that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Apparently I’ve done something to anger the appliance gods.

I’ve already mentioned a few times that I have 4 cats. And a dog. Which also means that I have lots of hair. Lots. Really, seriously, lots. As in I can’t go anywhere without checking my butt first….

So, I vacuum a lot. Pretty much every day.

I have a big vacuum. It weighs about 200 pounds. Okay that’s an exaggeration, but it is heavy. It’s a model made specifically for pet hair, with this cute little attachment that gets the stuff off your couch, chairs, butt, etc. When I first got it, I loved it. And it does a really good job, but it’s heavy and cumbersome and loud and all the animals hate it. Still, I lug it out once a week and move the furniture in search of hair balls and let me tell you…they are everywhere. And it takes me about two hours to find them all.

I used to sweep every day in between, which, by the way, is not at all effective against hairballs. Because they just dance around the broom and laugh at you. It’s true. I’ve heard them.

Then, about a year and a half ago, I came across the latest, greatest thing: a cordless stick vac. Now if you are not yet at a certain age, you probably don’t understand what it is to get jumping-up-and- down excited about an appliance. But all I can say is… just wait. You will.

And I fell in love with this one. This appliance literally changed my life. It was love at first use. Oh yeah, I said that. This little baby can zip around the whole house in 15 minutes, it doesn’t break my back, and it works almost as well as the big monster. (Except for edges and corners.) And so, my love affair began… I’ve used it every day for a year and a half. Fifteen minutes to a cleaner house (in my “good enough” kind of way)… and swooning I was, swooning.

I still get the big monster out once a week. Last Sunday, just as I was finishing up, I started to smell burning rubber. It was bad. And then, right there before my eyes, the monster ceased to function. I cursed, took it apart, couldn’t see a problem, tried again, cursed some more. Nothing. Except burning rubber.

I said, “Okay, Mr. M., time for a new vacuum.” Thinking I could tide myself over with my little friend until I get a new one. But then it happened. Yesterday, sniff, sniff… my favorite appliance of all time stopped working as well. Again, took it apart. Again, nothing. My heart…er, hoover, is broken.

Stellaaaaaa! I mean, Hooverrrrrrr!

And this is the part where I also have to mention that in between the Death of Two Vacuum Cleaners, three light bulbs blew, my ipod stopped working, and now my thermostat is on the fritz.

What is going on around here? What have I done to so anger the appliance gods? I treated them with kindness. I charge the batteries religiously. I clean the filters. I put them away after every use. Oh, what have I done?

I’m not sure, but as my mom would say, (and pardon my French):

“That’s enough to piss off the Good Humor man.”

If you’ve never stared off in the distance,

then your life is a shame…

Adam Duritz, Counting Crows

When my son was young and in school and played sports, there were, of course, times when he got hurt. Hit by a baseball, a too-hard tackle.

Always, the coach’s response would end with this: “Run it out.”

And then there would be a little trot down the field and back, and it was over. The hurt was gone. Well okay, probably not gone, but we all understood that we should act as if it were. The message behind the phrase was: Get over it. Move on. Stay in the game.

My husband, being very good at sports, has perfected the art of running it out. He will get up and run ten miles without a second thought. Even if he hasn’t run in months. Even when it is 20 degrees outside and windy and he will come back looking like this:

He didn’t feel that icicle while he was running, didn’t realize it had grown down his face. He was focused on one thing: getting there.

Because the alternative is staying where you are, standing still and crying, giving up.

Or the only thing that would be worse: running in circles. Caught in the same cycle, over and over. Wallowing.

I tend to over-think things, especially emotions. When I am hurt, injured, off my game, physically or emotionally, I can get stuck there, circling around inside that negative place for far too long. Trapped.

I’m learning though, to run it out myself. Straight past whatever is bothering me. Through it to the other side.

A good run, at the very least, helps me shed all my stress. Oh, it will still be there when I am done, waiting at the finish line to grab my hand. But sometimes I walk right past it. Pretend it isn’t there.

Sometimes I forget all about it.

And that is enough to keep me moving.

Forward.

From what I can tell, there are two kinds of people. Early birds and night owls.

I myself am a night owl, which is why this post comes now, just after they (yes, the giant proverbial “they”) crept into my room at midnight and took back an hour of my sleep. Well, I didn’t want to give it back. I put it in the sleep bank last October, and that is precisely where I wanted it to stay.

Okay, I know am being a big baby. But I really hate having my sleep messed with (just ask my cats). I don’t know if it’s because menopause is looming over my left shoulder, or if I am just a naturally light sleeper, but these days it is hard for me to get a good night’s sleep. And one of the things I have learned is that if I follow a strict schedule and get to bed by a certain time every night then the whole sleep thing works better for me. But twice a year “they” mess with that schedule and I have to start all over again.

