Celebrating Love....Happy Valentine's Day!

“What’s love got to do with  it?” croons Tina Turner.

“Why do fools fall in love?” asks Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers.

As humans, we have lots of questions about love, but few answers. What draws people together, it seems, is as mysterious as the Bermuda Triangle, and sometimes, just as dangerous.

When I was a kid, my father would say, “There’s a lid for every pot.” At age 10, I knew he wasn’t talking about the Paul Revere cookware inside our oven, but I wasn’t quite keen on the meaning.  Then, one day, Dad made that remark as we walked across the street from two "lovey dovey" hand-holders: a less-than-hygienic couple who drank heavily and lived with their crusty children in a fetid little row home a block from our house.

They were repulsive but blissful.

But Dad wasn’t judging as he uttered those words; he didn’t say them with even a hint of disgust. He seemed simultaneously satisfied and amazed by the fact.

And therein lies love’s mystery.

Sometimes it’s easy to understand certain couples.They are like-minded. They drive Priuses and recycle. The eat sushi or barbeque. They go to church and love Chicago (the band, the musical, the town, whatever). They walk alike. They talk alike. (You’re humming The Patty Duke Show theme song now, aren’t you?) These are the couples that bring a sense of order and comfort to an otherwise chaotic world.

But who hasn’t witnessed an “odd” partnership between two people who seem to not belong together, but nevertheless seem blissful, and even downright ecstatic at their union? How many times have we silently sang "One of these things is not like the other...." when witnessing the duo of Hot Guy/Ordinary Girl,  Old Guy/Hot Mama or — dare I say it — Hot Guy/Ordinary Guy, Hot Mama/Homely Mama? How many times have we looked at such couples and wondered, to quote the internet acronym, “WTF?”

It turns out that love is blind, after all. Anyone who has ever loved differently than what is considered “usual and customary” understands that love is a feeling that doesn’t declare itself off-limits when an unspoken connection or chemistry exists.

No one ever said that the lids and the pots have to match; they just have to fit.

But, even though we may rationally grasp this, or even pay lip service to it, it doesn’t stop some folks from stereotyping, categorizing, condemning, or judging those who are not like them in matters of the heart:

“She must want him for his money.” (or something else).

“He must be good in bed.” (because he is as ugly as sin.)

“That’s disgusting and unnatural.” (because I don’t understand it).

"He's old enough to be her father." (what's wrong with her?)

Fortunately, love is more powerful than all the judgment that seeks to undo it. Many times, the couples who seem least likely to endure have more years of joy together and get the last laugh. 

So cheers to you, overweight guy with the skinny girl. Asian woman with the Irishman. Black woman with the white man. Filipino with the Italian. Senior citizen with the baby boomer. 

You found love and your heart is happy. You are proof that the Beatles said it best — “All you need is love.”

May we all be so lucky.

Snow Daze.....

Mother Nature hit the pause button today. As an 18-inch blanket of snow lay outside my front door,  I am reminded of the joys of staying put.

           

Nowhere to go can be a great place, when you rest in nature’s palm. Make some hearty soup, throw a log on the fire, and watch the snow tumble down from your cozy rocking chair.  

Be still.

Snow delivers a permission slip to slow down, to breathe deeply and appreciate life,  inviting us to look within. When we stare into a roaring fireplace and lose ourselves, or merely note the peaceful silence of a glistening night, we glimpse into a world of perfection. We can see that snow is magic, and we become a part of it.

As children, we understand  and embrace this. Snow days are seen as a gift from heaven, with flakes falling down on tongues and eyelashes, and opportunities to build snowmen and create celestial figures from our own body. Like a new toy to be shaped and molded into whatever our imaginations could allow,  childhood snow reminded us of possibilities. And as the wintry mix snuck down the hoods of our jackets and tops of our mittens, we could not only feel the cold, but could absorb the wonder of special memories being made with family and friends.

But, for most adults, snow days mean tending to sidewalks and front steps. There’s milk, bread, and eggs. Get gas for the car; buy food for the cat or dog. Don’t forget the aspirin after a day’s worth of shoveling. If we’re not careful, the magic is contaminated by obligation and responsibility. If we’re not mindful, awe and inspiration are replaced by grouchiness, impatience, and complaints about a messy foyer floor.

