You know you have been away from your blog for too long when you have to request help with your password.
I stopped writing for a while because I did not feel like I had anything worth saying. Then I kept not writing because I suddenly had so much to say I could not sort it out.
Now, I have re-set my password and like to think that I am re-setting my self…
Sorry, I really meant for this blog to be “light-hearted” and occasionally even snarky, but reality keeps invading.
Something really bad happened in my neighborhood a couple of days ago, and by bad, I mean multiple police cars, ambulance, crime scene investigation vehicle bad.
My neighborhood is the sort of place where people move in as young married couples, raise a family, and live the rest of their lives. When I lived here before, we’d seen an ambulance or two, responding to health emergencies of our elderly neighbors; sometimes successfully, sometimes not. A lovely older couple who lived across the street from me passed away while we were in California- they had lived in their home for over 50 years. When I heard the first siren, I assumed it was another such situation. But the sirens didn’t stop.
Whatever was going on was taking place down the street and just around the corner- we could see the intersection was blocked off by a police car. Concerned, but not overly so, Dr. T and I went to lunch and errands. We grew more concerned when we came back an hour or so later and saw that the ambulance was no longer there, but an SUV marked “crime scene investigation” was.
(I probably shouldn’t admit this, but we don’t always lock our doors. Now I was wondering whether we’d been insanely naive. Not too long ago, Dr. T and I had been discussing how personal frame of reference impacts perception: coming from urban areas in California, we felt completely secure in our neighborhood, in contrast with our next door neighbors, from rural areas in neighboring southern states. They have an alarm system, and won’t sleep with their windows open.)
Of course I wanted to know what had happened, but why? Curiosity, certainly, but more than that- were we somehow at risk too? It seemed wrong to bother the police on the scene, so we went about our business at home.
A while later, I noticed a neighbor two streets down was online. I messaged her: “any idea of what happened?” She replied that she didn’t have confirmation, but a young woman around our own kids’ age may have committed suicide. Completely at a loss for words, I responded that I guessed that there was no good answer to the question. She agreed, and we went back to our own business. Judging from the location of the emergency vehicles, I had some idea of where the trouble may have taken place. I knew there was a house where three sisters had lived. They were around The Kid’s age; they had swum in our pool when they were in elementary school.
When I realized that hoping it hadn’t been one of them meant that someone else had suffered, I stopped wanting to know anything else. But I wanted to know. I wanted to help and knew I couldn’t. And far from feeling safer, I felt more vulnerable.
I have walked up and down that street hundreds of times over the years. I have described it to other people as “the way everyone should be able to live.” It is a street with well-tended houses on generous lots, tame but wild. There are lawns and woods, birds and rabbits. There are no sidewalks. I still remember our first Halloween in the neighborhood: parents and children, with dogs on leashes, and the littlest kids being pulled in wagons, because the homes were so far apart. I told my friends in California that I felt like part of a Norman Rockwell painting. Nothing bad could ever happen on a street like that.
That night, I walked Waldo, but did not have the heart to go down that street. I don’t know if I will find out what happened, or to whom. I know I will go down that street again, but I can’t say when.
My mom used to say, “Age is a state of mind,” which is of course, the companion phrase to “You are only as old as you feel.”
On Thursday, I took my usual walk with my next door neighbor (4.2 miles this time) before working a busy eight-hour shift at the store. I got home shortly after 8:00 p.m., visited with Dr. T and Waldo, and had a snack. Another neighbor, with whom I have occasionally started walking in the evenings, texted me. Would Waldo and I care to join her and her dog for a stroll? Sure.
I hooked up the dog and headed down the street. I enjoyed a pleasant visit with my neighbor on the deserted creek side path, smelling the honeysuckle and admiring the sky, laughing at the dogs losing their minds at the smell of the deer in the distance.
We talked about our days. “You must be exhausted,” my neighbor said when she heard about mine. “Not really,” said I, “I actually feel pretty good.”
I’m not sure how far the second walk was, but I was gone about an hour, and I know that the round trip from my house to the trailhead at the end of my neighbor’s street is one mile, so I am guessing roughly two or three miles total. Knowing I did not have to work the following day, I stayed up for a while.
