Connected by Crazy

I made a best friend the other day. Granted, the relationship only lasted about 30 seconds. Maybe it was a minute, I'm not sure. Nevertheless, for those few seconds we were the only two people in the world. The next thing I knew, she was gone.

Never underestimate the power of a chance encounter with a stranger.

(Source: Google Images) 

The day hadn't started off great. Well, actually the day started off just fine but shortly after waking it took a bit of a turn. As I was enjoying some early morning coffee and alone time, my peace was disrupted by a phone call from my beloved cat's veterinarian. The doctor apologized for calling so early but said that my Princess's blood chemistry revealed some fairly dire health concerns. My girl is quite sick and while we can't cure her, the vet felt the most compassionate thing we can do is make her comfortable so she feels better until the inevitable happens. That call and the subsequent trip to the veterinarian's office, with the unhappy cat in tow, changed the tone for my day. Although I'm not one for feeling sorry for myself, the truth is, I was decidedly sadder.

I couldn't just sit around and feel sad, though. There were things to do and life to be lived. I love my cat very much but she is, after all, a cat and not a human. I will do what I can to make her remaining days comfortable and when she dies I will grieve, but I've been through enough feline deaths and human deaths to know they aren't exactly the same. Life will go on and, in fact, on that particular day a lot of life needed to happen.

Anna was home for Thanksgiving break and she, Steve, and I set out to do a few errands. I needed to go to Costco. Of all things. Two days before Thanksgiving. Who in their right mind goes to Costco two days before Thanksgiving?  Apparently all of Denver.

And us.

The crowds were thick. Oodles of people were steering gigantic carts in front of others, cutting them off without warning, to grab a bite-sized sample of canned cinnamon rolls. People in motorized shopping carts weaved wildly through throngs of shoppers, as though they were being pursued in a high-speed police chase. Small children dawdled in the middle of the isle, dancing and singing to themselves while harried shoppers tried to navigate past them.

A typical day at Costco.

I wasn't overly bothered by all the mayhem. It comes with the territory. If you're gonna go to Costco two days before Thanksgiving, don't expect to shop alone. The problem wasn't the mass of humanity buying groceries, office supplies, and twerking Santa's. No, the problem was my very own darling husband who, for whatever reason, chose this time, this location, and this day to temporarily go insane.

I'm not entirely sure what was the actual problem. We were at the store to purchase food for an event he was attending. Right there, in the middle of Costco chaos, Steve's ability to make any decisions vanished. Along with losing decision making capabilities, he lost all capacity for hearing and considering my suggestions. Frustration, anger, and agitation all entered the scene as we stood, in the way of frantic shoppers, having a circular conversation about what to buy. Or not. Reasoning skills made a hasty, stage right exit. It went on and on and on. At one point Steve stepped away and Anna quietly said to me, "Is this weird, or is it just me?" My response...."So weird!"

I had no idea what was happening to Steve, but look, we all get nutty at times. I get it. He just happened to have chosen a very bad day and a very busy place. At some point in the ever deteriorating scene, he decided to purchase a pre-made Ceaser salad. Whew. We started making our way from the back of the store to the cash registers, navigating the human landmines grabbing samples like they had been deprived of food for days. When we finally got close enough to survey the lines and choose a lane to stand in, a man whom I'd never seen before in my life, sidled up next to me and said hello. I said hello back. He proceeded to stand there smiling at me like I should know whatever secret he held. I awkwardly smiled back.

OMG. Now what was happening??

Finally he said, "I see you have a salad there." Glancing into the cart I said, "Yes, I do." He proceeded to say, "I just heard on the news that there is an e coli outbreak and they are recalling ALL Romaine lettuce."  Seriously? We just spent 45 minutes in chaos deciding what to buy and now, just as we are about to pay for it you tell me it is contaminated?  I thanked the man for telling me, as Anna quickly looked up the information on Google and confirmed that he was right, the announcement had just been issued. Literally. While we were debating what to purchase, the CDC had put out a statement saying all Romaine lettuce was unsafe to eat. There hadn't even been time to pull Romaine from the store shelves yet. A defeated Steve muttered, "Well, I can't buy that now," and pulled the salad out of the cart to return it to the refrigerated shelves in the back of the store. Back to square one.