The snow is still falling as I type this. Outside, a flock of  Canadian geese is flying above the treetops, just beyond my neighborhood. They are squawking loudly, as they always do when they pass by. But today, thanks to a magical snowfall, it feels oddly serene to hear them.

Why Old Friends are the Best Friends.

It was 1975. On the playground during recess, I played the games of my childhood with other kids who, like me, wore the Catholic school uniform that signified our unity and connection. Black or white, Irish or Italian, Asian or German —we were bonded together in spirit, and for life.

It wasn’t just that we had the same teachers, shared the same prayers, the same coaches and the same hot lunches. It wasn’t just that we were classmates, teammates, bus mates and, at the time, soul mates. We were brothers and sisters, in a sense, with values shaped by nuns who had rulers and rules, and giant hand bells they shook to get our attention.  It was that, molded by all these factors and shared experiences, we understood each other and everything around us without saying a word.

Thirty-five years later,  it’s still true.

An outing with an old friend from the old neighborhood brought back the same comfortable feelings that I had as a kid during afternoon recess.

Like chocolate milk and soft Philly pretzels after morning prayers, we share a bond that can only exist with someone who has known you since childhood, when it was unthinkable to pretend to be something other than what you were. It’s a bond unfazed by a fancy car or a fancy job. It does not judge a messy house or a messy life.  It's just there, accepting, knowing, caring – because someone who knows you from “way back when” still does, in the truest sense, even after 35 years.

And it’s so comfortable.

Old friends bring us back to our roots, helping us see and feel the world as we did when life was simpler, and so were we. They take us down memory lane and catch us up in a blink of an eye, as images flood our brains, and stir our senses. 

When it occurs, we understand how we got this far.

I am 11 years old again and it’s springtime. Sister Mary Agnes is ringing her bell. Recess is over and we rush to get in line.

“Are you ready to get back to work?” the nun asks.

“Yes, Sister,” we reply in unison.

Our shoes click on the playground surface as we begin to walk inside.  We take our seats in wooden desks, and say another prayer.

Our future is shaped in this classroom, she tells us. 

And, yes, so is our past.

Giving Thanks.....And Giving.

Sometimes you don't have to look far to find opportunities to give, and to give thanks. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to remind us of this.

With Haiti earthquake relief efforts underway, money and prayers are flowing toward the devastated homeland of so many wonderful people.  But, too often, it is just not enough.  Yesterday, on CNN I saw a Haitian woman speak of the loss of her 5-year-old and 2-year-old. "There was no burial," she said.  "I just threw them away."

I just threw them away. 

I began to cry when I heard her speak. I could not understand her language, but I could understand her pain. I cannot imagine such suffering.

Or, maybe I can, as I get a glimpse of it, closer to home.

Last night,  I walked up Walnut Street and saw a homeless man sitting outside a theatre. His sign said, "I am Mike and this is my dog Sparks. We are homeless. Please help us."  He sat in the dirt next to the parking lot, cradling his sad-looking dog in a blanket on his lap. A tattered bag of dog food sat beside him. Many passersby placed money in Mike's grimy paper cup before they went to see their show.

I wondered about Mike. How did he come to this point in his life, begging outside a theatre on a January Friday? Where was his family? Was Sparks his only friend? The questions were unending. The answers never came. I didn't ask.

Further along the street, a woman pushed a cart full of all her worldly possessions. She settled on a grate near a parking garage, desperate for the heat that rose up around her as if embracing her weary body. No one said a word to her as they walked by. No one helped or even offered to help. It was as if she were invisible.

My brother works for the Department of Youth and Family Services. He sees neglect, poverty, ignorance and evil on a daily basis. Much of it is forgotten once the paperwork is processed. The brain cannot take the pain of remembering the details every day. Children are removed from homes. Parents are sent to prison, to rehab, to anger management. Children die. It's just part of a broken system.

And then there are the lucky ones.  Those of us who have not lost children, who are not begging, who have a home and a warm, clean bed in which to rest and who have not experienced the pain of a broken system that is as powerless as the children it seeks to protect.

It shouldn't take an earthquake to help people in need. Little earthquakes are happening every day, all around us. If we pay attention, we can feel the aftershocks. If we look beyond ourselves, we can see the need.

