We didn’t win the lottery AGAIN, which is crushing because PLANS — I was on a quest to revolutionize my wardrobe by way of that venerated institution, the Sundance catalog. Please don’t sue me, Robert Redford, for naming names — I obviously can’t afford that since we STILL DIDN’T WIN THE LOTTERY.
It’s all so disappointing because my first new outfit as a gazillionaire was going to be killer, starting with the jeans, which are $108 and still have PIECES OF ACTUAL DENIM clinging to each other! There’s a sweet top, a twee rumpled creation weighing less than an ounce and going for a very reasonable $198. There’s a distressed-leather peacoat that looks fab with the little top — it’s only $548. The shortie boots in the same shade as the jacket, complete with fringe and studs, are a must — they retail for $575. To nail the look I’ll need the slouch bag for $368 and a cool nubbly belt at $120. Then we get to the fun stuff — the jewelry. Three necklaces, layered, at $1190, $3400, and $1300 respectively; eight stacked wrist cuffs totaling $4800; seven rings for $1603; and the earrings, $285. And a perfectly darling may-or-may-not-keep-time watch for chump change of $98. The surgery to add 10″ to my height is probably going to run into actual money.
So for just the debut ensemble, not counting height-enhancement because who knows, I’m looking at approximately $15,000 with shipping. And realistically I couldn’t wear the outfit every day because it isn’t wedding and funeral appropriate, so it’s imperative that I buy out the catalog in its entirety, including the furniture. My dreams are all-encompassing.
Way to ruin my life, Powerball. Mr. Redford and I were going to be besties.
Plan B: Snag this $98 vintage bandanna scarf and accessorize my overalls.
This girl is not fit for human company today, which makes no freaking sense — it’s a perfect fall day, the leaves are turning, my work is temporarily caught up, and we have a fun evening ahead. Meh. People. They’ve tried my last nerve and found it wanting. Facebook, my go-to social release-valve, is a morass of stupidity today. Yeah, and what, exactly, is new? A little biotch-of-a-privileged-thing pulled her white-girl schtick on me in lieu of answering a simple non-invasive question. Whatever. Have a nice day, sweetheart. Even Madison is a bundle of neurotic craziness — a short-tempered old baroness. She lives with one, go figure. She’s every bit as morose and disagreeable as I feel, so I’m doing a great job of spreading the love. And no, I didn’t kick her, she’s just very discerning. She loves me, so maybe I should just ditch this sulk and count my blessings or something.
Here we go … Every woman’s response to “We’re having a party.”
Mashes the buzzer! … What is “I have nothing to wear?”
Casino Night is looming on the horizon, a dress-up affair at Abe & Jake’s Landing, significant because friends are hosting and it will potentially benefit other friends. I’m slated to give a speech but I have NOTHING TO WEAR so I’m not too pumped about the whole thing.
Enter my friends Adam and Seth, armed with knowledge from every episode of What Not to Wear, Project Runway, their own impeccable taste, et.al. A shopping date is set for the following week, beginning with a lunch of salad and wine. Thus fortified we hit the stores, fearless and ready to incite terror on both sides of the street. A saleswoman whispers to me early on, “These guys are making me nervous.”
THESE guys? You mean the ones who are giving you a break by zeroing in on a selection of flattering outfits from your store and thanking me for considering any and all options? The guys who are giving up their day to make sure I have a fabulous time shopping, so I can relax and enjoy a great night out with people I love? These two guys who have a gift for showing how much they care? Yeah, well. Get outta heah.
After a lifetime as a skinny-minny, a series of crushing blows caused me to almost disappear from grief anorexia. What followed was so much unexpected and over-the-top happiness that I starting packing on the pounds, neutralizing my shopping mojo. Because, you know … before I bought any more clothes I was definitely gonna lose the extra weight and be me again in the eyes of the world, never mind that in the meantime I’d turned into a better person than I was when I was a skinny biotch. Fortunately, my guys didn’t for a second consider letting me off the hook, and they rate massive kudos for changing my perspective.
