I really can’t explain or predict how, why, or when I will make progress toward any of my goals. This spring, you heard about my Big Plans for our kitchen (which surfaced as I avoided my Big Plan to re-upholster (at least partially) Dr. T’s favorite chair.)

Most of the upper cabinets and doors in the kitchen got painted early last summer. (I can now confess that two doors were inadvertently stacked in the pile of laundry room cabinet doors, and therefore missed being primed and painted.)

Our upper kitchen cabinets are hung under soffits (which have always bugged me.)

My theory was that if I painted the soffits with vertical stripes, I’d have the effect of higher ceilings. It was a great theory, but it took me months to get the nerve to try it. I have since verified my theory, but learned that I  am not as adept with painter’s tape as I might like. Let’s call it a noble experiment gone wrong.

More time passed, and the almostbutnotquiteright stripes irked me every day. I realized that the effort required for perfection exceeded the effort I was willing to expend in achieving it.

After some consideration, I decided to try chalkboard paint (surely you remember that I have used the same paint on the side of one cabinet and the panels of several cabinet doors)  on the soffit over the sink, and  the same soft gray paint that I used on the walls under the cabinets on the remaining soffits.

For no particular reason, I executed this plan yesterday and today.

I like it- I really like it!  Now that the soffits are painted, the cabinets really “pop” (as they say on HGTV.) Inspired, I finished  painting  the crown molding with the same color as the cabinets (Celery Ice by Behr, for those of you who are keeping score at home.)

This is not to say that this room is done, but it is to say that progress is being made, and that personality is creeping into a space that used to have none.

The lower cabinets even look better, though still in their original loathsome oak finish. I am optimistic now, but I know impatience will strike again before I am through.

Fellow writers (bloggers especially) has this ever happened to you?:

Have you ever, in the middle of a perfectly good, idle, random thought, ever pulled up short and started to edit it? Do you find yourself, while  absent-mindedly scratching your dog’s ear, wondering how you can turn that experience into prose with A Larger Message? Do you collect titles the way you used to collect comic books/45 rpm records/ Matchbox cars? (My personal favorite: Is Everything a Metaphor?) Do you attempt to turn everything you see or do into a metaphor?

Or is it just me?

Some days I can’t tell whether my little blogging habit has heightened my awareness of life, or simply turned me into a self-conscious, self-absorbed jerk.

When I am engaged in something that demands my complete attention, like work, tutoring, or talking with my friends and family, the “writer switch” is off. I don’t start  composing accounts of those experiences until later, if ever.

Any activity that requires less than complete focus can trigger the condition: washing dishes, walking the dog, driving anywhere alone.  (Not that it  gets me anywhere; you should see my drafts folder.)

Fortunately, I don’t go through the day narrating it in my head: “I walk briskly into World Market, intent in finding the green tea I like, and wondering again why Trader Joe’s doesn’t carry it. I love Trader Joe’s…I pause, momentarily distracted by the seasonal display at the entrance. Wait- I have things to do. Back to business.  The heels of my boots resonate against the concrete floor as I grab the tea, along with a bottle of ginger syrup I hadn’t intended to buy.  Next, I’ll  head to my store, to pick up the quilt I forgot to buy at the end of  my last shift. Checking out, I decide to drop by the garden department at Lowes’s for pansies to plant by the mailbox.  Or should I go to Home Depot?…”

If it ever comes to that, I may have to abandon writing altogether.

It stands to reason that people who struggle with literacy face obstacles the rest of us don’t, and my student is no exception. B.R. has more than his fair share of problems, but he manages to maintain a surprisingly positive attitude. Despite the challenges he faces, he is remarkably reliable in getting to class twice a week. Occasionally though, the challenges affect our ability to stay on task.

Last night B.R. apologetically explained that he was too distracted to concentrate, so we spent our time talking about what was going on. As much as I love to offer help and advice, there was no easy answer to his problems. I recognized that, and said as much. It was okay, really. Sometimes just having a safe place to vent frustration is all the help you need. Our conversation wandered toward happier subjects, and back to our work. I told B.R. that I thought it was about time for us to move on to the next section of lessons.

He asked me if I thought he was making enough progress, with such a look of concern on his face that I wanted to cry. In all honesty, I said yes.

I reminded him of how far we have come: he is easily reading multi-syllable words, and has lost his fear of writing and spelling. I told him that we have actually already touched on many of the lessons ahead of us, and I knew he was prepared to handle them. B.R. recognized the truth of what I was saying, and seemed to relax. He told me (and not for the first time) that having the lessons to look forward to, and the homework to keep him busy, helped him to keep him from being overwhelmed by his troubles. I reminded him (not for the first time) that working to learn to read was a very positive step, and that he should be proud of his commitment and self-discipline, regardless of any setbacks.