Today, I make a pledge to give thanks, but more importantly, to give more of myself.

My Cat, the Shrink.

Tonight, I talked with my cat for 45 minutes. And I believe he talked back.

No, I wasn't drinking (although I considered it.) I wasn't depressed (although I should have been). I was merely frustrated, looking to figure out a vexing problem concerning my future and my life. Reo, or "Dr. Reo" as he should be called, patiently listened, his honey golden eyes gazing lovingly into mine. He purred as I lamented. As I explained my options and waited for his reply, "Meow," he said. He rolled over, exposed his tummy to me and gently put his paw on my shoe. It was enough.

I grabbed his toy feather ("Da Bird –the best darn cat toy in the universe"), stroked his furry chin, and we played for another quarter hour. In my 60 minutes with Reo, I noticed something amazing. I had gone from head-in-the-oven panic to tomorrow-it-will-be-better tranquility. All because he listened. Or maybe just because I talked.

The Humane Society of the United States estimates that 4 to 6 million cats and dogs are euthanized each year instead of being adopted. Reo was one of the lucky ones. And so was I, to have found him.

The companionship, the unconditional love, and the energizing spirit of an animal that depends on you, loves you and is happy to see you every day should be enough to empty the cages of every shelter in America. It should be enough to make every sad, lonely person get up out of bed and have a connection with life. It should be enough to cure blues, to lift hopes, to put the big things into perspective.

Because when it comes down to what really matters in life, Reo knows, as all animals do, that love is the answer. And a good talk with a good friend can make a world of difference.

New Year, New Life...yeah yeah.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, including New Year’s resolutions. As the ball drops for 2010, the hearts of all humanity who possess timepieces are transported to a world of new possibilities and fresh starts. In America, we vow that THIS IS THE YEAR we will eat healthier, exercise more, save more, relax more, complain less (maybe), and generally get our collective shizzle together.

But doesn’t every day, every hour, every minute bring this same newness? Flipping a calendar page to a new day is the same motion as flipping to new year, isn’t it? Perhaps, but it is not nearly as sexy as a NEW YEAR. A promise that’s made beneath a backdrop of fireworks and Cool & the Gang is all that it takes for us to say “YES! I WILL_________.  (Fill in the blanks. It's your resolution, after all.)

Of course, ringing in the new year is also a reason to drink, celebrate, and give a formal “goodbye” to a rotten year which may have included a lost job, a bastard boss, or an ex- who finally is out of your hair, your life or your bank account. Those are great reasons to celebrate and to make a solemn promise toward a better life, a better year, and a better (more successful) resolution.

As we close out the first decade of the millenium, I have realized that my New Year’s resolutions from 1999 aren’t so different from today. They are the things I still struggle with, the pesky little “shoulds” I know are somewhat important, but they haven’t (yet) given me cancer, a heart attack or an eviction notice from the Department of Health, so I’m not sure how really important they are. My list of recurring “resolutions” includes, in no particular order:

1) Becoming more orderly. My garage resembles a landfill at certain times of the year. Right now, it’s not so bad. Chances are, however, it will begin to become disturbingly impassable as I try to find a hammer or screwdriver on some February Tuesday. The lack of order and time-suck of not being able to find tools when I need them isn’t the only problem; it’s what the disorderly garage telegraphs to me: “You, my dear, are a pig.” To which, on good-humored days when life is humming and my priorities are in order, I guiltlessly say, “Oink.” But on days when God is giving me a mid-term exam, I am less inclined to dismiss the chaos and what it implies. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then a clean garage for me implies sainthood. This stays on the list for 2010.

2) Taking better care of me. What a cross this is for me! But I am better at it now. I finally realize that “If momma ain’t happy/healthy/sane, nobody’s happy/healthy/sane.” Filling my cup has become easier as my kids have gotten older, more independent and capable of cooking their own meals. This will remain a resolution for 2010 because of new and improved ways to define “taking better care of me,” particularly with the opening of a quality day spa nearby. :)

3) Reading more. I read all the time, but it is never enough. I have vowed to read more fiction and to stop being so damn practical. Enough of current events and new ways to brush the cat. Where is that trashy novel? Gotta find it.