We found the dress in the first shop we hit. And the jewelry. And a pair of skinny black pants and a silky top. AND another dress that was on sale for a stupidly low price, nabbed after Seth stood me sideways in front of the 3-way mirror and told me with a sweep of his arm to “Concentrate on this great rack!” then cupped my ass in his hands and crowed “Just look at these two amazing Christmas hams!” We heard a gasp from the sales clerk, followed by “Can he SAY that?” Yes, yes he can. Love and respect buy immunity.
In the second shop the guys found a pair of not-Mom-jeans and a top from the sale rack that we couldn’t believe no one had snapped up. My confidence was increasing by the hour and I was into my Happy Dance. Another store or four, a purchase here and there, and we realized it was almost 7pm. Tired and hungry, we crossed the street for drinks, appetizers, and a review of the game plan. Adam placed a Zappos shoe order on his phone and just like that I had everything I needed for the big party. Oh yeah, the party! I’d sort of lost sight of the original mission because the party was already ON.
I’ve dropped a few pounds in the weeks since, but I may or may not ever be skeletal again. My friends clearly do not care and I don’t either. The bonus is that Kim has never really minded one way or another — the angst was mine alone and was overdue for a kick to the curb. We live in a university town where the options for enjoyment are nearly endless — who wants to worry over chunks of dessert, impromptu foodgasms on somebody’s balcony, late-night drinks at sidewalk cafes, or breakfast twice in one day? Worry is for chumps.
Seth put shiny stuff in my hair, I wore the dress and rocked the speech, we gambled for a worthy cause, we danced, we laughed, we ate good food and toasted each other with great wine, and the tumblers in my brain spun and lined up. The obvious is true — I’m not a number on the scale, I’m not my dress size, I’m that girl who loves life, qualifiers be damned. When’s the next party?
1) Casino Night … 2) the Christmas Ham dress with my favorite date … and 3) my newlywed personal shoppers, Seth and Adam …
My grandparents’ generation witnessed greater social and technological changes than any that preceded it, and possibly any that will follow. When they were born, in the late 1800s, cars weren’t a thing yet — everything was done with horses. Before the end of their lives, they’d seen the advent of space exploration and watched NASA put a man on the moon.
My grandparents who were farmers remained true to their conservative roots, lived frugally, and made a point of being satisfied with what they had. Their motto was “Wear it out, fix it up, make it do.” They clung to what they knew best, jettisoning very little along the way. Living next door to them I benefitted from a natural immersion in their history, and the pioneer spirit is my friend.
My outlook is aligned with the liberal views of my grandparents who lived in town, but I’ve never lost my appreciation for what it took to settle the heartland and survive. Recently I was breezing through my Facebook news feed, did a double-take, and backed up. A childhood friend had posted this photo of my Great-uncle Otto’s blacksmith shop, which is falling into ruin, and my growing-up years came flooding back.
My sisters and brother and I and our friends spent lots of hours here, climbing on outbuildings and an array of obstacles, snooping around the shop and the house that used to stand next to it, shinnying up the windmill tower, and roller skating in the old brick schoolhouse down the road on property owned by our family. There were irrigation ditches in this field, too, good for wading in the icy water and slinging mud.
My great-uncle lived in a corner of his shop after his mother died and a fire spooked him out of the house. He had an outhouse, an iron cot, a potbelly stove for heat and cooking, and that’s about it in the way of creature comforts. He and my grandpa, his brother, were gunsmiths and inventors who understood hard work better than anything else. I grew up surrounded by guns, which at the time were exclusively for hunting and for building prized collections. My bachelor great-uncle, one generation removed from the German ship that delivered the Wagner family to the Promised Land, was eccentric and brilliant and reeked of the garlic he ingested at every meal to ward off disease. As children, we were endlessly fascinated by him — he was a mystery we couldn’t crack.
People from all over the country sent him guns to repair and refurbish, and he had several patents to his name. He saved every can label and filled the backs with calculations scrawled with a dull carpenter’s pencil. He had Big Chief tablets filled with the same, along with drawings of inventions, and poems and essays on life, religion, and human dynamics. He was a fixture of my childhood — a skinny man with a handlebar mustache who wore long underwear and a sheepskin jacket year ’round, and drove his Model T Ford the quarter-mile to my grandparents’ house every day to hold forth about ideas and mathematics and projects from his comfy nest in the kitchen rocker. My grandma, who’d long ago earned his trust by listening, cajoled him into taking a bath at their house twice a year while she washed his well-oiled clothes.