As we stood in the mass of humanity with endless lines to the cash register, I said aloud, "This is crazy." A woman about my age, maybe a little older, standing next to me, surveyed the crowd and offered, "Oh yes, isn't it?" I turned to her and gesturing to all the people said, "Oh, I didn't mean all this. This I can handle. I'm talking about my husband." A couple of seconds of silence hung in the air and then her eyes widened, she threw back her head and started laughing. Loudly. Her response sparked my own laughter and she grabbed my hands. There we stood, in a sea of harried Costco shoppers, two strangers, holding hands and laughing with abandon. Knowingly. Our souls connected.

We've all been there.

When our laughter finally slowed, she released my hands and off she went, immediately melting into the hundreds of people. Right then, right there. A stranger had changed the tone of my day.

My cat was still sick and my husband was still a temporary nut case, but in those few moments of laughter with a stranger, I knew it was all going to be okay. I'd deal with the cat issues as they came and my husband would eventually return to the sane, charming man he usually is. Spontaneous, unabashed laughter with a total stranger had been the release valve I needed.

Here's the thing. We forget how connected we are as humans. I didn't have to explain to my momentary buddy what had transpired with Steve. She just knew. Maybe not the details, but she knew. She had been there. That man who told me not to buy the salad cared enough to keep me from buying something potentially harmful. And that person who darted in front of me to get a tiny slice of ham, we had something in common too. Maybe not ham lust but...something. There is some experience or feeling we've both had that is a point of connection.

All it takes is a moment, a comment, or a small action to realize we are all in this together. Despite how it seems, there is more of love in this life than hate.

It is easy to get distracted by all the noise and fear and 'other-ing' bombarding us on the daily. Sometimes it just takes a burst of laughter with a stranger to remember.

We are all connected.

And our connection is love.

The Accomplishments That Weren't

The calendar has just rolled over to a new year.

(Source: Google Images)

I mention this in case you've been taking a very long nap. It's a new year and as I take stock of the one that just passed I feel pretty good about it. Overall, I accomplished quite a bit. Except for all the things I said I was going to accomplish.

Of those I accomplished nothing.

On my birthday, just before the kickoff of 2014, I read an article about a woman who on her 31st birthday was lamenting several aspects of her life. She had just stepped outside, into a puddle, and was whining to herself when she looked up and saw a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop. Somehow the ice cream parlor provided her with an epiphany about her own life and how it needed variety, much like the variety of available ice-cream flavors. I'm pretty sure she explained it more eloquently than this but anyhow, even though Baskin-Robbins had dropped the 31 flavors from their name some time ago, she must have been old enough to remember it, and all the whining, puddle-stepping, birthday reflecting, and ice cream flavors fit together into an idea about how to change her life. She decided to ask her friends and family for suggestions of 31 new things she could do in the coming year to broaden her life experience and perspective. I admired her sense of adventure.

I liked the idea so much I decided to write a blog post asking for similar input. Except I wasn't turning 31. I was turning 55. I also wasn't lamenting my life nor had I stepped into a puddle but I guess I just got so caught up in the idea of doing new things that I didn't think the idea through very carefully. I planned to compose a list of 55 of my favorite suggestions. Had I taken the time to consider this I would have realized that doing 55 new things would mean accomplishing more than one per week. This was highly unlikely.

As it was I didn't get 55 ideas. I got 11. And two alternates which I wasn't sure I could commit to. Even so, undertaking 11 new challenges seemed a respectable list and I appreciated the input of those who had chosen to participate.

And that's as far as it went.  Not only did I not accomplish 55 new things, I didn't even accomplish 11.

I didn't even accomplish one.

There are a myriad reasons why I didn't complete my list of eleven new adventures. Probably the most important is that I didn't create a plan for how to accomplish them. The idea was a little hair-brained from the beginning. Without a plan it was pretty much doomed.

I could chastise myself for never even starting. I could call myself a failure or feel bad that I didn't follow through. I could try to hide the fact that I made a public plea for input and then never did a thing with the ideas people provided.

I could. But I won't.

Because whether the idea was a good one or not really doesn't matter. And whether I completed some, all, or none of my list really doesn't matter. I am not defined by what I accomplish. No one is defined by what they accomplished. Not really. There are a lot of people out there accomplishing a lot of great things, but in the end we aren't defined by what we accomplish.

We are defined by how we treat others.

We are defined by our offerings of joy and hope.

We are defined by our demonstrations of charity.

