember where the damned things are. The attic? Hardly. Who has an attic with no stairs and a flimsy piece of drywall covering the hole? I do. I have no idea what’s up there and even if I wanted to find out I have no way on earth of getting into it. So pretty sure they’re not lurking up there. Probably in one of the closets under a ton of other dusty and useless boxes of only God knows what. You know if I go in there and start pulling and shoving I’m going to find something that died in there or worse, something that needs cleaning. Is it really worth all that?

Let’s just say I find the right box, bury the dead animal and run a damp cloth over whatever smells musty. Fine. Open the decorations box and out comes a virtual Medusa ball of tree lights.  Oh joy! Nothing says Christmas like an impenetrable mass of tangled electrical cords. Well it’s out of the box then, so it has to be dealt with. Three days later when all that’s untangled and separated, I’ll plug them in. Then what? They won’t work of course. Now its time to play a rousing game of hide and seek with tiny little light bulbs. Three more days and a brief stay in the loony bin and now all the lights are working. Great. Throw the decorations on the tree, light it up. Now what do we have here? An even more grim and depressing reminder that there are no gifts under it and I don’t have the money to go out and buy any either. My son will walk by, take one look at the tree, one hard-edged look at me and with a hint of anger say: “You know there ain’t no Santa, Ma.” Touche’.

The day after I put up the tree, I’ll leave the house and come home to find the tree on the floor, bulbs busted, cheap little decorations scattered everywhere. The cat will be hopelessly tied up in lights in the center of the whole mess while the dogs will be darting in and out trying to nip at him while he wails like a banshee and attempts to swat with three-quarters of an exposed claw. The dogs will still be terrified of the claw.

Without fanfare, I will then pick up the tree, cat and all and toss it out the door. He’ll figure it out. I’ll then pour a glass of wine and celebrate Christmas in my own unique way. I’ll un-celebrate.  Me, the Grinch and Ebenezer. It’ll be perfect! Why then go through all that? Because it wouldn’t be Christmas without it. Bah Humbug and all that jazz indeed!