Yesterday, I had an early appointment with the doctor. I came home, did some general straightening around the house and helped Dr. T with some pool-related chores in the backyard. I vacuumed the living room and family room carpets. I picked up the dry cleaning and dropped off a pair of pants for alterations. I got home around 2:30, and by 3:00 I was headed back to bed, completely flummoxed as to why I was so dang tired. Then I thought about Thursday.
Writing this, I am reminded of my 10th high school reunion, way back when. We danced and drank and carried on, and the next day there was an informal picnic at a neighborhood park. I still remember what my classmate Joel said that afternoon: “It didn’t seem like ten years last night, but it sure does today.”
It’s always the next day that gets you, isn’t it?
…on the way to wherever it is I am trying to go. Those sneaky 10 pounds I mentioned have crept away, taking a couple of their pals. I attribute that in large part to my little job, since it keeps me moving for hours at a time, and prevents me from freely accompanying TMIM out to lunch and breakfast in The Land of The Fried Potato (where I am helpless to resist.) I’ve also been able to walk regularly with my neighbor, new puppy (walks with him are “bonus” walks), and now, he and I are also walking another neighbor and her dog. Of course, I’ve also made a point of incorporating more of the foods I used to eat while I was living alone, so all of those things help. Because I was not actively “trying” to lose the weight, I can’t really say how long it took, but I did start to notice the drift somewhere around March.
The funnier thing that happened is that we have realized that my fundamental assumption about this move- that I would have to have a “real” full-time job or we’d be in trouble- has been blown to smithereens. Sure, we’d get things done around here a lot quicker if I had a bigger paycheck, but we are bumping up on a year soon, and I am guardedly optimistic.
Maybe it’s getting out from under the pressure of feeling solely responsible for my family’s financial existence, maybe it’s spring, maybe it is getting some distance from the emotional maelstrom attendant to my mom’s passing, but suddenly I am feeling a little more positive about finding that elusive “big girl job.”
This morning I spotted a posting for the job I used to do in California at an agency in a neighboring county. I applied, no longer in the spirit of desperation, but with the sense that getting an interview would be a win. (I would be happy to take the job if it were offered, but my dream job in the field is a step or two above it. I’d be thrilled just to have face to face conversations with my professional community at this point, considering the complete lack of response I got last summer.) If they don’t call me, I’ve lost nothing, and I have other interests to explore, don’t I?
I feel that I can capture that elusive future job in the same way I escaped from those sneaky pounds: by moving forward and doing what I know is right in furtherance of my larger goals.
Good thing, too, since I am making a very small fraction of what I used to earn. I’ve been at my part-time job for four months now, and I have decided that I am enjoying it. Recently, my boss asked me, in a teasing way, “Isn’t this more fun than your old job?” I answered truthfully that they were both very fun, but very different.
The first couple of months were rough; I did not work many hours, and it seemed to me that I was forgetting everything I was being taught between shifts. I was shocked to realize I was finding my “little job” to be so stressful. I’d been a criminal defense investigator, for crying out loud- going to the projects of San Francisco alone after dark, serving subpoenas on hostile witnesses- I was dealing with people at the worst times of their lives- how in the world was working a few hours a week in retail making me anxious?
I worked in retail off and on during my twenties, and felt I could easily manage it again. I had worked through my questions of whether I could be comfortable in such a controlled environment after the autonomy and responsibility I’d had during the last 25 years of my working life. I realized that I am not defined by my job title or my paycheck, and carefully considered where I might enjoy working. I applied at only two stores: a clothing store and a home furnishing store. My logic was that there was no point working anywhere I would not want to use my discount. This way I could either refurbish my wardrobe or refurnish my house, however slowly.