We are defined by the way we are good citizens of the world.

I'll hold on to my list. There are some really good ideas on it and some day I might be lamenting my life and step into a puddle and decide to accomplish them all. Or maybe I'll never accomplish any. It doesn't matter because I'm not defined by my accomplishments.

I am defined by love.

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.

My Fair Doggie

So this dog ownership thing...somebody should have told me what I was getting into.

Apparently all those things you hear about the differences between cats and dogs are true. Having had a cat...or four...during the majority of my adult life, I'm pretty well versed in the world of the feline. Feed them. Let them think my bed is theirs. Pet them when they say I should. Create a weird, creepy pet cemetery in the backyard when they die. That pretty well sums it up. No walks. No baths. No assurances that they are good kitties. They really don't care if I think they are good. As long as they feel I'm catering to their whims everyone is happy.

Not so with dogs.

It just would have been nice if someone had told me about that before we impulsively took in an abused, rescue dog whose needs are vastly different from the felines of privilege who currently concede to let us live in their house. 

In reality, Sadie doesn't show all that many signs from her early life anymore. I think she's forgotten about her puppies. Being on death row seems a distant memory. She's well loved and although she wouldn't look at the cats when she first came to live with us, she has learned to cohabitate with them. One cat is her buddy, two don't really care about her one way or another, and another one is seemingly plotting her death on a daily basis. But then, he seems to be plotting everyone's death on a daily basis, so we don't worry about it too much. 

Until recently my daily walks with Sadie have been a refreshing routine. We would go out in the warmth of the day so she could sniff all the things that appeal to dogs and burn off some energy. I used the time not only to get a little exercise of my own but also to think and process. Without that time my thoughts tended to resemble a Fort Lee lane closure. It just wasn't healthy. Since Sadie made her way into our house my mind had been clearer. Walking had been a good thing for both of us.

Until it stopped being a good thing.

Our walking routine changed a couple of weeks ago when, for whatever reason, Sadie decided to exercise her cattle dog herding dog instincts on a young man who in no way resembled a cow. He was just an innocent, if a good bit larger than I, boy on his way home from school. She didn't actually hurt him but she ripped his pants and scratched his leg. 

I was horrified. He was upset. Sadie, however, had no idea she had done anything unacceptable. She was just doing what herding dogs do. This was the first clue I had an Eliza Doolittle on my hands.

I gave the boy my contact information and insisted I would pay to replace his pants. Immediately following the unfortunate herding incident I called Animal Control and Sadie was put under house arrest. First a teen pregnancy and now trouble with the law. My children never gave me this much trouble. 

Sadie was under house arrest for ten days. This meant no walks, no trips in the car, just a few quick jaunts into the back yard each day. During that time I didn't hear from the parents of the boy who had the misfortune to pass us, as I had hoped I would. I did go out for several days in search of him. I was prepared to offer him another apology and some money but I never saw him again.

When Sadie had served her time, a parole officer visited our house and told me the boy's parents were pressing charges and I had to appear in court. Although it was sad to think they didn't trust my word enough to believe we could work things out on our own I also knew the situation could have been much worse. This is when I knew it was time for Operation Pygmalion. Minus the patriarchal undertones.

The first step was to enroll Sadie in obedience school. We knew she was smart but up until this point we had felt what she needed most was love and recovery from her early life. Clearly love alone wasn't going to cut it anymore so I registered her at a School for Wayward Dogs. Going to school creates a lot of anxiety for Sadie. She attends class with a rowdy little Husky intent on being the center of attention and distracting Sadie from her studies. Nevertheless, with time and patience I'm confident Sadie will eventually calm down. Currently she demonstrates some mad sitting and lying down skills and I'm pretty sure she's going to show that feisty little Husky up when they start learning 'stay.'

My second step was to take her to a veterinarian. I had taken her once just after we adopted her but she was so thoroughly traumatized by the experience little was accomplished beyond making it inside the front door. This time she was somewhat better although it took two humans to subdue her enough for an examination. At one point I heard the veterinarian say, "It looks like you are putting on a little weight." I looked around the room for my mother but then realized the vet wasn't talking to me, she was talking to Sadie. It seems our overzealous approach to love has nudged her from an ideal weight of 25 pounds up to a tubby 30 and Sadie needs to go on a diet. As an act of solidarity I'm going to join her.