Oh, I’ll get over it, in a couple of weeks I’ll forget all about it and go back to my usual habits, which means going to bed around midnight and getting up at six thirty or seven. Given my druthers, I would actually stay up even later, but I know I have to get out of bed and work in the morning so I’ve settled for midnight.

My husband is just the opposite, he is a perky early bird who wakes up bubbly at three a.m. and goes to bed around eight every night. We have learned over the years to adjust to our unsynchronized sleep patterns… I know that I will have several hours to myself every evening, and he knows not to talk to me until I’ve had at least two cups of tea in the morning.

He also takes a lot of naps. I never nap, because then I have to start all over with the waking up part, and I’m really, really grouchy, and it just isn’t worth it. Our internal clocks are different… early to bed and early to rise seems to be the way my husband’s is naturally set. And because of this, I guess he gets a lot of worms.

But you know, that’s okay, because I don’t like worms.
(actually, I’m terrified of them, but that will be a different post…)

And I prefer to stay up late and spend my time knocking around in the dark, hunting for something that is never quite there.

I can’t help it, that’s just the way I am.

.
(The owl I managed to insert into my photo above is from The Graphics Fairy)

Just the other day I took this photo of an oakleaf hydrangea that grows in my garden. It looks like autumn, when really we are just a week away from the first day of spring.

This plant likes to take its time emerging from winter. In fact, the year after I planted it, I thought it had not survived the cold weather. But I was glad that I didn’t pull it up and throw it in the trash heap, because weeks later it emerged from its long winter nap and joined the party of green in full swing all around it.

One of the things I like best about gardening is that it teaches you patience. As a requirement.

Not one of my best traits, in general. The world we live in these days is so fast-paced, we don’t like to wait, we want everything now, instantaneously. We are getting used to things working that way. I would love to wake up one morning and see all my flowers full-size, in bloom, and well tended.

But nature doesn’t work that way. It takes its own sweet time, it doesn’t care, really, what we humans have to say about it. And it likes to surprise us, with its ever changing litany of rage and fury and smiles and cheer and days of weeping and quite a bit of just plain gray.

We can’t predict the weather.

We can’t take it for granted. We can’t make it go away, or hurry up, or stop and stand still, or be what we want when we want it.

There’s a lesson in there.

Somewhere.

This tree came from one of those little twigs in a bag they give out to school children once a year. My niece and I planted it in my garden about a decade ago.

Last year at this time, the uppermost branch formed a perfect question mark. I swore I had a picture of it, and of course, I can’t find it anywhere. But you can still sense that it was there, this question, traced in the air…

I wish I could say that I’ve found the answer. That I was inspired to look at life in a new way, or to see it as some sort of message from mother nature or some other higher power.

But all I have are questions.

And every time I look at that tree I see it there, still,
a big question mark. Trying to tell me something.

Since last year, the branch has grown, spread itself out,
become (almost) a straight line.

Pointing towards the sky.

I want to look up
and see a hawk
fly itself like a kite
just above the spot
where I stand.

But I’m not there, yet.

The sun is still in my eyes.

P.S. This post is part of You Capture – Reaching

Whenever I tease my mom about getting old, she says, “I’m not old, I’m older.” And she’s right, at 67 she is relatively young.

(And still, I couldn’t resist the urge to make this photo look like a daguerreotype…)

But she’s even younger at heart. And she has managed to accomplish the main thing that I hope to achieve as I get old(er):

She’s not bitter. At all. About anything.

I think that is one of the hardest things to do as we navigate our way through this life. It is so easy to fall into the bitter trap, to be angry, or cynical, or unforgiving. Life can be hard, and sometimes it kicks our ass. But my mom has managed to remain, well, what’s the opposite of bitter? Sweet?

And it isn’t easy for her to be that way. She has fibromyalgia, and so she is very often living in pain. But she never stops thinking of other people, ever. Even now, when she is so sick she can barely get out of bed, she still says at the end of our conversation, “Call us if you need anything.”

This past week, she had emergency gall bladder surgery, and then ended up back in the hospital with pneumonia. And through it all, even as we were sitting in the emergency room and she was having trouble catching her breath, she was still joking, making conversation, showing interest in other people. She asked every single person–nurse, tech, student, cleaner–how they were doing, their name, their children’s names, their children’s ages.

And she’ll remember what they say. Days later, she’ll say, “Jennifer said such and such…” and I’ll say, “Who’s Jennifer?” And she’ll say, “Jennifer, the nurse, the one with the two little boys, one of them has a bad cold, and the other one just started playing the piano.” As if we have both known them all forever.

Because she loves people. She cares about them, even the ones she barely knows. She, and my father, are always there to help. Always doing things for other people. Always giving. Selfless. They are each, in their own way, my hero.

