Never Too Late

It is never too late to apologize.

I had this thought a couple of weeks ago at a high school talent show. Not because I thought the performers should apologize, although, as I listened to the mixed a Capella choir slide off pitch and fall into an abyss, I tried to focus on the words they were singing rather than the fact each singer was in a different key. They hung in there and kept performing.

It's too late to apologize....

A pretty song but no, One Republic, I'm afraid I disagree. It is never too late to apologize. A sincere apology, no matter when it is offered, it better than no apology at all.

Sincere is, of course, the operative word. When my children were little and got reprimanded for an offense, they would sometimes respond with, "Well, soorrreeeey," complete with snarky tone and eye roll.  When they did this I refused to accept their apology. Not because I was a mean and terrible mom...well maybe I was, you'd have to check in with them...but because their apology was empty. They weren't sorry. They were angry, or arrogant, or just not ready to acknowledge what they had done, but the were definitely not sorry. Later, when they would offer a sincere apology, I could forgive and we would move on. But an insincere apology was pointless.

I've had to apologize numerous times in my own life. Too many to count. To my kids, husband, friends, professors, employers, strangers. Really, I've screwed up a lot. But...haven't we all?

I read once that we should never say the words, "I'm sorry," because it means we are accepting blame. Um...yeah. If you're a jerk you should accept the blame. How hard is that?

A few years ago I had a friend who, when approached about something he had done to offend me would say, "I hear that." Great. What the hell kind of answer is that? Now that we have established that your hearing is good, how about we attend to how you hurt my feelings. He never did. That might be one reason we are no longer friends.

Anyway, I'm not suggesting that we all go around saying, "Sorry. Oh, sorry, I'm sorry," every few minutes. We should, however, say I'm sorry when we have done something to offend another. Even if we didn't mean to.

I've apologized for things years after they happened, because it took me that long to figure out what went wrong and why I was responsible. I might not always be so quick on the uptake but, in the end, I knew I owed an apology so I offered it.

Because it was the right thing to do. And because it restored a relationship. And because it made me less of a jerk.

Of course nobody likes to be wrong. Even still, everybody is at times. An apology can't guarantee that the other person will forgive and forget but it can guarantee that you've done the right thing. And doing the right thing makes the world a better place.

It is never too late.

Holy Day of Romantic Obligation

So there you have it. Another Valentine's Day come and gone. All that candy at the grocery store will be half price today which, if you ask me, is the best thing about the Holy Day of Romantic Obligation.

I know this makes me sound cynical, but Valentine's Day is just so...weird.

It is jammed full of cheesy, mushy, sentiment and action which always makes me wonder. Do people really feel loved because someone bought them a card and a rose on a day prescribed by someone else to say, "I love you?"

I don't get it.

I'm not a fan. It's not that I'm not a fan of romance. Romance is all well and good but, pragmatic soul that I am, I don't really understand the point of setting aside one day per year for romance. I'm not one of those curmudgeons who sees the whole thing as a way for card, flower, and candy companies to make a fortune. Although it is.

The thing for me is, there are 365 days in the year. If you treat me with love and respect the other 364 days then you don't need to worry about Valentine's Day.  And if you don't treat me with love and respect the other 364 days...don't bother.

I don't mind being wished me a Happy Valentine's Day. It doesn't offend me and I don't assume the wisher is like those people who, during the Christmas season, insist on saying "Merry Christmas" because they celebrate Christmas and, it is their right to wish you a Merry Christmas, damnit. Somehow that seems to miss the point. Merry Militant Christmas!

Anyway, I accept a Valentine's Day wish for what it is, a sweet gesture. I just don't fill the day with a lot of expectation. I do buy chocolate for my family, but then I buy chocolate on a lot of other days during the year as well. When my kids were little I made heart shaped pizza and heart shaped cookies. I'm not an entire spoil sport.