4) Getting rid of deadwood. I am so much better at purging the things, people, commitments and ridiculous self-limiting thoughts that weigh me down, but there is always room for improvement. When in doubt, I just say “No.” This stays on the list for 2010, and will likely remain forever. Deadwood seems to find me, no matter how self-actualized I become.

5) Write more. Or shall I say, write more that matters. I’ve had plenty of business this past year, but I don’t count that as soulfully satisfying, or enriching my self-awareness as a writer. Somehow, writing websites and brochures on the mechanics and cost benefits of solar energy falls short. So, dare I say it? I will blog at least once a week. That’s a new resolution for this decade, and one I can stick with.

Now, dear reader, your resolution must include reading the blog. Deal? :)

The Power of NO. Two little letters can change everything.

I’m saying “No” more often these days. I’m not sure why, but DAMN it feels good.By uttering just one syllable, I’ve freed up time in my life and space in my mind for ME. What a concept.

Maybe I’ve finally shed my Savior complex and come down off my own martyrdom cross. Resurrecting my own priorities, I’ve finally decided that someone else can do it, whatever it is. What a rush.

There was a time when I accommodated everyone. It wasn’t that long ago, and I’m still digging myself out of several deep holes created in my misguided desire to be helpful (or needed, not sure which). Who’s sorry now? I am.

It’s about two levels of disappointment and realization. First, I’ve realized that by saying “Yes” to something, I am saying “No” to something else. Usually it’s myself.

The second level of disappointment and realization is more powerful, actually. Having someone to whom you have repeatedly said “YES” say “NO” to you in your own time of need brings the power of “NO” into brilliant perspective. It’s actually cathartic. When favors are rarely returned, it’s like ice water in your face as you sleep. It really wakes you up —or at least makes you want to bitch-slap someone. Since bitch-slapping is not always possible or feasible (especially in texts or phone conversations), quietly saying, “I understand” may give pause. Then you may ponder the universal justice that is supposed to be karma.

I’ve found, however, that counting on karma often takes too long. At the next opportunity, my own special brand of kryptonite can be revealed: a sweet and sincere “No.” (Shakes head. Feigns disappointment.)

And boy, it feels wonderful.

Not everything deserves a “No,” of course, but annoyances and disruptions by strangers are at the top of the list. No, I don’t want to sign up for a free vacation right now— I’m here to shop, get root canal, and pick up my pet crocodile. No, you may not have my unlisted telephone number or my mother’s maiden name. No, I don’t want to buy any cookies, candy, ice cream, or pizza to support the Jaycees. (What are the Jaycees, anyway?)

I’m not turning into a hard-hearted Scrooge by saying “No” when it suits me. It's all about boundaries and protecting my priorities, which, for the record are just as important and worthy as anyone else's. I’ll still be helpful when I genuinely wish to be. I’ll still be cordial and civil, for example, to the bratty children whose parents audaciously send them to sell me (and my other neighbors) their magazines and cookie dough, even when they know that I (we) also have kids’ magazines and cookie dough to sell this year. I’ll laugh and say, “No. Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, but I just spent $40 on new magazine subscriptions to help my son win a prize! I’m sure you understand.”

 

Then I’ll close the door and do something I love.

Like taking time, finally, for me.

Purposeful Procrastination.....

As an occasional procrastinator, I firmly believe this deeply misunderstood trait has a purpose in my life. I do not see procrastination as a character flaw. In fact, I trust that God appreciates a little quiet introspection, a little self-indulgent nap-taking, a time for twirling one’s hair instead of paying the bills or mopping the floor. I also trust that I’m less motivated to act and to do anything well when my mind simply needs to just be and to soak in the joys and trials of life in the moment. Carpe diem whenever it suits me works for me, just fine.

In the past few weeks, I haven’t written. I haven’t posted. I haven’t spoken to friends on the phone. I’ve simply stayed home and pondered, in full-throttle procrastination mode, without any particular destination, of course. Stuff got done, but nothing earth-shaking। Nothing I had “planned” to do was important enough to drive me crazy. Most importantly, no deadlines were missed as I procrastinated and pondered what to do next.

Now, you might say, pondering and procrastination are different. Maybe, maybe not. It’s true that I ponder when I am about to latch onto a new discovery, so it may frequently accelerate my overall goal, and thus cancel out any ‘procrastinatory’ effects.

