Tiny Tim Goes Shopping

There is nothing my mother enjoys more than shopping.

Well, okay. That's not entirely true. We all know she likes collecting men  But just after collecting men, she likes shopping.  And if she can collect men who will take her shopping...all the better.

Of course she likes her wine too...I'm not sure of the exact order of things, but shopping ranks right up there as something my mother enjoys most in life. Wine. Men. And shopping.

She particularly likes to go shopping at Christmastime. My mother firmly adheres into the notion that Christmas is about the buying and giving of stuff. Every December she calls me and whines that she doesn't get to go shopping and wants to buy presents. And I, who dislikes shopping and holiday crowds, tell her how cold it is and how frenzied the stores are, and negotiate the purchase of gift cards on her behalf, which can be opened on Christmas morning so that she feels she's given a gift and I've avoided having to take her shopping in December. It was a system that was working just fine until Steve entered into the mix. He's such a little Christmas elf.

Every year Steve suggests we take Mommie Dearest shopping, just for the pure joy of getting out in the hustle and bustle with her. Every year I say no. The words pure, joy, and shopping with my mother cannot be formed into a single sentence. This year when he started saying we should take her shopping I responded only slightly less adamantly than I would have if he said we should vacation in North Korea.

NO.

So he tried an different tactic by appealing to Anna's sense of compassion and, less jaded than I, she agreed. They went yesterday, Bob Chachit and Fred, and loaded little Tiny Tim and her walker into the car and took her out into the Christmas decorations, lights, and music. It even snowed all storybook and perfectlike.

Scrooge stayed home and worked.

(Source: Google Images)

They didn't take her out for long or to very many places. She doesn't have the stamina for much. They took her to a Charming Charlie store loaded with costume jewelry, purses, and scarves where she got so excited she developed a  headache, heart palpitations, and lightheadedness.  She had to sit down for a while. Three times. Fortunately she didn't have a stroke. That would have put a damper on the whole storybook outting. Nevertheless, she was thrilled and her Christmas was made. He joy was complete.

All it took was a kind-hearted man and his daughter to put in the effort to take an elderly woman out to do what she loves best. Or second best. Maybe third. Regardless, they lived out the meaning of Christmas. And giving. And sacrifice. They personified what this Christmas business is all about. I can see that now and I've considered what they did.

I'm prepared. Next year when Mommie Dearest calls me complaining that she can't go Christmas shopping I'm pretty sure I know what my answer will be.

Bah Humbug.

I'm gonna need a few more ghostly visits for that one.

Breaking the Self-Loathing Rules

I like myself.

There. I said it. 

I recognize, according to our culture, I'm not supposed to. But I do. I like the person I've become. 

It's not that I spend a huge amount of time thinking about how much I like myself. I'm not that narcissistic. I have come to realize, however, that I like who I am. Which is not, I venture to guess, playing by the rules. There's no denying how deeply ingrained self-loathing is in American culture. Especially for a woman over 50.  I'm supposed to dislike my wrinkles, abhor my body, despise my hair, and fear the aging process.  Not to mention that I shouldn't like my personality quirks.

I'd be lying if I said I've always been okay with who I am. I haven't.  But the older I get, the gentler I'm becoming with my eccentric, wrinkly, saggy, greying self.  Okay, that's not true.  I still don't like my greying hair. It's not that I hate it, necessarily. I just hide it behind the magic of chemicals.  Perhaps I haven't fully arrived. Nevertheless, I like most of the person I've become.

This focus on self-loathing came to my attention last week as I was testing out a hiring program at work. The premise of the program is that the applicant reads a word which pops up on a computer screen and then determines if the word is descriptive of them or not.  I completed the assessment putting words like "quiet," "defensive," and "difficult," in the 'not me' category  and words like, "cheerful," "optimistic," and "witty" in the 'me' category.  It all seemed harmless enough. I was truthful in my responses and I liked the words that described me.