We start as soon as the batch of chocolate chip cookies I just made are gone. I mean it.

The last step in the remaking of Sadie was a bath. Every time Parker sees Sadie he asks if she's had a bath. Something in my spirit knew this was not going to be an easy endeavor. My spirit was right. I recruited Parker to join me in taking her to the self-service Bark 'n Wash as I knew I'd need help. I had no idea how much help. By the time we left for home Parker, two professional dog washers, and I were all drenched and exhausted from washing a 30 pound dog who should really only weigh 25 pounds.

 

Sadie and the bath of terror

The owner of the Bark 'n Wash refused to let me pay. I'm pretty sure she just felt sorry for me as I stood there bewildered and dripping. But Sadie was fluffy and clean.

I don't know exactly how things will end up in court. I've been assured Sadie won't be taken away from us but I suspect I'll be asked to pay restitution. Which is what I wanted to do in the first place. It won't surprise me if some additional costs are added on. Regardless, I intend to continue playing Professor Higgins to Sadie's Eliza Doolittle until she learns to become a proper little cattle dog.

But ultimately I plan to continue to love her first and foremost. Because, manners or no manners, what all of us need more than anything is love.

For the Love of Bunny Marshmallows

I've been threatening to run up and down the street naked for years.

Once when Anna was a baby and wouldn't stop crying I told her if she didn't stop soon I was going to take off all my clothes and run up and down the street naked. She was too young to know what I was saying, but Charles wasn't. He calmly responded with, "Don't you think that would be a little embarrassing?" I'm not sure he understood the concept of hyperbole. Anyway, ever since then when I get frustrated enough I make the same threat.

This week I happened across two separate magazine articles offering expertise on how to be a good parent. According to both of them I've been a bad one. Apparently you aren't supposed to threaten. However, now that my children are young adults I guess I'm off the hook. But only a little. Whatever bad decisions they make in life will surely come back to having a lousy mother.

I guess using a Tazer on them wasn't such a good idea either.

Okay fine, I didn't really use a Tazer on my children. But if I believe the message of the parenting articles, not using a Tazer is pretty much the only thing I did right.  One of the articles even detailed a strategy for how to give praise.

Really? We need instructions on how to give praise?

I don't remember following instructions on how to give my children praise. Praise seemed like a fairly straight forward exercise. I wasn't aware there was a right way or a wrong way. I just did it the best way I knew how and for the most part they seem okay. They don't seem too badly screwed up today because I didn't praise them the right way then. But the truth is, praise aside, I didn't parent my children perfectly. At all. Sometimes I was negligent. Sometimes I was too attentive. Sometimes I yelled. Sometimes I was inconsistent. Sometimes I was too controlling. Sometimes too harsh. Sometimes too soft.

Sometimes I just was.

Because like almost every parent, I was doing the best I could. Which is something I have to remind myself about my own parents too. There are no perfect parents. Nor are there perfect children.

Thank God. Perfection is so overrated.

We weren't (nor never will be) a perfect family. Consequently, my children are now entering the age where family get-togethers provide the opportunity to dredge up old stories about the times I went insane. They laugh about me losing my mind and yelling. Or the time when I dumped the entire bag of bunny marshmallows in the parking lot because they disobeyed me. Or the time I threw the full water bottle across the room in exasperation. (For the record, I didn't throw the water bottle at anyone...just across the room.) Those things didn't happen every day. But they happened. And although they make for funny stories now, at the time I felt terrible.

I didn't need to be so hard on myself though. In the end, my children weren't scarred because I sometimes lost my patience. They admit they often drove me to it. They also say they never expected me to be a perfect parent. All they really expected from me was love.

I think striving to be the best parent possible is a good thing. I'd never discourage someone from that. But striving to be a perfect parent raising the perfect child is a recipe for unnecessary stress and pressure. It isn't going to happen. Kids aren't always going to be what we want them to be, parents are going to screw up, and later on all that striving for perfection will just get in the way of honest relationships.

In the end it doesn't really matter how perfect anybody was. In the end all that really matters is that my children know they are loved. So yeah, they misbehaved and I dumped the bunny marshmallows in the parking lot.

(Source: Google Images)



They cried. I felt bad. They missed out on gelatin and corn syrup molded into something that vaguely resembled a pastel rabbit that spring. My self imposed penance for the long ago hasty punishment has been making sure they receive bunny marshmallows every Easter. I realize I really don't need to. Because even if I never gave them another bunny marshmallow in their entire lives my children would know they are loved.