Sometimes I procrastinate to ponder what I really would like to do, other than the thing I don’t wish to do but really should do at the moment. And then, Eureka, I am motivated to move forward with said goal because I actually figured out what I felt like doing next. It is a self-produced carrot and stick, courtesy of procrastination.

Best of all, it means I can get the unpleasant task out of the way and move onto greener pastures, until I am struck by another worthwhile task, such as separating tangled rubber bands in my desk drawer.

It’s like that for most people, I think. The reasons are complex and probably neurological. I suspect that researchers will one day discover that procrastinators who are creative geniuses often display many of the “pondering” traits I exhibit when I have to perform any unpleasant massive task (caulking the windows) or a tiny but relatively annoying and inconvenient one (fixing a light switch).

Until they prove that procrastinators are NOT simply refueling their minds, repurposing their energy, and reevaluating what is important to them, I’ll just forgive myself for leaving the trash cans on the curb for four days. I know I’ll get to them soon enough.

After all, I have thinking to do.

What your Facebook Friends Would Tell You if They Only Had the Nerve

Dearest Facebook Friends,

        You deserve the truth, but I will never share that on my status updates, comments or on my wall. I’d rather be (INSERT) vague, coy, clever, superficial because you wouldn’t want to know the details of my real life because it’s too (INSERT) depressing, boring, weird, dysfunctional, kinky, spiritual, pathetic, illegal, perfect. Believe me, you wouldn’t be able to handle these details if I did share.

      So, in celebration of our friendship and connection, I am now offering honesty for all of us, who dare not speak— eh, I mean, type. Up until now I have been silent for fear I will offend you, or will be deleted from your friend list, which really scares me because, frankly, I need all the “friends” I can get at this point in my life. You see, it’s about feeling a part of the crowd, because as a kid I was (INSERT) obnoxious, shy, neglected, despised, admired, mean, vivacious, in rehab, nerdy, constipated and finally (sigh), I belong. Also, it is soooooo nice to have the illusion that 150 people really care about my life and what I do or say or think on any given day.

        But enough about me. This is about you, and our relationship.
      I value your place in my life (a little). So it doesn’t matter if I know you from the greasy spoon job I had 30 years ago for six months in my freshman year of high school when I had acne, braces and all my hair. You are still my friend, and we are connected. So I owe you at least this much.

        Please forgive me.
     Okay, this is brutal, but you really can stop sending me flowers, drinks, Farkle Chips, animals from Farmville and Mafia Wars requests. I don’t know how to play these games or return these gifts, and if I did, I would get sucked into the infinite internet vortex of wasted time and wouldn’t be able to feed and clothe my family. Ditto for prying notes and quizzes which border on the adolescent. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t care which Jonas Brother I will marry, because, you see, I have children that age.

      I know you think it's harmless, but try to understand my embarrassment and annoyance over your probing of my relationship status. “It’s complicated” doesn’t mean you need to unravel the mysteries of my desperation on my Wall for all to see. I've been in therapy. Enough already.

      Stop making me feel badly about myself. Do I really need to see your (INSERT) Jaguar, Mercedes, summer home in Venice, beautiful body, white teeth, sexy husband/wife, nuclear family, while I eat a hot dog alone in my cubicle? You have no idea the pain you cause me.

        And your pictures. I must admit, I look at them. But keep the poses that are (INSERT) sexually suggestive, physically revolting (bikini wax, please!) or really really boring (the palm trees from your hotel room? the DisneyWorld sign? Really?) to yourself. Why waste precious bandwidth?

      These are just a few things I’ve shared to make our friendship stronger. There’s much more I could tell you, but I’ll do that some other time. It’s getting late and my eyes are bleary from stalking, um, I mean viewing, your other friends’ unrestricted profiles and their comments and photos.

      Always remember that I love you, Dear Facebook Friend, but not enough to give you my phone number. Hahahahaha. LOL. :)

One Phone Call Can Change Everything...

Ironic that I got the phone call on October 1st. October, the month of ghouls, ghosts, mischief and Breast Cancer Awareness.

I wasn’t expecting this call. I had forgotten that I had a mammogram a few days before. But here I was, four days later, thrust into a jarring mortality-realization moment that took the form of a cheerful female voice telling me that I needed to come back in for additional views and perhaps an ultrasound. There are dense areas that weren’t there last year or the year before, she said. The computer scan may have picked it up, she wasn’t sure. The radiologist felt I needed additional views. This was what the lady with the perky voice was telling me.