The next step of the process is where I had trouble. Following the sorting exercise, I was given a list of the very same words. Next to the 'me' words were check marks. The instructions were to put additional check marks by the words that described what I want to be. Presumably I was to un-check the ones that described what I didn't want to be. 

I was perplexed. The assumption seemed to be that I wouldn't like some of the words that described me. Except that wasn't true.  I liked the words that described me. Because I like me. Sure I want to continue growing into a better me.  But I don't dislike the me that I am (grey hair excepted). The program assumed I'd dislike some of the words that described me and desire some of the words that didn't. I wasn't supposed to be happy with who I am.

In the midst of angst over that whole message,  I got a call from a cosmetics representative about one of those weird home parties that I had agreed to attend. I said I'd go because I wanted to see my friends. But the representative was doing her job trying to build a clientele.  She asked a series of questions, the final one being, "What is the one thing you dislike most about your skin?"  Again, the assumption was that, of course I'm dissatisfied with something. Only I'm not. Yes, I have at times been dissatisfied. And my mother is quite dissatisfied with my wrinkles. Yet these days I sort of like my wrinkles. I've earned them and I don't have any desire to look like a creepy wax figure of myself.

Here's the thing. Being older isn't bad. And being quirky is just who I am. Some people are fat. Some are tall. Some are fat and tall.  Some are Asian. Some are witty. Some are dull. The list goes on and on.  Is it really necessary to assume we all dislike something about ourselves? 

Obsessing over things we don't like takes a lot of time. Time that could be spent caring for someone else. Or complimenting them. Or doing something kind.

We live in a culture of self-loathing. But we don't have to conform to what culture says...because it is a lie. We can look in the mirror and like what we see.  We can laugh too loudly and then laugh some more.  We can say off-the-wall things that make people wonder if we have Turrets, and chuckle to ourselves at their response. Not that I have experience with any of those things, of course.

The truth is, we aren't required to tell ourselves we're fat, or ugly, or socially awkward. We can tell ourselves we're wonderful just the way we are. We can be kind to ourselves and love ourselves and take that positive energy out into the world.

Because the world needs less self-loathing...and a lot more love.

Pearls and Tennis Shoes

I've spent an inordinate amount of time looking at this photograph trying to figure out the story behind it. With very little information I've attempted to piece details together, but no matter how hard I try, I simply can't figure out what was happening when this shot was taken.

What I do know is these are my ancestors; the progenitors of my children, my siblings, and me. The colorful, crusty, unrefined gene pool from which we are descended. Coming from a line of sedate, well-mannered, socially acceptable types would have been boring. But we don't have to worry because there wasn't a sedate, well-mannered, socially acceptable soul among them.

These are our people.

The one on the left is my grandmother, Beatrice. The two in the middle were her younger twin brothers, Bert and Boyd. The little one, on the right, wistfully looking into the distance was their older sister, Nellie.

There are so many unanswered questions about this photograph. Why is my grandmother wearing a white dress, pearls, and blue tennis shoes? Why are the others dressed casually but she's dressed up? Why do they all look sad? Or worried? Or discouraged? What is Nellie thinking as she gazes somewhere else, not paying attention to the photographer? Where are they? What is the occasion?

I'll never know. Nobody who knew anything about this picture is still alive. All of these siblings have gone on to the other side and while I have no idea what the afterlife looks like, I'm pretty sure if it is calm and serene and gentle, these four aren't there. If it involves smoking and drinking, swearing and gambling, befriending outlaws, and telling bawdy jokes, however, I've no doubt they are happily settled in.

When I was a little girl a lot of things scared me. My grandmother among them. As I grew into adulthood, though, I learned that she was funny and lively and genuine. She spent her final years playing bingo, going to dances, and riding a bus to Las Vegas several times a year. I don't think she ever saw a show in Las Vegas, for her it was all about playing the slot machines. She never fit into the 'grandmother' mold.  Thankfully. She never really fit into any mold. I liked her style. Be who you are and ignore what others think.