One look at this photograph and I was back in my grandparents’ warm kitchen, Uncle Otto’s gravelly voice droning on, garlic and gun oil mixing with the aroma of fried potatoes, beef and gravy, and coffee, Grandpa stamping in from the cold, the sound of my grandma’s wry chuckle, and the sense that life would go on forever just that way.
Although nostalgia is in my bones, and it all looks so simple and clean from this vantage point, I don’t want to live there. I started to become an adult the day I accepted the truth that life is all about change. But a gray wet fall day seems like a sweet time to revisit the past, and I’m indebted to my friend Carrol for the photo.
So have you done the ALS Ice Bucket challenge? The videos I’ve watched are entertaining and attention-grabbing, which of course was the aim, and suddenly a little-talked-about disease is receiving the big focus and funding necessary for ramping up the research. A diagnosis of ALS is a death sentence, regardless of age or station in life, so a cure would be a godsend. The conversation is in full bloom around the country, as intended. We can’t really address things we have never faced, don’t know about, or are afraid to discuss.
Concurrent with the ALS wave, the death of a much-loved entertainer has sparked a dialogue on the realities of clinical depression and suicide, with far different results. The ugly, willfully ignorant comments on social media have been crushing. If a friend confided in you that he or she had received a diagnosis of Stage 4 cancer and had only a short time to live, would your response be something like “Wow, dude, that sucks. But hey, quit whining. Chin up! Everybody has troubles. Keep a good attitude, get out and enjoy life, it’s bound to turn things around. You’ll feel better before you know it!” If you say yes, I call bullshit.
I’ve seen a few negative comments about the ALS challenge — it wastes water (give me a break — your twenty-minute showers and ice chests full of beer are all totally justified, I suppose); it’s stupid and juvenile (but painting your face and body for a sports event, or wearing a block of cheese on your head isn’t); I don’t see the point (of course you don’t, it’s under your hat). But the response has been predominantly positive and lighthearted, and it’s fun to watch.
The conversation about depression and suicide is an entirely different story. It’s a fact of life that our bodies get sick and die — it happens right in front of us so there’s no denying it. But you could talk and type all you want and way too many people will still never comprehend that our brains and psyches get sick, too. If you wouldn’t shame someone for having cancer or suffering a brain hemorrhage or getting hit by a drunk driver, why would you use shame as a tool against illnesses and injuries of the spirit? And who the hell are YOU to do that in the first place?
Here’s an actual example of the complete nonsense being posted:
“The fact still remains he (Robin Williams) killed himself because he made bad choices in his life … society is only making a big deal out of him because of who he was and his money. Wealth comes with challenges. Depression is one of them. … A person’s stature in society shouldn’t make them any more important than anyone else. … Seek out help. It is out there but you have to lose your pride to find that help. Don’t be a coward and take the easy way out. Listen to the voice inside you that tells you right from wrong. Don’t try to tune it out or you will be in for a rough time.”
What a steaming pile of panther whangy.* If you don’t know what you’re talking about you’d be smart to shut your pie hole. I’ve never been clinically depressed, I’ve just been hit with garden variety blues from time to time, but I’ve watched beloved family members suffer and die from it, so I’m here to tell you:
1) Clinical depression is not caused by “bad choices.”
2) The conversation is not really about Robin Williams, except that his life perfectly illustrates how deadly the disease is. He had it all, but money, wealth, and fame do not in any way make a person immune to a disease of the brain and spirit.
3) I haven’t seen anyone express the view that Mr. Williams was “more important than anyone else.” His high-profile death and the fact that he was loved by so many people have simply generated a national conversation that needed to take place.
4) “Losing your pride” has little bearing on seeking help. A person lost in the dark tunnel of clinically-depressive illness is mostly incapable of reaching out. I’ve been told by people who’ve been there and survived it that it’s hard to even hear other voices or entertain possible options — for them, they’re in the process of dying and it takes everything they’ve got just to hang on. Robin Williams DID seek help, and had been treated for depression for years, but just as with cancer, a “cure” was not easily come by. Complicating matters, anxiety and depression are clinical symptoms of Parkinson’s, which he was also dealing with.