My heart stopped as I processed what this Messenger of Fear from my gynecologist’s office was saying, and not saying. There she was, telling me that the referral would be ready for me to pick up tomorrow. (Do I really need it that soon? What’s the rush? Translation: This must be bad.) She wasn’t saying I had cancer. She wasn’t saying they thought I had cancer. She wasn’t saying I didn’t have cancer. She was just saying that they couldn’t tell if there WAS cancer or something else in my right breast. WTF.

I sat dumbfounded. Suddenly the plans I had for the day were replaced by more pressing matters. What does “area of density” mean, anyway? What are “additional views” and why would it take one-to-three hours when my original appointment was less than 15 minutes? Internet searches ensued, leaving me more bewildered than before I started. Too much information can make a wild imagination run wilder. In a flash, I imagined losing my breasts, my hair, and my life. Who would come to my funeral? I snapped out of the mini-nightmare when the phone rang. Damn telemarketers.

Cancer would explain how I’d been feeling ­— a bit off, tired, not fully present – I thought to myself. No wonder I don’t want to do the laundry. It all made sense. Unexplained fatigue can be a signal that cancer is lurking. Even though there were other plausible reasons for my fatigue, such as having coffee at 7 p.m., going to bed at 3 a.m and getting up at 8 a.m., I feared the worst. I had read about fatigue and cancer, so it must be true, right?

Frankly, I read a lot of things. Calcifications, microcalcifications, carcinoma in situ, all these terms in a language that I never wanted to understand or even hear, for that matter. This language did not romance me. This language did not comfort me. This language scared the hell out of me and it made me more anxious and panicked. “Why the hell did I start reading this stuff?" I berated myself for not remaining more level-headed.

“I cannot do anything until I really know what is going on,” I chanted as mantra, trying to calm the inner turmoil that the Messenger of Fear had stirred.

In that moment, I decided not to waste my time supposing this or that when I don’t know what MY situation is. Of course, before I had made that decision, I already had read enough sad internet breast cancer stories to populate my imagination for a long time. Too long. So I stopped looking online for ‘what-ifs’ and started living as if I was fine. Trouble will find me soon enough, I reasoned. I can’t sit around and wait for the shoe to drop when the shoes are still on.

SO I WAIT.

With just four days until my repeat mammogram views and ultrasound, I have time to contemplate what I will do right if I have cancer (Get the best doctor/surgeon. Take better care of myself.) and what I will do right if I don’t have cancer. (Take better care of myself.)

Either way, I have given myself permission, for now, to worry, ponder and assess where I am right now in my life. If I think about it that way, the phone call can be a catalyst, with or without any disease.

I hope for the best.

Update 10/13/09……I am fine. Repeat tests were normal, although I am returning in six months, which is standard CYA protocol today. And yes, I am taking better care of myself. All because of one phone call.

What they don’t teach you in driving school...

Today, in New York City, a beautiful young woman flipped the bird at me as I backed into an empty space to make a u-turn. She was having a bad day, I assume, even though the sun was shining and she was comfortable in her shiny black BMW. She wasn’t foaming at the mouth or begging for money. She was well-coifed and stylishly dressed. Why she gave me the finger, I’ll never understand, but I do know that behind the wheel, people do things they would not do in polite company. So I’ll chalk it up to a lesson in behind-the-wheel psychology.

A dear friend of mine once said that people think they are invisible when they are in their cars. Like nameless, faceless creatures, they inhabit the cockpits of their vehicles and do the most disgusting, embarrassing, and otherwise uncivilized things whether traveling at high rates of speed or at a stoplight.

Take the large bald man who relentlessly picked his nose while sitting at a traffic signal. He wasn’t just picking his nose, he was mining it. I cannot imagine that he’d behave this way at a dinner party or at a board meeting, but there he was, dressed in a suit, probing for another nostril nugget. I tried not to look, but I found him offensive and intriguing at the same time. What the hell was he thinking? How can someone do this in plain sight of others? Does he have a brother? (just kidding)

Maybe it’s just that our cultural mores have shifted and we value our own reputations less and are less easily embarrassed in this era of reality TV. But. I’ve noticed that today's car seems to be a modern-day invisibility cloak, where anything goes, even with the windows rolled down. From the twenty-something couple shouting the F-bomb at each other while arguing in a parked car in a crowded lot, to the woman angrily swinging her crying toddler by the arms while tossing him into her mini-van, anonymity seems assured, even when the license plate is visible.