My memories of Bert and Boyd are dimmed by a haze of cigarette smoke. Most of my recollections of them are around a poker table. I grew up hearing the stories of their friendship with the notorious outlaw Pretty Boy Floyd. As a little girl my mother was with them when they hid Pretty Boy under a pile of laundry so the police wouldn't find him. On the surface that may seem undesirable but to them their friend wasn't a 'bad guy.' He was a 'good guy' who was helping the poor. I liked their style. Live by your convictions even if others don't agree.

Nellie was tiny but strong. She was divorced when it wasn't a socially acceptable thing to do and she never remarried. In an era when few women wore pants instead of dresses, Nellie bucked convention and dressed in slacks. She lived in the city, had a career, and went against the grain of social expectations for her time. Nellie told me bawdy jokes and laughed heartily. She died in Las Vegas with her sister, gambling to the very end.  I liked her style. Shun oppressive convention and walk through life with confidence.

I'm never going to know the real story behind this photograph. It is too late. But I do have memories of the way these four people lived their colorful, meaningful lives. Maybe I'll use what I know of them to piece together a fictional story to go along with the picture. A story to guide my children, my siblings, and me in how to live fully and courageously. A story to remind us.

These are our people.

The Kindness of Noticing

Random Acts of Kindness is a thing.

I like to hear of someone paying for the next person's venti, half-caf, low-fat, vanilla latte at the Starbuck's drive-thru window (proof that drinking coffee makes one a nicer person) or the benevolent tipper who leaves a huge sum of money for their poor, hard-working server. Those things matter. Regardless of how small, they make the world a better place. I'm especially appreciative of how intentional these givers are. I assume they, in some way, have planned their act of kindness.

Source: coffeecupsandcrayons.com

But, I also appreciate acts of kindness that flow out of people without any pre-meditation. Those things that happen... just because they noticed something.

Twice this week I've been on the receiving end of the kindness of others, not because they planned to do a kind act that day (I don't think) but just simply because they noticed something. I doubt either person knew how much what they did mattered to me. I suspect they didn't give it much thought.

But I did.

Before I explain what they did, I'll just say both acts made me think about how easy it is to encourage someone. Of course, it is just as easy to discourage someone, but this story is about encouraging and I don't want to mess up the goodness mojo with negative talk.

Story number one begins with me stopping at the grocery store for toothpaste. Just one little tube of minty fresh toothpaste was all I needed.  I was on my way home from work and for whatever reason, that day I was feeling particularly tired. Not at all minty fresh.  I went to a store that never seems to have any customers, thinking I could get in and out quickly. After locating the toothpaste I went to the check-out lines only to find that the seven other customers who went to the store that day had all come at the same time, filled their carts, and were just ahead of me.  What I did next seems, in retrospect, a little on the petty side.

I counted items.

Having gone to the Express Lane - which had a sign that said "15 Items or Less"  (and should say "15 Items or Fewer"...but that's just me being petty again) - with my one item, I found myself feeling irritated at the woman in front of me who had more than 15 purchases. Fortunately she didn't see me peering over the edge of her cart, counting. Moments later, however, when I was gazing in the other direction, she turned to me and said, "Oh, you only have one item, go ahead of me."  Feeling a little sheepish about my attitude toward her only seconds before, I thanked her, moved in line ahead of her, bought my toothpaste and left quickly, which had been the goal in the first place.  It wouldn't have killed me to wait but I appreciated her kindness in not making me.  It was a tiny thing. But it made my day brighter. My weary little self felt less weary.

Perhaps I was more aware of her act of kindness because, having been on the receiving end a few days earlier, I had already been thinking about how meaningful simple gestures can be.

As much as I haven't wanted to think about it, my friend Debbie is moving away. For years we have talked about that someday when she and her husband would move and settle into retirement. I didn't worry much about it because it was always in the future. Except now it isn't. Now her house in Colorado is on the market, another one in Kansas purchased, and someday is upon us for real. As much as I am trying to be a grownup and embrace the change, thinking about it makes me forget to breathe.