5) Rather than being “cowardly” and “taking the easy way out,” a person in the throes of the illness finally succumbs to the relentless pain and suffering, concludes that the world would be far better off without him, and exercises the only option that seems to be left.
6) “Right from wrong.” What an incredibly judgmental thing to put on someone. If you’ve never been in that long dark tunnel, hating yourself for who you think you are and what you believe you’re doing to your loved ones by simply being you, then you need to SHUT UP.
7) “Don’t try to tune it out or you will be in for a rough time.” If people with clinical depression could “tune it out,” they’d do it in a heartbeat. And as for a “rough time,” it’s clear that you care very little about what they’re going through, so DO.PLEASE.SHUT.UP.
No one is immune to mental illness, so it would be in your best interest to stay off the soapbox. Many people are born with a genetic predisposition to any number of spiritual and mental illnesses, and all the arrogance and condescension in the world won’t change that — that attitude just lets people feel better about themselves because it didn’t happen to them.
If you’ve been spared from the disease of depression, why not adopt the approach of the ALS people and do something to help raise awareness. I just did.
This is the story of a boy and his dog. And a young man and his dog. And an old girl and “her” dog. Turns out they’re all the same dog — a Maltese named Madison — and she’s led a fairly incredible life so far. Her first story was happy … until it wasn’t. The boy loved her, but his girlfriend didn’t, so while he was away working nobody took care of tiny Madison. The young man took her in then and loved her and provided for her, and they were a good team. But his life got really busy and Madison was spending a lot of hours alone. SOOOO … the old girl talked him into letting the little peanut come stay at her house, at least for a while. That’s love in its purest form, people, and Kim and I don’t take lightly the sacrifice he’s making for the sake of her health and well-being.
Miss Maddie will be ten years old in October, but she still looks like a puppy and remembers how to act like one. She was coughing and gagging every day, and seemed listless, so on a hunch we changed her food and treats to brands that don’t contain wheat. Thanks to a tip from a certified dog person, we also eliminated chicken. The respiratory symptoms are going away, she’s sleeping fewer daytime hours, and she’s started initiating rambunctious play again and bringing us her dapper little green dinosaur so we can wrestle it away from her and throw it across the room. She’s good as gold about potty habits, and she sleeps all night without disruption. If left on her own she wakes up about 8am, just like I do. Perfect!
Madison adores Kim, but she’s chosen me as her Person, which fills me with gratitude and gooey slurpy love. Even when she has old-lady breath — which we’re also working on — I can’t get enough of her. She goes with us on all the little errands that don’t require taking her into NO DOGS areas (the nerve!), and she’s a calm and entertaining passenger. When we instead tell her “Maddie has to stay this time,” she looks at us with her big black eyes and takes it with good grace. She doesn’t chew on things, or get up to shenanigans, and we never have a second thought about leaving her to roam the loft while we’re out. She’s a little lady. Her joy when we get home is something we didn’t know we were missing … and would have a hard time giving up now.
She’s an instant conversation-starter and makes friends all over town. Jeez, to be so popular! She still gets to go to The Farm to see her black Lab friend Mia and the three kittens, James, Red Molly, and Elsa … and her Big Guy when he’s there. But it’s clear she isn’t really a farm girl, with her alabaster fur coat and frilly tail — she’s a princess and we’re happy to let her be exactly that, especially since she doesn’t have an attitude. It’s a happy arrangement … except possibly for the Big Guy, who misses her when he’s home at night.
Maddie makes us laugh, and she brings out a tender grandparent-y thing in both of us that feels just right at this stage of our lives. Thank you, Kevin, for having such a good heart — we love you. And Madison will always belong to you, no matter where she might live out her days.
There are a million things involved in a move. First of all, way more work than you ever dreamed. Changes in every direction. Base lines to reestablish — we go here for groceries, there for prescriptions, and all those other places for everything else. Life turns upside down for a while, and not all of it feels good.