Loved for who they are.

Not what they do.

Not how they act.

Nor look.

Nor what they accomplish. 

They are simply loved.

I'm absolutely certain I could never love my children more than I already do. I'm fairly certain I won't ever again feel the need to dump a bag of bunny marshmallows on the ground. But that running naked up and down the street thing...

...I make no guarantees.

Just Call Me Kip

Sometimes I hear people of my generation express their concern that technology is contributing to the demise of relationships by removing face-to-face contact. I disagree. In some ways technology has enhanced my relationships. I have no desire to return to the 'good old days' before the advent of cell phones and the Internet. In fact, I'm sort of the opposite.

I love technology.

(Source: Google Images)

 

Just call me Kip*.

 

This is not to suggest that I'm particularly savvy about the tech world. I'm not. But technology does afford me the opportunity to have a very short commute across the hall to my home office where I teach and connect with students almost entirely online. And through the magic of Facebook and Twitter I'm able to keep up with people I might otherwise lose contact with. Not to mention those people who just make me laugh on a regular basis. Some days Skype lets me see my sweet girl's face even though she's 400 miles away.

 

But what I love the most is the way silly group text messages keep my little family connected.

 

We've always been a pretty close family.When the kids were growing up we spent a lot of time together. And now some of our most favorite occasions are those when we are all together having deep conversation or laughing until our stomachs hurt. Sometimes both at the same time. Until recently, everyone lived at home, but lately they all decided to grow up and leave. This makes regular interaction a lot more challenging.

 

Our children are, of course, the generation who grew up with technology. They are able to keep up with rapid advances just fine. Steve and I grew up in a time when people thought the move from rotary dial phones to push buttons was a pretty big deal. We're a little slower to catch on. But we manage to hang in there.

 

After her recent fall break Anna and a friend drove back to college. By sending a group text to the rest of the family she was able to keep the other four of us informed on her whereabouts and the number of cows she could see. I'm not sure how, exactly, but somehow those updates sparked a lighthearted texting competition about who was 'Mom's favorite.' Criteria included who could make me laugh the most and who could make me cry the most.

 

For the record, there was no clear winner.

 

And another day Anna sent us a photo of some food from the college dining hall with a 'guess what this is,' prompt. Nobody got the right answer but the conversation that resulted from the question was pretty funny. Steve can be counted on to spell things incorrectly, insert non sequiturs, and throw in an obscene comment or two so the conversation never gets boring. We couldn't figure out what the food was. 

 

The guesses included broccoli and apple pie but it turns out the photo was of refried beans.

 

One of the more entertaining conversations came from a photo Parker sent of a sign that said, "Life is about using the whole box of crayons." At an earlier point when we had all actually, physically, been in the same place, Steve shared this quote with the family. He was being all deep and meaningful but Parker misunderstood and thought he said, "Life is about using the whole box of condoms." That alone was pretty funny. But then Parker saw the sign with the quote one day and sent a photo of it to the rest of the family and somehow things shifted to a revised version of the quote saying, "Life is about using the whole box of colored condoms." This created an immediate flurry of text messages to one another offering very colorful names for colored condoms.

 

Nothing like naming a condom 'Orgasmic Orange,' to keep a family connected.

 

Laughter is good for the soul.  And when our family connects, there is always a lot of laughter. Our children are, in the words of Kip, "like a flock of doves," scattering away from home a bit. But I feel blessed to live in a time when we can stay connected despite distance.

 

Charles turns 25 on Sunday. We can't all be in the same room to sing our traditional off-key "Happy Birthday" song. But, through the magic of cell phones we will still all be together.

 

I love technology.

 

Always and forever.

 

*In case you need a refresher on Kip's Wedding song:

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERCzN91JicA





Sadie and the Flood

In the middle of a massive flood, the likes of which this part of the country hasn't seen for at least 100 years, we, the card carrying cat people, adopted a dog.

Prior to a few days ago we never considered owning a dog. We've had all manner of cats but never has adopting a dog entered the picture. Not even once. But then Colorado started flooding and the world seemed insane and we did what any deeply committed cat people would do. We adopted a poor little homeless dog.