Debbie and I became friends years ago while singing in our church choir. We both had sons named Parker and before long we discovered we each thought the other was hilarious.  We've shared a lot of life over nearly twenty years. Some good stuff. Some bad stuff. Some silly and some serious. Always with laughter, we've been deeply invested in each other's lives for a very long time.

It feels a little like I've been told I'm having a vital appendage removed.

Last weekend at a gathering of the music ministry, there was time set aside to honor Debbie for her years of service and to pray for her 'new life.' Many wonderful things were said of Debbie and heartfelt prayers were offered for a smooth transition. It was lovely and caring and meaningful and all about Debbie when, out of the blue, one quiet, unassuming man offered a simple prayer for me because, as he put it, "Sue will be lost without Debbie."

He is right. I will.

This man doesn't know me well, but clearly his powers of observation are intact. Amid care and concern for Debbie, he thought to remember what this would mean for me. He had bothered to notice how close we are and anticipate how different my life will be with Debbie in another state.

Something so simple. So kind. So meaningful.

Both the woman in the grocery store and the man in the prayer circle reminded me that kindness is not just about doing, but also about noticing. The art of noticing and caring and then doing.

Perhaps in addition to Random Acts of Kindness, we should start a movement of Random Acts of Noticing, Which In Turn Result In Random Acts of Kindness.

Although the title might need work.

Whatever the title, it doesn't take a lot of planning or effort but simple kindness can mean so much.

Limes Need Love Too

Wait! Summer is OVER???

The Scream by Edvard Munch

Although the autumnal equinox doesn't come for couple of weeks summer is, for all intents and purposes...over. 

Sad.

Summer is my very favorite season. For lots of reasons I suppose. Maybe there is some throwback to childhood summers when fun and play were the order of the day. Or maybe it is that when my own children were in school, summer was our time to just goof around. I like flowers. And heat. And chirping crickets. I like it all and I set my intentions on enjoying it. Except somehow, this summer didn't seem nearly as delightful as I had hoped.

There were a number of reasons for that, really. Some were self-imposed, like taking on far too much work all at once. I forgot about that boundary setting business. Some were God imposed, like rain. Every. Single. Day. Rain is nice and all, but too much of a good thing gets burdensome. Some were externally imposed, like horrific news events that make me think everyone has gone certifiably insane.

It was a tough summer.

I wasn't entirely ready for Anna to return to school when she did; it seemed to come up far too quickly. Nevertheless, we drove her to another state, got her settled, and returned home in early August. I felt sad. In the following week I was working a million hours everyday to meet deadlines. It rained. Every. Single. Day. There were riots in Missouri and reports of Robin Williams' suicide. Russia invaded Ukraine. Ebola was ravaging West Africa and hopeless refugees were trapped atop Mount Sinjar. A friend's son had just died tragically in the prime of his life and other friends were coming to terms with their son's incurable brain tumor.

It was a very tough summer.

One afternoon that week, amid all the soberness, I stopped at the little market in my neighborhood to buy some fresh produce. Lemons were on my list and as I approached the stand where they were displayed in mounds of yellow, I saw a young woman and her two small children stationed in front of them. The woman was deeply engaged in a conversation with her son. I'm not sure what they were talking about...maybe the merits of citrus or the dangers of scurvy.  I don't know, but the little girl was seemingly unnoticed for those few minutes. Left to her own devices she did what anyone would do I suppose. Or maybe what I hope we would all do. She started singing.

To the nearby limes.

It started off as a simple little song. I didn't recognize the tune. In fact, it was rather avant garde with its dissonant notes, uneven rhythm, and lack of any discernible rhyming patterns. Before long the girl became quite impassioned and the song took on a decidedly loving tone. She loved those limes. Everybody loved those limes. Limes were the best thing in the world. In fact, all existential meaning in life could be found in those simple limes.