But then there are the unexpected bonuses, the stuff you never really thought about. And I can’t think of a better bonus than leaving drama behind. When we left, all that exhausting craaazy that was attached to our former lives fell away. Ceased to exist. We were so covered up with moving it took a while to realize why we felt so zen, but once we figured it out we vowed not to go there again. Ever.
I can never remember to check my blood pressure, but I’m pretty sure it runs lower than it used to. I sleep like there’s no tomorrow. Deep, restful sleep, for ten hours a night or more. That’s never happened before.
It’s occurred to me in the past few days that I will do anything legal, moral, and not too stupid to keep from being dragged back into <<<< Stresssss Worrrrllldd>>>>. We like this too much, we’ve settled into our own little routines too well, fallen in love with feeling happy and at peace too deeply, freed ourselves too ruthlessly from the things that don’t fit, to ever go back.
One of the most liberating things in life is the word “no.” Prolly gonna be using it unreservedly.
Kim has a play date with a friend south of town. Something about building a fire pit.
Got the mail. Paid bills. Did laundry. Annoyed people on Facebook.
The sun’s shining, it’s a perfect Saturday. Art Tougeau is still happening today. There was a parade on Mass St. at noon, and tonight the Lawrence Band Summer Concert Series kicks off in South Park. There are people everywhere.
Ugly truth: this chick isn’t bored. She’s freakin’ lazy.
We’ve recently changed up our exercise routine because Kim needs to rest his ankle and shoulder, so he’s off the racquetball court and I’m out of Aqua Zumba for now. Instead we’re swimming laps in the early mornings. Our spring/summer schedule filled up when we weren’t paying attention, so the earlier start every day has been a good thing, and Kim’s owies are starting to like the new regimen.
One of my last class sessions was something I’m glad I didn’t miss — you can’t prepare for serendipities, you just have to be lucky enough to notice all the little nudges that take you through your days in style.
Okay, I need to tell you that when John was just out of college and starting his first career, he got involved with an organization that provided a social life for developmentally-challenged young adults. His stories were funny and endearing, and it was clear right away that he had a gift for what he was doing. He eventually went on to exchange his design career for one as an oncology RN, and he’s not only really good at that, his tenderness for his first clients has stayed with me.
So there was a morning a while back when I’d almost skipped Zumba class … again. But hey, I showed up. I was in the water warming up when the door opened and a young guy with killer abs walked in, followed by several men of mostly indeterminate age and clearly working under challenges of various sorts. Nice Ab Guy asked if this was Zumba class and I said yes. He asked the instructor if it would be okay for them to work out with us and she said of course! So he helped the other guys tighten their waistband drawstrings, finessed ear and nose plugs, and coaxed them into the shallow end of the pool. They were none too sure about the whole thing, but their shy smiles were to die for. The eldest had scars over his back and arms that looked like severe burn damage and I prayed that some inferior human creature hadn’t hurt him on purpose.
The music cranked up, loud as always, and the new guys, with encouragement from a dozen or more mamas, got into it. Ab Man was born to dance, and obviously to help people who need him. The sweet guy with the burn scars was so sincere and earnest about trying to keep up with the moves, I had to put my face in the water to camo the tears. One young guy spent his time looking around, blowing bubbles, and making the water splash big. He may have had the best time of anyone. Every glance at one of us asked “Is this okay? Can I do this?” When class ended we all told them to be sure and come back, but that didn’t happen before I dropped out. I hope they remember their time with us as one of the really good days.
I’m lazy and whiny and it’s almost second nature for me to pick the easy way if there is one. Those guys’ lives are hard in ways I’ll never experience, but they keep going and they’re as stoic as anyone I’ve ever seen. I hope the people they encounter will be unfailingly kind to them and that even though they’ve been burned by life they’ll never lose those shy sweet smiles and their willingness to be and do and keep on giving. I have no right to even ask that … but there’s so much they can teach the rest of us and we need them.
It’s an established truth that no good deed goes unpunished. We didn’t know until this spring that there’s a gap across the top of our balcony wall. The birds knew, however, oh, yes they did. They were already well into their nest-building project before we noticed, so of course we chose to be kind. And they were just the sweetest, flying back and forth to the trees across the street, bringing raw materials for their new home.