Meet Sadie

 

Sadie is young, just a puppy really, but her short life has been pretty challenging. She's already had a litter of her own puppies, learned a new language, been abused, and spent most of her life in a shelter. Sadie was on death row in New Mexico but granted a stay of execution by a benevolent woman who runs a no-kill rescue in Colorado.

Logic would say she is a flood refugee. Why else would non-dog people adopt her? But, logic doesn't have anything to do with this story. Nothing about the flood threatened Sadie's well-being. Yet everything about the flood prompted us to take her in.

The day the flooding started, I awoke to an alert on my phone. It said: Flood Alert only I didn't have my glasses on so I thought is said: Food Alert and hoped there wasn't a salmonella outbreak involving the strawberries I had just eaten the day before. It took a while before I realized that there was an increasingly serious situation brewing in Boulder and Parker was trapped in the middle of it.

I was able to keep in touch with Parker by cell phone through the days of flooding. I knew that he and his roommates were doing everything they could to keep water from filling the house they are renting. They had stored provisions on the roof in the event they were forced to escape and await rescue but none of this prevented me from worrying. Parker kept things light and funny. He didn't tell me some of the more harrowing tales like the fact he was driving down the street when the flash flooding started and was literally seconds away from having his car swept away in the river of rushing water. Even though I didn't know that until later, I couldn't help but feel concern for his safety.

For three days I watched the news and cried. Worried for my son and seeing the massive destruction, loss of property, and death, I felt sad and, like everyone, helpless to do anything but watch as the bewildering scenes worsened.  Entire towns were underwater. Parking lots turned into lakes.  Local roads became raging rivers. A young man caught a carp in a street typically reserved for cars.

It was much too surreal.

Nothing about the situation made me think, "we should get a dog!" But in the midst of all the mayhem we met Sadie, heard her sad story, and impulsively decided to let her come and live with us. I don't claim the two events connect clearly but I do have a theory.

When the flooding started we had no idea how bad things would get. Our home sits high enough up that we felt relatively safe but as we watched the news we saw familiar places ravaged by rising and rushing water. We could do the usual and immensely valuable things such as pray, make financial donations, and give blood. But there was little more we could offer.

I think when we met Sadie and heard her story, it felt like we could make her poor sad dog life better. It was something we could do.  Granted, it wouldn't help the people who had lost their homes and family members. It wouldn't make any difference in the clean up process or any aspect of the recovery.

It was simply giving a dog a second chance.

Yet it felt right. It felt like we were making a difference, in whatever small way, toward goodness in the midst of so much that was bad.

I know it sounds a little crazy. It is.

Had we consulted our cats they would certainly have thought we were losing it. And I'm pretty sure they would have advised against adopting a dog. She's here though. They are getting used to the idea. They may not love having Sadie around but they are adjusting.

As for Miss Sadie, she knows nothing of the flood. She's oblivious to the sorrow and destruction around us and she is learning to tolerate a house full of cats. At this point all Sadie knows is that she's loved and fed and walked.

And for the first time in her life, she's home.

.

Vive la Difference

What kind of person do you want to be? The ones in the first seat, the second seat, or the third seat?

The other day I got an email, with this photo attached, asking which kind of person I want to be. The sender included the comment: "I believe I know the answer but had to ask."

I admit, I love being known. But really now.  Anyone who knows me could answer that question. Heck, anyone who's ever met me in line at Starbucks could probably answer that question. My first row way of living is a little hard to temper.

I've tried.

But it doesn't work. And it never will. Because I'm not a third seat person. Or even a second seat person. I've spent my whole life with my skirt blowing up and laughing about it. I don't foresee any significant changes as I get older.

At first glance you might look at those women in the third row and assume they aren't having any fun. Or, you might assume they are intensely thanking their divine Deity of choice because they aren't sitting next to those obnoxious women in the front seat. Either of those might be true.

Or, it could just be they have fun in a quieter, more subdued way. I don't actually have any experience with that, personally, but I'm sure it is possible. Some people do enjoy life quietly. I have a few friends like that. Not many, admittedly, because these are not the people who tend to seek me out as a friend. I don't think they are entirely comfortable in my company. I tend to make quiet people anxious. But just because they aren't like me doesn't mean they aren't enjoying life. There isn't anything wrong with them. They are more inward. Those women in the third row could be unhappy. Or they could just be quiet.