When I grow old(er) I think

I want to be just like her.

Normally on this weekend of the year I am with one of my best friends at the Philadelphia Flower Show.

We always take a bus tour, and since we don’t actually see each other very often, we catch up on the 7 hour bus ride. There is usually wine, chocolate (plus various other snacks) and lots of giggling involved.

We are almost always the youngest people on the bus. By the end of the first day, all the other people are clearly thinking “what’s up with those two nuts?” Sometimes we are even verbally admonished. But we don’t care, we are having fun. That is why we go. To look at pretty flowers, of course, but mostly to let it all hang out, to laugh with absolute abandon.

My favorite all-time trip was the year that my friend stole this really cool egg-shaped pine cone from a display at the public garden we visited. (Okay, obviously I took one, too.) We debated back and forth for a couple of minutes about whether it was okay, and then I said, “it’s just a pine cone.”

As we were walking away with a very guilty look on our faces, the bell tower right next to us decided it was time to chime. Only to my friend’s guilt-ridden conscience, it sounded like an alarm. She jumped about five feet in the air and I had to catch her before she started running. And then I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. (Okay I did pee, a little).  And of course, just then, as I was standing there, bent over, with my legs crossed and tears streaming down my face, the entire rest of the bus tour came around the corner. Lead by the tour director.

Which just made us laugh even harder. They all looked at us with raised eyebrows and gave us a very wide berth as they passed us by.

And we weren’t even drinking wine that day. But all I have to do is think of that moment and I will burst into laughter. Out loud. Right in front of everyone/anyone who happens to be near.

Well, this year, our bus tour was canceled, so we didn’t go.

And as it turned out, my mom ended up in the hospital this past week for emergency gall bladder surgery, and then last night we had to take her back to the emergency room because she has pneumonia. (She is back home now and doing okay). So it turned out to be a good thing that fate intervened and the trip was canceled.

But I thought that I would take this little trip (in my mind) today for old time’s sake, and have a little giggle.

Here’s to best friends.

And laughter.

And peeing in your pants, a little.

I could have cleaned this hurricane off before I took the picture, but instead, I focused on the dust…it was hard, but I did it.

Now I’m about to say a dirty word. (So cover your ears if you’re easily offended). Perfectionist. There, I said it.

On the surface, it might seem that being a perfectionist is a good thing, and sometimes it is. It means that I don’t stop until something is just right. It means that I will push myself further and further until I learn a new skill. It means that people often tell me that I’m really good at this, or that, or the other thing, which is nice.

But being a perfectionist is also a curse. Because I don’t stop until something is just right. Which means I might start over 25 times. Because I will push myself further and further, which means I might stay up until 1:30 a.m. “perfecting” something when I should be snoring. (yes, apparently, I do). It also means that I don’t like to do things that I’m not good at. Even if they might be fun. And it means that I am never satisfied, because perfect is unattainable. I do too much. I drive myself crazy.

So here’s my new goal. Be good enough. Most of the time, no one will even be able to tell the difference.  Most of the time, all the little perfectionist things I do along the way don’t really affect the outcome. And besides, what’s the worst that could happen?

It’s going to be hard, I don’t know if I can do it, always. When it comes to my work, I will still strive for perfection. But when it comes to the little things, like dust on a hurricane, too salty soup, or cat hair on the couch, I will try to strive for good enough. When it comes to decorating for the holidays, or planting my garden, or fixing my unruly hair, I will let good enough be good enough.

I could have focused on the egg in the photo, and the dust would have been lost in the blur. You wouldn’t have known it was there.

Or I could have stopped to clean the dust off.
Reassembled the shot, started over.

But I didn’t. I let you see my dust.

And that was perfect.

For you, kimberla (and little bit for liz at mabel’s house)

Just six inches to the right of this tiny hyacinth bud is a foot of snow. Down from the 18 inches that was there just a few days ago.

As I was stepping into my back door yesterday, this tiny speck of green, nestled up against my house, caught my eye. And I thought, yes, there it is.

Hope.

Two days after the biggest snowstorm of the year, this little guy decides it’s time to poke his head above ground. And has the nerve to start growing. To believe, no, expect, that the sun will indeed rise every day and warm him, nurture him, help him grow.

He didn’t stop to listen to the weather, or the fact that it will probably snow several more times before it is his time to bloom. He didn’t shrink away from the mountain of snow that is already there, hovering just over his shoulder.

He chose, instead, to be an optimist.

The next day, eight robins landed in my yard. And I thought, this is crazy. It is too early, too cold for them, there is still snow everywhere.

Hope, again. Come home to nest for another year. Right in my own backyard.

I stood there and listened to its song.

And I smiled.

P.S. This post is part of You Capture – Hopeful