I know how he felt; I still struggle with the idea that I should be making consistent, quantifiable progress every day in my own life. It is very easy to focus on what I haven’t done, to the exclusion of what I have. Logic dictates that every day will be different, and the factors that affect “progress” are not always within our control. Sometimes everything seems futile, and sometimes, suddenly, it all seems to fall into place. Results can’t be controlled, but effort can. Trying is almost everything. I have promised myself to try every day.

B.R. and I ended early last night, agreeing that we will spend next week reviewing the main points of our current section, and start our next one the week after. I think we are both excited about moving on.

Sometimes just showing up is progress enough.

It’s been a while since Dr. T and I have been away from home; we ended last year and began this one during a two night trip to the coast, and spent three days on a historical pilgrimage to Virginia in June. We had company on that trip: my brother-in-law and his wife.  It was very pleasant, and entertaining to watch TMIM in the role of little brother.

I am generally very happy in my little corner of the world, but I do get itchy feet from time to time, and it was very clear that my spouse needed, and very much deserved, a break. It came in the form of another two night stay at the coast, this time in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

The destination might not have been my first choice, but I threw a few things in our common suitcase packed with an open mind. Did it matter where we were going? Probably not. The point was to go.

I love a road trip, under the right conditions: good weather, a destination attainable in less than a day’s time, scenery, and good company. I got them. Dr. T did the driving, and was agreeably flexible when I botched the navigation (I told you he was good company.)

Our hotel was a block from the beach, and within sight of the water, as well as the Sky Wheel and other boardwalk attractions. It might have been miserably congested Mid-July, but Mid-October, it was convenient and scenic.

We enjoyed a snack and a drink at a restaurant on a pier while we made plans for dinner. It was an early night, followed by a lazy morning, including a large and delicious breakfast and a long walk on the beach.

After another snack (vacation dietary laws) we headed out in search of the perfect putt-putt golf course. My marginal navigation kicked in (N. King’s Highway? S. King’s Highway?  whatever) and we ended up at the wrong course. Which we played twice. I would have gone again, but my better half displayed better sense.

Back to the restaurant on the pier for a pre-sunset drink, followed by a dinner of oysters and crab legs at a joint some miles up the road in a strip mall. (thanks, Yelp!) Another early night and lazy morning, and it was time to hit the road for home.

I couldn’t sweet talk my way into any more putt-putt, but I did convince Dr. T to pose for some very silly photos in front of a very silly-looking restaurant on the way out of town.

“I had fun,” I said as we got back into the car. “Me too.”

We really need to do this more often.

It’s no secret that media in our culture has had a huge, sometimes crushing effect on young women’s self images. (I like to think that this is changing for girls today, but I also like to think that I look pretty much as I did at thirty-four, so…)

Regardless of what I fear will be eternal pressure on young women to be “perfect,” I believe that some progress has been made, because as far as I know, one particularly brutal source of self-loathing has become obsolete: the scourge known as “Body Mechanics.”

This class, offered as a section of P.E at my high school, was even more powerful than the Cosmopolitan cover photos of  the ’60’s, Farrah Fawcett and Cheryl Tiegs’ iconic posters of  the 70’s, and the ZZ Top video girls in the 80’s, in the erosion of my self-confidence.

Taught by the progenitor (progenitress?) of Sue Sylvester on “Glee,” ostensibly about fitness, the class involved various unnatural contortions. (Which prompted an exclamation of “What am I, Gumby?” from  Melanie, later pronounced Most Witty of her senior class.) The “exercises” hurt, but the true pain came from a single sheet of paper, containing “Ideal Measurements.” At that point in my life, I, a Chronic People Pleaser, took that sort of thing to heart.

It was all laid out: ideal bust, waist, hip, etc. I don’t remember all of the desired measurements. I do remember feeling that the waist was within range.  The bust might show up someday. I could wait. But the thigh? That specific ideal measurement remains with me to this day. Twenty inches. That was simply not going to happen; in polite terms, I have “athletic thighs.” At my absolute stone cold skinniest, we were looking at twenty-two.  And my calves and ankles? Please. I fear I am from Peasant Stock.

If all that wasn’t bad enough, I learned that I had TIBIAL TORTION. (one knee sort of twisted in toward the other. The Horror.)

I hate to admit how much all of this bothered me. I hate to think how much time I wasted feeling bad about myself. I really hate to admit how long it took me to consider that it might not be rational to expect a woman of 5’10” (for that was my height in those days) to share a thigh measurement with someone six inches shorter.

I am happy to admit that I don’t remember the last time I measured my thigh. I am happy to have come to terms with my cankles and tibial tortion. I am happy that I can easily walk for miles at a time, and still kick higher than my head.

I am sad to hear The Kid berate herself for perceived flaws in her own lovely body. I am doing my best to dispel her concerns; let this craziness end with my generation.