The women in the second row seem to be having fun although I sense something else going on inside them. Like maybe they feel a little self-conscious. Or maybe they are feeling embarrassed for the women in the front seat. It is a sure bet the women in the front seat aren't feeling embarrassed for themselves. Trust me. I know. If embarrassment is necessary, somebody else is going to have to do it.

Overall, those second row ladies seem to be enjoying themselves. Perhaps less outwardly, but that doesn't mean they aren't having fun. I know a lot of second row types. Some of my favorite people are second rowers. They approach life with joy, but a bit more reservation. It's just how they are wired. They can go to bed at night relieved that they didn't make fools of themselves but still feeling fully satistifed that they had fun.

I appreciate the second and third row ladies. I really do. Because life is richer when it is made up of all kinds of people. Difference is good. Everyone can't live life in the first row. If so, the world would be wild and noisy and forever teetering on the brink of outrageousness.

But, thankfully I do have some first row people in my life. I love them dearly. They get me. I know I don't embarrass them and they don't mind that I live life out loud. They live out loud with me. Where two or more first rowers are gathered....you won't find a third rower...but that's okay because everyone doesn't have to be the same or like the same things or want to be doing the same things.

Please don't ask me to sit in the third row. I simply can't.  And please don't expect those women in the third row to be in the first row. They can't either. It would only serve to make them miserable.

If you know a third row person, tell them you love them today. Don't be so bold as to hug them or anything and for God sakes don't make a big deal of it. But tell them you love them just as they are. All quiet and everything.

If you know a second row person, tell them you love them today too.  Go ahead and give them a hug, laugh a little, and let them know they are wonderful in what they bring to life.

And if you know a first row person, tell them you love them today as well. If you can get them to be quiet long enough. You might have to jump up and down. Clap. Yell a little. Spill something; they will be able to relate to that. Let them know they are wonderful, even in all their annoying exuberance.

Because we aren't all the same. And we aren't supposed to be. Life is made up of quiet and noisy and all that lies in between. Our lives are richer and fuller and simply better when we embrace people of all colors, orientations, personalities, and volumes. If we were all the same it would be a very boring world.

Respect difference.




 

Making Lemonade...with Salt...and Tequila

I've always liked the trite little saying about what to do if life gives you lemons. Although, I admit, I like the one about adding salt and tequila better.

We had the opportunity to put all this lemon business to good use when we were planning Anna's graduation party recently. We've known Anna was going to graduate from high school for some time. Eighteen years to be exact. But we didn't start thinking much about having a party to celebrate her graduation until spring. When she asked if she and her friend, Anna, could have an Anna x 2 party I was, of course, more than happy to throw it. It was a party, after all.

 

We assumed most of the party would be held outdoors in the backyard, but you can't always count on the weather so we knew it might also end up being held indoors. Either way, the party was good motivation to do something about the dreadful, old, carpet that remained in our hallway and stairs. This was very old carpet. Very old carpet that needed to go away a long time ago. It hadn't, because we couldn't decide what we wanted to replace it with. But, the party was coming up so we finally decided to just replace it with new carpet.

 

The plan was to have the new carpet installed in time for the party. As the party date drew closer, however, the plan started to unravel, a little like the nasty old carpet in the hallway. It wasn't going to happen. At all. The carpet delivery had been delayed and the installation couldn't happen until the week after the party.

 

Well. Dang.

 

We considered what to do. We could cancel the party. (Cancel? A party? Are you kidding?) We could postpone the party. But the invitations for June 1 had already been sent. We decided to weave the lack of carpet into the party.

 

Recently I wrote a blog post about writing our family story on the floors of each room as we replace the carpet. You can read it here.  Anna suggested we modify our tradition and use the ill-timed carpet mishap as a way to include the party guests in our family story. 

 

What a great idea!

 

I immediately went to work removing the carpet and pulling out the tacking strips. I put a fresh coat of white paint on the floor and stairs, bought a package of 12 colored Sharpie pens, and wrote a little explanation in case party guests wondered why they were invited to write on the floor in permanent marker:

 

"Ours is a house in transition. At any given time there is a renovation project in process. The plan was to have new carpet for the graduation party. But, plans don't always happen the way they are supposed to. Our new carpet it somewhere in the United States. Just not in our house.

Plan B.

As we have replaced flooring in our home I have written a bit of our family history on the sub floor in each room, which has later been covered up but creates the story of our lives within these walls.