Yesterday I visited my mother and gave her a heart-shaped box of candy. If she had a man in her life she would have demanded a loving gesture. But since she has pretty much extripated the hearts of all men she has deemed worthy of her affection and basically has no reason to live, I thought I'd give her a box of chocolates. I figure she can pick them out of their little fluted wrappers and devour them, one by one, much the way she does men. 

Nevertheless, the whole hoopla seems quite silly.

But it does make me wonder. What if we were more loving every day. Toward every one. I understand that Valentine's Day is about romantic love, but what about love for humanity? What if we tried to be more loving not only one day a year and not only toward our special someone. What if we were more loving to everyone. Or, if that is too idealistic, at least a whole bunch of people on a whole bunch of days.

Maybe we could be more loving toward someone who doesn't have the same political opinion as ours, or believe the same religious doctrine we do, who looks different from us, or even who cuts us off in traffic. What if we showed love to those people in....June?

What if when someone was rude to us, we simply ignored their unkindness, and responded with grace.

Or what if we chose to be generous, in whatever form, on a daily basis.

Or even just made eye contact and smiled at strangers, no matter how odd they might find us.

I'm not suggesting we eliminate Valentine's Day. I'm merely suggesting we make a loving attitude more expansive. We can still mark February 14 as the Holy Day of Romantic Obligation to keep flower shops and card manufacturers in business. I don't wish to take away the fun of celebrating love. After all, regardless of my other aversions to February 14, I like pink. And hearts.

And half-price candy.

Fools Rush In...

I wasn't planning to publicly share this story. I was going to protect the innocent. But a newspaper article changed all that.

I wasn't going to share my story of getting attacked by my cat because I was concerned that people would focus on the fact that the cat attacked me, not the fact that it was my fault. But then a friend gave me a newspaper clipping of a story almost identical to my own (only mine ends better), and I decided that I'd share after all. Consider it a public service announcement to all you cat people out there.

It all started when our three-year old kitty, Mr. Pankey, suddenly died last autumn. Following his death we went to the shelter and got a new cat whom we named Oliver. Oliver inserted himself into our family and acclimated reasonably well with the other two cat residents. In all, the transition was pretty seamless. But, for whatever reason, a couple of months later Anna found a cat who needed a home and she had a powerful need to meet him. I said no. Truly, we are borderline on the whole crazy cat people thing as it is. We did not need a fourth cat. She was, however, a bit relentless.

I held firm to my conviction that three cats were plenty until Steve said, "Oh, we have three cats, what difference will four make."  Turns out a lot. But I'm getting ahead of my story.

We met the homeless boy and really, he didn't have a lot going for him. First, he was old. Second, he was bony. Third, he was plain. And fourth, he just didn't have much in the way of a personality. But, he needed a home and with the cages of the shelter packed with much cuter cats with a lot more to offer, it was highly unlikely anyone would choose him for their pet. A sucker for the underdog...or undercat in this case...I fell prey to the tug of sympathy. He came home with us.

We named him Willie.  Well, William Alexander Jenkins the Third, technically. But he goes by Willie which Steve said is apt because in light of our recent series of cat deaths we can say, "Willie live or won't he?"  Clever guy that Steve.

Anyway, things got off to a rough start with Willie. And then they declined. Willie is a little grumpy. Okay, Willy is a lot grumpy and he hates Oliver. He doesn't just find Oliver annoying. He hates him.

Fast forward to the fateful day of the attack.  It was early Saturday morning and I heard the usual hissing in the hallway. Only this time the hissing turned into horrible screaming. I went into the hallway and shooed both cats downstairs. Oliver ran into the kitchen and Willie, having been provoked over the edge by Oliver, followed and then went about cornering him, slapping, hissing, and screaming. It wasn't one of Willie's finer moments. Nor Oliver's for that matter.

Irritated that all of this was sort of a ridiculous way to wake up on a Saturday, I followed them into the kitchen and impulsively decided to remove one of them from the scene.  Willie was closest. Just as I reached to pick him up I thought it was a bad idea.