About that stash of ephemera: Who else among you has a trifold, laminated brochure for Ocracoke Island that includes the following blurb about Edward Teach?:

“Edward Teach is a tall, dark, stranger who lived in Ocracoke long ago…Otherwise known as Blackbeard. Later, Edward fell in love with pirating, wich (sic) soon became his career.”

For as long as I can remember, I have been addicted to ephemera (more on this later, I warn you now) which means that I have an embarrassing number of boxes, baskets, and files of old photos, postcards, schoolwork (not just The Kid’s, but mine) and so forth.
Yes, I am sentimental, but I tell myself that I am also something of an historian, or social scientist, and I will make some meaningful use of this material “someday.” But mostly I am sentimental. I had a bulletin board at my last “real” job that was covered with work-related memorabilia: thank you notes from clients and interns, office photos, etc. Those went into my work tote when I left in June of ’11, and stayed there until recently. (My little job is starting to become more “real” and the work tote is back in play.)

The contents of the tote ended up in an open cardboard box on the floor of the guest room/office/holding area.

Waldo and I like to hang out there; I cruise the internet play lexulous work at the computer or read. Waldo sprawls on the floor or keeps watch on the neighbors.
Waldo is growing up. He is much more in control of his behavior; the biting, jumping, and chewing are tapering off. He can be left unsupervised for longer times, and when he does commit a doggy crime, he seems remorseful. Mostly.

I was home alone with him this evening, and I let my guard down. We went outside a few times, I fed him and we spent some quality time on the couch. Then I got engrossed in a book. It was quiet. Too quiet. I checked on him. He was in the guest room, on the floor, happily engaged with his Kong. Back to my book I went.

We went out again, and I returned to my book. Time passed, and I told myself I was probably pressing my luck. Back to the book. (Bossypants by Tina Fey- yes, I am behind the curve, and yes, you MUST read this)

The next time I checked on my boy- think Mena Suvari and rose petals in American Beauty, only she is a shepard/hound/whatever mix dog, and the rose petals are paper shreds.

I found remnants of a paycheck from my last job, the return label from a card from my friend Teri, and pieces of a card signed by someone named Kate. That’s the one that baffled me. I knew two women with that name: a former co-worker, who never wrote me a card, to my best recollection, and the sister of the guy who dumped me on the day I met TMIM. I don’t remember getting any correspondence from her, either. It’s not like the card was simply signed- there were fragments of sentences all over the place.

I am curious, but not to the point of greeting card reconstruction. I scooped all of the soggy remnants up and into the trash they went.

I have a friend (go ahead, prove that I don’t!) who found herself in this get up recently, as she was dressing for the day.

Well, not granny panties per se,” she explained, ” just the same old high-cut cotton hipsters I’ve been buying since I was young and broke and high-waisted pants were in style. It’s not that I don’t wear anything else, but they serve a purpose: they are comfortable (especially in the summer) and I can throw them in the washer and dryer. I thought they  imparted a certain tomboy chic when I first started buying them. Of course, now that I technically could be a granny, it may be time to rethink.”

“Care to comment on the leopard bra?”

“Sure. Sometime after I turned 45, I realized that one day, if I was lucky enough, I would be an actual little old lady, and that I should grab a chance at a little va-va-voom while I could still do it with a straight face. I’m glad I did, too. Life is too short for boring underwear.”

Wait a minute, what about those granny pants?

The bra and the briefs both speak to complicated female reality:  the need to be practical and the desire to feel attractive.  The tension plays out in our heads and sometimes, under our clothes.

I drove home from work today tired, but in a fine mood, listening to BB King’s Bluesville on Sirius Radio. Out of curiousity, I tapped the tuner a click or two, and found a station for Broadway show tunes. I was entertained by a song I did not recognize, followed by “Be a Dentist” from Little Shop of Horrors.

As I turned the corner to my street, I heard the beginning notes of a song I almost recognized. Then I heard the opening  words, “If ever I would leave you…” from the musical Camelot. My mom was a huge fan of musicals generally, Camelot especially, and I was overwhelmed with the memory of her, the poignancy of the lyric, and the pain of our estrangement in the years before she died.

I’m not sure if any of my neighbors driving past noticed  me as I sat crying in my car, parked at the curb in front of my house, but that was what that was about…

As you know, TMIM is the cook in our family. I came home from work this evening and spied him through the kitchen window, hard at work. Enticing, yet unfamiliar aromas greeted me as I opened the front door.

“I’ve solved it,” he told me when I walked into the kitchen and found him alternately stirring the contents of two skillets. “Sloppy Joes for me and ratatouille for you.”

“With eggplant?” I asked incredulously.

“Sure,” he replied, “I’m not eating it.”

(It was delicious.)

George Lakoff

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.

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