Okay. She didn't sing that last part. But she might as well have. I just stood and listened as she sang her limey love song with every bit of her soul. I smiled. My spirit lifted. And yes, she was in my way and I couldn't reach the lemons.

But it didn't matter. I appreciated her zeal for the limes so much that I didn't really need to reach the lemons at that very moment. Somehow, amid the fatigue and tragedy and sadness, the little lime crooner gave me hope.

No, her song didn't change anything that had weighed down my spirit that week. It didn't end hatefulness. It didn't cure cancer. It didn't make tragedy less painful.

It did remind me, however, that love is more powerful than hate. That joy is more powerful than sorrow. That all people...and all limes...need to feel loved. As long as there is love there is hope.

The little girl reminded me that we would all benefit by singing words of love to the limes.

And to one another.

He Didn't Stop and He Went Blind

Turns out the notion if you don't stop you'll go blind is true.

Well...maybe.

My evidence regarding this claim is sketchy at best. Plus it's only based on one example, so reliability might be lacking. But still, the hypothesis is compelling and since I base this claim on the life of a cat, I'm thinking this probably adds to my credibility. 

A few weeks ago we added another name to our family's dead cat roster. To be clear, we don't acquire cats in order to add them to the list, it just sort of comes with the whole cat ownership thing. Willie was our latest fatality. When we took him in we named him William Alexander Jenkins the Third. I have no idea if there ever was a William Alexander Jenkins the First. Or Second. It just seemed a rather regal name for a cat. But old William had a...behavior quirk...we hadn't encountered in a cat before. In fact, I didn't even know a cat could do that. It sort of took away from the regality if you ask me. As it was, the shortened version of his name was rather apt.

Giving Willie a home wasn't my idea. As all of our cats have been, Willie was a shelter cat in need of a loving place to belong. He was old and sickly and had very little to offer as a pet. Anna had been taken in by his only real selling point; engaging, emerald green eyes set against a deep gray furry backdrop. She claimed he needed a home. I claimed he needed a different home than ours. She felt a deep conviction that we were his only hope. I maintained three cats were plenty. Steve remained quiet on the subject for a while. Eventually, though, Old Softy got involved in the conversation by stating that we already had three cats anyway, what was one more? It was two against one. I lost.

Several things became apparent as soon as Willie came home with us. One, Willie was old. Two, Willie was sick. Three, Willie only ate human food. Four, Willie hated other cats. Five, Willie had an awkward addiction.

It took a bit for us to catch on to what Willie was doing. Or maybe nobody wanted to admit they thought Willie was doing what it seemed Willie was doing. We'd never had a cat who did this before. At first there were uncomfortable moments when one of us would recognize what was happening and glance around the room to see if anyone else noticed. It was actually a little embarrassing. Eventually, though, we collectively concluded that yes, Willie was doing what we thought Willie was doing. We just had no idea what to do about what Willie was doing.

We tried distracting him mid-socially unacceptable behavior, but this only served to make him agitated and surly. Everyone in the family agreed they could understand Willie's response. But still, letting it just happen seemed weird. We couldn't figure out how to communicate to Willie that he should really only do that in private. Cats aren't the best about following social conventions. This had the potential to make things quite awkward when we had guests.

We discovered a few patterns that helped discourage Willie's activities a little. Nice soft blankets seemed to enhance the experience so we removed comfy throws from public living areas. Reducing Willie's stress seemed to help a bit as well. As for guests, we decided to be open about Willie when company was around, "Oops, Willie forgets his manners, let me just take him into another room." It was unusual to be sure, but what else could we do with our cat's unconventional proclivities?

Over time Willie seemed to moderate his own behavior a little. Either that or he just got too old and sick to do it as often. Either way he cut back to only several times per day. We started noticing a pretty rapid decline in his health in early spring and one day we saw him walk right into a table leg. His failing eyesight had been obvious for some time, but now it seemed Willie couldn't see a thing. He hadn't stopped and sure enough...he'd gone blind.