It was.

I scooped Willie into my right hand and turned to leave the kitchen when he attacked me. At first it didn't seem a big deal but then he just kept attacking. He kept biting and re-biting. His legs were wrapped around my arm and I couldn't get him off me. I screamed. Loudly. Somewhat from pain but mostly from fear that this cat was never going to stop biting me. Steve came running down the stairs, Willie let go and ran off, and I stood in the kitchen with several deep, painful, puncture wounds in my hand.

The pain was intense. I knew cat bites were dangerous because of the liklihood of infection so I immediately washed the wounds. And then I nearly fainted. I also knew I had to get medical help so I went to a nearby Urgent Care. There my hand was soaked in iodine, I was given a tetanus shot, a prescription for antibiotics, and instructions to soak my personal pin cushion in salt water five times a day. I uncharacteristically followed the instructions (out of fear of dire consequences if I didn't) and for a few days watched carefully as my hand got swollen and red. Even with aggressive and prompt attention a cat bite can get seriously infected. 

In the end, mine did not. It hurt badly for several days, throbbed at night when I tried to sleep,  but eventually the swelling went down, the wounds closed up, and the pain gradually reduced. This is where my story and the newspaper story diverge. The author tells a nearly identical story of intervening in a cat argument, but she didn't seek medical attention until her hand and arm were so badly infected she had to be hospitalized with strong IV antibiotics. Her hospital bill exceeded $14,000. Because she too had picked up an angry, agitated old cat who was new to her home.

So, I know cat haters gonna hate and assume all cats are demon possessed. They aren't. But humans need to be smarter than I was. And smarter than the woman in the newspaper article and the seemingly hundreds of other well-meaning humans who insert themselves into cat disputes.

Don't do it.

When they are upset cats lash out. Sort of like humans. Lacking the ability to hurt with words, they use their teeth.

For those who wonder if we got rid of Willie. No, we didn't. He didn't attack me randomly, and while he is a bit of curmudgeon, he deserves a loving home just like anyone else. Willie and Oliver are still working out their issues, but now if the squabbles intensify, my body parts stay far, far away.

Lesson learned.

I'm innocent, I promise!

The Soul of a Home....

I'm pretty sure my house has a soul.

Not in a creepy, scary, Amityville horror sort of way. But in a sweet, warm, we've lived here a long time sort of way. It is a comfortable, cheerful, maybe a little garishly decorated house. The only thing really creepy about it is the carpet. That has gotten a little terrifying.

We've lived in our small house in a modest neighborhood for over 22-years now, and it has served us well. Within these walls we've raised three kids, sheltered numerous cats, shared our space with a couple of additional young men in temporary need of a roof and family, and hosted countless parties, holiday celebrations and guests, including several from a variety of countries. It has been a busy, crowded, loud, house and it has certainly heard its share of laughter, fights, tears, and prayers.

But lately the carpet has been suffering. A lot.

Gradually, as time and money have allowed, we've been putting it out of its misery. A few years ago we yanked the carpet out of the main level and replaced it with wood flooring. In the middle of the process, after the old, nasty carpet was out and the absurd amount of dirt and God-knows-what was swept away, I took a Sharpie to the plywood and wrote the story of our family. I listed our names, birthdates, year we bought the house, cats, and other tidbits. As the flooring went down, it covered my historical account of our family, hiding it from view but preserving it in a way that, someday, someone may find interesting.

Eventually we will leave this house, either to an eternal destination or to wherever our next life chapter takes us. Someday this will be somebody else's home and another family will grow up and make memories within these walls. Walls upon which I've painted a bright, cheerful yellow and meticulously hand stenciled quotations, aptly describing who we are as a family. Walls upon which I've hung Steve's beautiful and evocative watercolor paintings. Walls which carefully protect us.