The babies hatched a while back and it’s been impressive to watch the bird couple delivering round-the-clock take-out. Somebody told us they barely eat while they’re raising their babies. Probably don’t sleep, either. They were having an intense argument on the balcony rail this morning … wonder why?
So yeah, the babies. We were kinda wondering when they might be big enough to leave the nest — and then we saw one standing on a windowsill and pecking at the window. Holy cow, he was HUGE. But they’re still hanging around home, we can hear them. And their parents are still feeding them, worm by worm. The little shirkers! They need to convert all that worm pate’ into lift and get on with their lives.
Because shit! I mean holy shiites, Batman, it’s unreal. It’s everywhere! Trailing down the brick, splattered all over the deck, piled on the railing, splotching up the chair cushions, frosting all the herbs and flowers. I’m out of adverbs, but it’s disgusting, unhealthy, and nasty to the max. And there’s not one thing we can do about it unless we want to be monsters. In light of which I’ve pictured myself getting a ladder, reaching into the nest, grabbing the first little cheeper I see, and teaching him to fly. From four stories up.
So as I was saying, not a thing we can do. Mr. & Mrs. Bird clearly tabbed us as gentle souls on their first pass and it was over before it started. They’ve won this one, but rounds two and beyond are ours. Except that I think I heard more birds on the north end of the gap this morning.
They say — and just who the hell ARE they? — that we learn something new every day if we keep our eyes and ears open. This week I learned that it’s possible to sweat underwater.
I’ve fallen in love with the pool. Not the great pee-filled paradise of my youth, but a glittering expanse of cuddly clear blue water, marked off in lanes. I am distinctly not an exercise lover but the pool has captured my heart. I love the muted sounds and the clean saltwater smell; the silky feel of the water as I slip in for laps; the sunlight shining through the ceiling panels making fog hang in the air; the way I feel wrapped in cotton, alone in my head, nothing in front of me except the lane and the goal — to stay afloat. And when class starts, I love the adorable instructors who crank the music and urge us to jump and kick and stretch and wriggle our cellulite, which they do not possess.
I love the women I meet there. Many are likely older than I am, although who knows. Some are far younger — new moms. It’s a delightful bunch because they’re honest and irreverent and hilarious. There’s a crankypants or two in class but I have to assume they’ve cultivated that for a while and aren’t likely to switch attitudes, so I leave them to their grumbling and their mad-faces and hang out with Jo and Barb and Andrea and Roxy and Pat and Sandy and assorted others who are just there to have a good time and keep moving. All of us by now have sustained losses that have shaped us. We don’t talk about it, we just know. And of course we don’t discuss body shape, because we all have parts that are surrendering to gravity, legs that are melting into our ankles, wear and tear that dictates what we can and cannot do.
We’re a motley crew — we roll out of bed and show up at the gym, grab a shower, suit up and start swimming. A lot of these gals have not only never invested in a Brazilian, they haven’t shaved their underarms since the Cold War — a very genuine and healthy practice, in my humble opinion. We wear our baby-bellies like a freakin’ badge of honor, although to be honest mine’s become a too-many-carbs belly, which is what brought me to the pool. We give it our best shot to keep up with the zero-body-fat instructor who’s winning a dance contest poolside or in the water with us every morning, and we grin and laugh and hoot when we finally find our rhythm.
In the water … nothing hurts much. There’s no temperamental low back, no rickety shoulder, and the 7 Purple Minions of Fibromyalgia are in time out. There are enough sore muscles later to let me know I used them, but that’s a good hurt and I welcome it. It’s highly motivating that women in their 70s and 80s show up for personal torture day after day, and do it with a smile. Surely I can manage at least that. I do hope it will be a longterm relationship, the pool and I. And I really hope carbs melt in saltwater.
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Welcome to my weekly blog on life's happiness. We are all human and we all deserve to smile. Click a blog title or scroll down. Thanks for stopping by.
Creative humour, satire and other bad ideas by Ross Murray, an author living in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, Canada. Is it truth or fiction? Only his hairdresser knows for sure.
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