It is our belief that a house is a dwelling, but the soul of a home is created in the lives and relationships of those who both live here and come in as our guests.

So...about the carpet...

...since there isn't any, we are inviting our graduation party guests to take liberty on our stairs and hallway floor. If you would like to, we would love to have you write your name, a message, a thought, or whatever on the floor. Next week, when the carpet is installed, your message will be hidden but will become a part of the soul of our home.

Thank you for sharing our joy at the Anna x 2 Graduation Party.

And thank you for adding to the story of our family...and the soul of our home."

 

Our friend Spencer got things started by declaring the date of the party. Debbie added that it was also her birthday.

 

 

And people kept adding things. Some messages were simple.

 

 

Some more wordy.

 

 

Some drew pictures.

 

 

Some were random.

 

 

Some strategically placed.

 

 

Some wrote for others who were halfway around the world.

 

 

And after a while some started responding to what others had written.

 

 

When the party was over, we had a sweet masterpiece that, even covered with carpet, we'll always know is there. Expressions of love and friendship grace every step.

 

 

And exist outside every bedroom door.

 

 

It turned out that not having carpet was a blessing. The guests had fun and I'm pretty sure ours was the only party this graduation season that included floor writing. I think that might make me cool. Finally. I've always wanted to be cool.

 

Or, maybe it doesn't. I'm not sure.

 

Regardless, we loved reading every message over and over. We spent the next couple of days savoring the words friends had written because we knew it would be just a few days before it was all covered up; like a secret hidden message only our family would know was there. Well, plus the 50 or so other people who wrote things. But anyway, the point is we loved it.

 

Although it was a fun and creative way to have a party, I am ready for the carpet to be installed. We are expecting guests for a long weekend and it will be nice to have new, plush, carpet when they arrive at the end of June.

 

Except it has now been two weeks since the party and we still don't have carpet. It seems it got lost. And then found. While our new carpet was off having some sort of religious experience the days kept ticking by. Today the installation company told me it won't be installed until July.

 

So much for having things nice for our guests. I guess they'll have to sign the floor too. 

 

Pass the Sharpies.

 

And the tequilla.

Risky Business

I wouldn't exactly call myself a risk-taker.

I'm not willing to jump off a bridge with a big rubber band tied around my waist. Or parachute out of a soaring airplane. Or hike a jagged saw-tooth ridge between 14,000 foot mountain peaks. I don't like physical pain and I'm not willing to mangle by body on purpose. If that's what it takes to be a risk-taker, I don't qualify.

But I do regularly visit my mother. That can be pretty dangerous.

Maybe I'm what you'd call a 'risk-taker lite.'

Recently I came across a quote by philosopher, William James: "It is only by risking our persons from one hour to another that we live at all." If I could, I'd ask James what he meant by the word risk. However, since he's been dead longer than I've been alive, asking him would require use of a Ouija board or a seance and that whole thing freaks me out too much. That would feel way too risky.

Regardless, maybe he didn't really mean we have to jump from an airplane to feel alive. Or to risk.

Maybe he meant something entirely different. To be sure, risk-taking can mean putting oneself in life threatening situations but I sort of think risk taking has more to do with loving people than potentially shedding blood. For some of us risk taking means offering our hearts. Or sharing our lives. Or just simply trusting. Because sometimes the risk of emotional pain is more frightening than the risk of physical pain.

Nothing makes us feel more alive than loving people.

But, it's a risk.

Like so many, I learned to be emotionally cautious at an early age. I couldn't trust the people I was supposed to be able to trust so it only stood to reason that it was pretty risky to trust other people as well. So I withheld. A lot.

But as I entered adulthood I didn't like feeling only half alive. I wanted to feel fully alive and the only way to do that was to risk being hurt. I started off slowly, sharing my life and investing in relationships. I became more vulnerable. I let others see the genuine me. Gradually as I risked more and more of my heart I started to feel more and more alive.

And I liked it.

Sure, it was risky and I'm far from perfect at it, but over time I've learned that the joy of loving outweighs the pain of being hurt. I can't have one without the other. There's nothing better than the joy of loving my friends and family. Nothing outweighs the warmth of knowing and being known. Nothing is more meaningful than pure and simple love.

Don't look for me to be bungee jumping anytime soon. That's not what I need to feel alive. But you can bet I'll be taking the risk to love.

There's no greater joy in life.

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.