Sometimes I worry that one day a beige family will live here. I fear they will come in and cover my colorful surroundings with tan and taupe and off-white. The only color will be boring sky-blue accent pillows. They will hang benign, mass produced, lobotomized artwork and my home's soul will cry for lack of passion. But then I remind myself I'm being a teeny bit melodramatic. Besides, it won't be mine then. They can paint whatever color they want.

Regardless, there was something special about secretly preserving our family history in the floor. So much so that last summer when Parker moved out of the house and I pulled the carpet out of his room, I took my Sharpie to the plywood flooring again. I wrote about how the room had been used over the years, first as an office, then a nursery, the boy's shared bedroom, Parker's solo bedroom, and finally, coming full circle back to an office.

And later in the summer, when we removed the carpet in Anna's bedroom, I wrote the story of how we used that room over the years, adding the bittersweet reality that her time in the room is limited as her life story has her leaving for college soon. They each take a little bit of our home's soul with them when they go. Or maybe it is just my soul. I'm not sure.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago we removed the carpet from the master bedroom.

Well, okay. We didn't do anything. We were lying on the couch barely moving and contemplating what death from flu would feel like. Steve removed the carpet.

I did, however, manage to stagger my way up the stairs with matted hair and Sharpie in hand, to write a brief history on the raw, spattered plywood floor. Fortunately that room has only been used as a master bedroom so I didn't need to write a lot. Nevertheless, with each room, I add another piece to the jigsaw puzzle of our story, forever embedded in our individual and collective memories but now, secretly hidden in the floors of our house creating an amalgamation of love, heartbreak, joy, pain, anger, and hope.

A family.

Who will find our story someday? I have no idea. I only hope they handle our family history carefully and nurture the soul of this house made of so much more than wood, concrete, and nails.

Flu School...

I'm baaackk! After an inadvertent break, I am rejoining the world in 2013. 

I started the year in a stupor of illness and antibiotics and narcotics which left me unable to form complete sentences. I think I might have even drooled. I probably don't need to mention that being one of the zillions of people who caught the flu is not how I wanted to start my year. But I did.  And I promise the rest of this post won't be a long, whiny, sob story about how awful I felt.

Not all of it anyway.

I did feel awful. But, I mean, here it is mid-January and I've already learned a bunch of stuff from it. What is life if we aren't learning, right?

On a practical level, I learned that if you start coughing during a New Year's Eve matinee showing of Les Miserables, you should not assume that you are just having a sympathy reaction to all the people dying on-screen while belting out heartfelt songs just prior to leaving this earth. No, you should assume you are coming down with something. To all those who were sitting near me, I apologize. I thought I was relating to the characters.

Mostly I watched the whole movie in awe. I mean, yes, it was well done but really, I had a macabre fascination with the idea that these people were all dying but still able to hit a high E. Is that what dying well is all about? I decided I should think about singing on my deathbed. The timing on all this was good. Within a few days I truly thought I was dying.

I also learned that once you realize you are actually coming down with something and the world is in the midst of an influenza epidemic, you should not assume it is nothing. This would be the downside of being an optimist. You should go to a doctor. Had I done so, I could have taken Tamiflu, the miracle drug, and gotten over it much sooner. As it was, I waited until the window of Tamiflu opportunity had closed and the only thing left to do was suffer. And, having laryngitis meant I couldn't even sing on my deathbed.

While prior to seeing Les Miserables I hadn't ever considered singing and dying,  I have always envisioned myself as someone who, upon being diagnosed with a terminal illness, would live in a cloud of grace and gentleness. I'd lie in bed, serenely, dressed in a white, fluffy, gown. Glistening a little bit. I'd be someone who does all she can to make others around her feel comfortable about her impending death. Of course, recently I added singing to the scenario. I've always envisioned a charming death.

Fantasy.

If my behavior during  a bout of flu is any indication...well, let's just hope I don't have any lingering illnesses.

I complained. A lot. I whined even more. I learned that being sick does not bring out the best in me.