I did not hear from the clothing store (too bad for you, J.Crew!) I re-entered the time clock world in January. After adjusting to the changes in retail technology (computerized registers and inventory control, walkie-talkies and headsets) and generally getting the hang of things, I am having fun. I realized that a large part of my stress had less to do with the job, and much more to do with not feeling competent at what I was doing. I knew that feeling would pass with time, and it has. I remembered that even a menial task is more fun when attacked with enthusiasm, and made a conscious decision to give what I do my best effort, even if it is polishing shelves of glassware or restocking candles.
I spend about twenty hours a week in a beautiful environment, dealing with people who are about 98% pleasant. Every day is different, and I learn something. I help people improve their living environments. I have a reason to get dressed and somewhere to go. I move around a lot- back and forth across the sales floor, up and down ladders. After decades of working in fields where effort does not always produce observable progress, I am appreciative of something as straightforward as a sales per hour goal. And, to paraphrase Sally Field at the Oscars: “They like me, they really like me!” In stark contrast to my previous job, the only way I take my work home with me now is in the form of pretty new bedding or a comfy new sofa.
I know long-term I will want to earn more, and to be more challenged. Whether I find a way to do that within or outside of my present employment remains to be seen. For now, I am quite happy.
It was my first Leaders in Literacy Breakfast; the agency’s 5th annual. My student, B.R., and I were invited to sit at one of the tables and speak to guests about our experiences in the program. When I approached him about it, he was apprehensive, but agreeable. We attended a workshop last week, in preparation for the event. We volunteered to be the student-tutor pair for the role play exercise.
Shy B.R. began to speak. I could see him blush, but he sat tall and spoke clearly about what the literacy center meant to him. I teared up, and I wasn’t alone. After the workshop, I spoke with several of the center staff and board members, all of whom were “blown away” by B.R.’s sincerity and enthusiasm (no surprise to me.) There was talk of him being the student speaker at next year’s breakfast.
Last night was our first lesson since the workshop, and the night before the breakfast. B.R. allowed as how he was a little nervous, so we went over the agenda: there would be opening remarks by the Executive Director, and speeches by a few people, including a student. When he heard that, B.R. said, “I might like to do that next year. I would be scared, but I think I could do it.” I told him that I knew he could do it.
I met B.R. at the center this morning, and we drove to the Washington Duke Inn,checked in, got our name tags, our buffet plates, and went to our assigned table. We had been instructed not to sit next to each other, to better allow us to interact with prospective donors. While I chatted with our table mates, I took an occasional peek in B.R.’s direction. He was actively engaged in conversations, and although I overheard him say he was nervous, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
As things wound down, I talked with a staff member. She had missed the workshop, but had heard about B.R. She said that he was a unanimous candidate for student speaker next year. I told her that he had mentioned interest in doing it. We caught up with B.R., who was happily visiting with other guests. “Can you see yourself up there next year?” I asked him. “Yes ma’am.”
We walked through the grand lobby into the bright spring morning, past rows of shiny new cars. “This program is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” B.R. smiled. “Those people were really nice. They really care. This is better than winning the lottery.” We drove back to the center and said our good byes. “Have a good weekend,” I told B.R. “You have a blessed day,” he replied. I pulled into the street and headed home. “I already have,” I said to no one in particular.
Oh, the plans and high hopes I had for this blog when I began- My posts would follow a chronological and/or logical order, and, consequently, so would my life. By now, I would have a real job, and the rest of my life would, as a result, be completely under control.
I had a clear plan to write about this first, then that. The plan quickly started to unravel as life events (how’s that for a euphemism?) unfolded, and as I realized (again) that everything really is connected to everything else.
If I may quote Nelson of “The Simpsons”: “HA ha!”
So now, despite my best intentions, and in honor of the fact that there is no one clear path to anything, I am going to watch that little bane of my childhood existence, the playground merry-go-round, and just pick a time to hop on. I’m going to write about the next thing that comes to mind, knowing that it somehow connects to everything else I care about, and trust that whoever reads it will trust me to make the connection eventually.
I have never been one for cars, at least in the everyday sense. As a result of my addiction to old movies in high school, I developed a love of cars from the 1930’s and 40’s, but never believed I’d own one. As I neared the dreaded age of 30 (I was sooooo young then) I thought it would be awesome to have a car from the year of my birth (talkin’ to you, Tbird!) that would always look great, no matter what happened to me, but I never realized that dream.