As time went on Willie lost weight and agility and except for a few sessions of personal satisfaction every day, his quality of life seemed to be slipping away. On Willie's last day we held him, told him we loved him, and then put him on a soft blanket and let him have some time alone. We figured it was the second most compassionate thing we could do that day. It was his obsession up until the very end.

I've never had a cat like Willie before. I'd be okay if I never do again. We gave him a good and loving home and more than once we looked away and just pretended not to notice. If Cat Heaven is the compassionate and understanding place I think it is William Alexander Jenkins the Third is there now with a nice soft blanket, a room of his own, and emerald green eyes that will never again fail.

Sadie's Sentence

Sadie finally had her day in court.  Well, Sadie didn't go to court. I did. Sadie stayed home and slept with a cat. Because that's what dangerous animals do.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

 

Steve accompanied me to the courthouse. He said he was going as moral support but, in reality, I'm pretty sure he went along thinking he might need to hold me back if I started swinging and yelling, "Lemme at 'em! Lemme at 'em!"

 

I almost did.

 

The whole experience was infuriating.

 

Step one was meeting with a snarky city prosecutor. I'm not sure if her job description includes snarkiness, although I doubt it. If it does, however, someone should alert HR because she deserves a raise for fulfilling her role quite well. Making sure to be as condescending as possible, she explained the whole situation to me. I already knew the story. I was there.

 

Following her description and explanation of the Potentially Dangerous Animal charge I was facing, she told me the city was prepared to offer a plea bargain for Running-at-Large. Sadie...not me.  

 

Running-at-Large? All of the documentation, citation, and descriptions in the case, state that Sadie was on a leash and harness at the time of the vicious one-inch-jean-ripping incident. Now, however, I could plead guilty to letting her run-at-large? Doesn't that mean she was out having a dog free for all, eating garbage, peeing everywhere, dancing in the streets, biting anyone she could find, all with no human supervision?  

None of that was true.

Neither was the Potentially Dangerous Animal charge but that would just be splitting hairs.

Fortunately I wasn't testifying. No Bibles and claims of truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth were involved. This whole affair wasn't about telling the truth. Nor about justice. It was about making money. It was about backing me into a corner by 'benevolently' reducing the first untrue charge for a lesser and even more untrue charge. When I balked at this I was told I could plead 'not-guilty' and take the whole thing to trial by jury. Oh, and by the way that would mean I'd have to retain a lawyer. Oh, and by the way, if you do here is the list of charges associated with going that route. 

But suit yourself. Really.

It was at that point I stated clearly what a scammy load of crap this was. I glanced at Steve who was making all manner of non-verbal facial and hand gestures to tell me to calm down. I considered pulling his hair. 

I compromised myself and took the plea bargain because in the end it was all about money for me too. I chose the least expensive way out of a situation that never needed to go to court in the first place. It galled me to stand before a judge and plead guilty to something not even remotely true.

In a word...it sucked.

Interestingly, the whole reason why I was cited was that the boy's parents wanted fifty-bucks for the kid's jeans. Not once did they state a concern about Sadie as a dangerous dog. The Potentially Dangerous Animal charge was the brainchild of the city. It was not, however, until I asked about paying restitution that the prosecutor even remembered that part of the case.

The kid got money for his jeans. The city got their $100. Sadie got court mandated obedience school which she has been attending voluntarily since the incident occurred. When I mentioned this it seemed nobody spoke English anymore and they couldn't understand a word I was saying. In addition, for the next year my sweet little rescue dog gets to wear a muzzle anytime she leaves our house. The judge was quick to give me all the financial ramifications should I fail to comply and Sadie were to rip someone else's jeans. I gathered he didn't want me to mistake the punishment as being about the safety of the citizens of Centennial rather than replenishing the city coffers.

It's done. I'll get over my anger at the system. I'd still rather be in the United States dealing with the broken judicial system than anywhere else in the world. It just didn't need to go to court.

So please...if you see Sadie running wildly around town wearing her Jason hockey mask looking for jeans to rip up...just call me.

I'll take care of it.