Nevertheless, I learned that I'm loved, even at my worst.

Despite my less than charming self, several friends faithfully checked in to see how I was doing. My mother even called several times to check on me and didn't even make it about herself! When I developed a secondary infection and my stomach was wrecked by antibiotics and my brain was addled by narcotics, my friend Debbie brought me a stack of novels to give me something to do when I wasn't sleeping. Working, writing, and thinking were out of the question.

When I couldn't pull together a celebration for Anna's 18th birthday, our whole family cheerfully cancelled original plans and pitched in to cook and clean and make her celebration at home special, after all.

And when my Christmas tree was still up long after 2013 was in full swing, Debbie came over, once again, to help me take it down.

That all may seem like ordinary stuff, but it wasn't. It was important stuff, and it let me know that I am loved no matter what.  Even while hacking, coughing, and whining I am lovable, if not pleasant.

So often we think we have to be or do something to make ourselves lovable. In much the same way singing on our deathbed is unrealistic, so is the idea we have to make ourselves lovable. We don't. We are lovable because people love us. We are lovable...just because we are.

It is good to be loved.

And healthy.

Surviving the Apocalypse...

The world is coming to an end tomorrow.

If only I'd lost ten pounds first.

Okay, I have to admit, I'm not really bracing for the end of the world. I'm not even sure how one goes about bracing for it. And, since the end of the world has been predicted on a number of dates throughout my lifetime, but so far all of those predictions have been wrong, I'm guessing the one about tomorrow will be too.

I've seen a few articles refuting the prediction, a couple even came with guarantees that the world would not end tomorrow. I thought that was interesting. I mean, you can guarantee it but, if you are wrong, who is going to hold you accountable?

Anyway, by Saturday I suspect most of us will have survived the apocalypse and lived to tell about it. And while I might like to lose ten pounds, if this were my last day on earth, my biggest regret would not be that I hadn't gotten around to losing them. Or that I hadn't gone to the gym enough. Or that I don't have Michelle Obama arms.

I'm not sure I have a biggest regret. I do have a fairly extensive collection of smallish ones, though.

I wish I hadn't gotten sent to the Principal's office in elementary school for writing a note to a boy which contained ugly sentiments about his mother. I don't remember his name and I'm pretty sure I never met his mother. I don't even remember why I wrote the nasty note, but he started crying and I got sent to the Principal's office for it. I didn't get in any trouble really. I was required to tell him I was sorry, but that was it. I was relieved my parents didn't get a call though. I can only imagine that my mother would have been disappointed in my pathetic attempt. Surely I could have been more caustic.

Anyway, it was mean and I wish I hadn't done that.

And sometimes I shudder when I think back on a conversation I had with a highly educated and articulate man. At the time I had embarked on a new life mission to be open and vulnerable with people, to compliment freely and without concern for whether they would think I was weird. Nothing about that goal is regrettable. But somewhere deep in my core I have the feeling I said something along the lines of, 'I'm so impressed by how articulate you are, for a black man.' Seriously? Was that last part necessary? I don't regret being open but I do regret being ignorant.

Anyway, it was stupid and wish I hadn't done that.

I am happy to report that I never wrote another nasty note about someone's mother (besides my own, I mean) and I never again added the caveat for a black man (or any other unnecessary qualifier) to a compliment. It would be nice if I could say these are the only two regrettable things I've ever done. But they aren't. Not by a long shot. As I said, I have a fairly large collection.

The thing is, I can't change anything about the past. Although I try to live without regret, sometimes stuff happens that, in retrospect, I wish hadn't. Sometimes I make bad choices. I can either beat myself up over my mistakes or I can learn from them and move forward. Life is messy. Mistakes are bound to happen. Focusing on the past doesn't do any good. But learning from the past does.

I figure surviving tomorrow's apocalypse will provide me with the opportunity to start fresh. The past is the past and it's over. Whatever regrets I might have about the past can be turned into anticipation for something positive in the future.