Jags, Bentleys- I loved the look, but that was not my life.
My first car was a Mustang ll- I really wish someone had told me that you need to check the oil.
Next, a Datsun (remember, I am old) 210. Reliable and dull, just like the years I drove it.
After that, my favorite to that point- a Suzuki Sidekick, So cheap, so fun (convertible! 4 wheel drive!) I was in my early 30’s, but it was really the car of my youth.
The Sidekick was the last car I bought as a single person. We traded it in at some point for a very sensible little truck, to go along with our Camry. (Those were really the years I did not care about cars, other than to notice that after driving the Camry, I realized that my beloved Sidekick handled something like a kitchen table.)
After years of disinterested driving, I prevailed upon TMIM to consider a Volvo C70 Convertible. THAT was a car I loved. Of course, I ended up driving it far less often than anyone else in the family.
Recently, we traded in the Volvo. It was aging, and was never the same after severe damage sustained when Dr. T was the filling in a multi-car collision sandwich. The plan was to replace it with a smaller, more energy-efficient car.
I remembered driving a Ford Focus for work at my last job. It was compact, handled well, and easy to park (a real plus in San Francisco.) We discussed it, and decided to take a look. We took a quick spin on one at the closest dealership. The car felt fine to both of us. The numbers worked. We did the deal.
Our salesman, Tim, walked me out to my new ride. We sat in the front seats. He connected my phone to the Bluetooth. (The what now?) Then, he showed me the voice controls for the phone, the sound system, the AC, and for all I know, the Meaning of Life. I have several manuals to read through before I can fully appreciate just what I have gotten myself into. (There is a palette for ambient lighting, for crying out loud.)
I thought I was buying a modest, bare-bones, suburban car. Turns out I am bad ass. (Did I mention all the speakers and the subwoofer in the trunk?)
What I really wonder is, if this sort of thing is available at the Focus level, what the heck do the fancy cars have?
Two weeks since I’ve posted? Yikes!
It’s not that I have nothing to say; I’ve got at least a half dozen half-written posts, lined up on the tarmac like so many little planes, waiting for a little fuel here, a safety check there, before taking off to the great wide world.
It’s not that I have no time. Sure, I’ve been working more, and trying to be more disciplined about my house projects (upper kitchen cabinets are moving along, thank you) but I still manage to have more than enough time to feed my Lexulous addiction (the best on-line word game around, in my opinion) and daydream of future home improvements, often involving a catalogue from a store that once had a featured role on an episode of “Friends.”
I was doing most of my writing early in the morning, while the rest of my family slept. That worked very well until a couple of weeks ago, when we brought home a puppy. I write in our guest room/office/craft spot/storageforeverythingweareambivalentaboutunit. It is no place for an inquisitive creature with a burning desire to chew. I have spent so little time there lately that the poor plants on the shelves over my desk required urgent care this week.
My early mornings now go something like this:
6:00 a.m.: get up, let Waldo out of his crate, go to the back yard and praise him enthusiastically for urinating and defecating. Go inside, feed him. Go back outside, and repeat step one.
Then we hang around until someone else gets up so I can take a shower. By this time, I either have to go to work, or someone wants me to do something or go somewhere, and the writing doesn’t happen. It’s been swell so far, but it can’t last. Even if no one else misses my posts, I do.
I certainly don’t regret the puppy. He hasn’t kept me from writing; my reliance on my old routine has. It was great while it lasted, but things must change. I can: a) find another time to write (like now, while everyone is asleep late at night) or: b) I can straighten up the room. Or both. The thing is, what once worked no longer does, and I must take some action.
(Consider yourselves warned- when I get back into the swing of things, you will be hearing a lot about this puppy.)
George Lakoff has retired as Distinguished Professor of Cognitive Science and Linguistics at the University of California at Berkeley. His newest book "The Neural Mind" is now available.
Investing for normal people
It's time for gun sense in America.
wings and things
middle age can be fun
thatdifficultstage 