It is never too late to live a better life.

Or to lose ten pounds.

Enjoying the Party....

The older I get, the greater my conviction that life is a party.

Of course there are bad elements tossed in with the good experiences. I'm not suggesting we should make light of life's tragedies but, in general, we seem to vascilate between making a big deal of  misfortunes and being grateful for the good things that happen.

I'm convinced the best of life occurs in between, in the messy, unpredictable, quirky, wonderful, magical, plain old ordinariness that often gets lost. There in the middle, a party is happening. If we take the time to notice.

I'm blessed to have several people in my life who share my love of celebrating. We plan parties for the big things, the little things, and the ordinary things. We even celebrate the unusual, and somewhat offbeat things. Which is why it seemed perfectly normal when my friends Debbie and Laena and I decided to have a small, intimate 1960s themed Christmas party.

The idea just sort of evolved. It started with a conversation about old family photos that my siblings and I found, merged with a suggestion that a retro theme party would be fun, and before we knew what was happening, we were caught up in planning a Christmas party circa 1962.

It was very important to us that this be a pre-social revolution sixties party. We weren't interested in the countercultural movement for this event. No beads and peace signs for us. We were going Camelot all the way. It was to be a casual party. An ordinary event from an ordinary time.

The goal was to try and make everything as authentic as possible so we could take photos. Lots and lots of photos. We work very hard at not denying our self-obsessed, narcissistic tendencies so pretty much everything we do serves as an opportunity to take photos. The retro party was no exception.

Of course, in addition to us, martinis and cigarettes would get top billing in all the photographs. There seemed to be a lot of those back in the day (martinis and cigarettes, I mean), so in keeping with authenticity, we felt it only right to include them.

At the last minute we decided someone had to be pregnant. Our theme era took place before the surgeon general got all fussy about things like smoking and drinking while pregnant so our photos had to show our 'with child' guest imbibing. The challenge to our gestational addition was that Debbie and I are too old and Laena's outfit didn't accommodate a spur of the moment pregnancy. The only other option was Anna. Game for her role as the preggers party guest, we immediately started padding her with towels.

But, a pregnant Anna presented further issues of authenticity. In the early 1960s a pregnant, unmarried, 17-year old would not have been socially acceptable. She would have been whisked off to live with a maiden aunt for the duration of her pregnancy. She would then return to her community with the story that she had attended an extended cheerleading camp and all would, semingly, be returned to normal. People of that era really hated to be bothered with truth and reality. Consequently, our mommy-to-be needed to gain a couple of years. We solved all of this by giving Anna a sophisticated hairstyle...and a wedding ring...making her impending towel-birth far less shocking.

It is worth noting that neither Anna's cigarette, martini, nor pregnancy was real.

As we progressed further into the evening we added some drama by creating a little back story about Anna's husband being Laena's ex-boyfriend:

And Debbie as the hard living, cigarette smoking, martini drinking, cocktail waitress:

 

I tried to adopt the role of depressed, bored, housewife:

But this attempt was mostly unsuccessful because Debbie kept making me laugh. We ended up looking more like Lucy and Ethel:

I admit, this probably isn't a typical way to spend a Friday night in December. But it was a fun way. And later, after our party ended, I started reflecting on the fact that 1962 wasn't all that long ago. And yet, it was a lifetime ago. My lifetime ago. A lifetime of joy and pain. A lifetime of success and failure.

A lifetime of extraordinary, but more often, a lifetime of plain old ordinary.

There are times when I'm at odds with my own life, when things aren't just as I want them to be or, worse yet, when I don't even know what I want them to be.

But as time keeps pressing forward I am learning to notice the messy, unpredictable, quirky, wonderful, magical, plain old ordinariness of life. And I like it.

I learned a few things from Friday night: Life is short, make it as authentic as possible. Laugh a lot. Take tons of photos.

And enjoy the party.