I’m not a prim and proper lady by any stretch, and I don’t get embarrassed when I see that a man has pulled off the roadside to relieve himself. But I do wish there were more self-awareness in modern day life and more consideration for others’ sensibilities. I wish we could sincerely smile at each other, apologize, and pass the Kleenex when someone needs it— even if they are two cars away.

Note to Self: Cancel that Trip to Bangladesh....

In Bangladesh, a farmer who single-handedly killed 83,000 rats (yes, you read right) received a color television set from his nation as a reward. Maybe someone should give him a copy of Disney’s Ratatatouille, just for kicks.

Honestly, these types of stories illustrate just how blessed we are to live here in America. There may be 83,000 rats in Washington DC, but I bet most of them work for the government.

The abject poverty and lack of basic human resources in Third World countries are unimaginable to most Americans, even those who live in our forgotten Appalachian Mountain towns. America’s worst cities and poorest neighborhoods offer more opportunity than Third World countries could ever hope to have, even within the next half-century.

Of course, having opportunity in America doesn’t diminish the suffering of children in Camden or Detroit or Chicago or East Los Angeles (or any broken city) who’ve learned, by example, that drug-dealing is an acceptable livelihood and that they cannot rise above the violence and pain they witness every day. I mean, at least they have color televisions (just kidding).

God Bless America— even the rats in Washington. For even on its worst days, America is still the best country on earth.

Jingle Boo, Jingle Boo, Jingle All the Way ...$$$

Yay! It’s October, boys and girls, and you know what that means?

That’s right! In three short months, Santa will be here! Have you started your Christmas list? What’s that? You don’t even have your Halloween costume? Never fear, kiddies. You’ll find all kinds of super-heroes, ghouls and Grim Reapers, uh, just behind the Nativity scenes on aisle 12.

Whatever happened to basking in the glory of autumn?

Way back in the 1970’s, when I was just a lass, Halloween was given its just dues in the world of retailing. Candy corn and plastic pumpkins were on supermarket shelves October 1st, and we had the entire month to peruse the costumes and taste-test the chocolates or the carmel apples that Mom used to give out. The anticipation of the holiday was encouraged by ads in newspapers (remember those?) and was punctuated by the changing of seasons and the first falling leaves.

Today, in our fast-forward-gotta-see-it-touch-it-have-it-buy-it culture, big-box stores ply us with black cats and witchy chachkas just after we’ve had our first official barbeque. (Put down the flag and pick up the axe, please.) Frankly, I’m disgusted by it, but I know this insidious change in the way we live and shop has been building for decades. Because, unfortunately, “living” and “shopping” have become synonyms for the American public. Today’s economic meltdown had its roots in our buy-now-pay-later mentality, which, of course, was encouraged by putting Santa and his reindeer on display in a store near you before Labor Day.

Can’t we just take the holidays as they come? Can’t we just celebrate and revel in the changing of the leaves, the passing of time, and the signposts of the season?

Do we really need to buy ornaments for the tree before we’ve even bought the Thanksgiving turkey? The retailers think we should.

But I say, “Boo!!!”

And You Thought Oz Didn’t Exist… (or what we can learn from Chinese dwarves)

The Lollipop Kids are alive and well in southern China. You heard it here first. Chinese dwarves have set up their own village in Kunming to escape discrimination from “normal-sized” people in China.

The little people, all under 4 feet, 3 inches, now capitalize on their small stature by dressing like fairy tale characters, living in mushroom houses, and performing musical numbers for tourists. They are tired of being exploited by others, so they decided to exploit themselves. In America, we call that self-promotion, entrepreneurship, or turning lemons into lemonade.

We should all take a cue from these little people with the big ideas.

When you can’t really “fit in,” play the hand your dealt to best advantage—or create some new rules for yourself.

It’s the mantra of every caregiver who has figured out a way to be happy even though the burden of caring for a loved one with special needs or illness sucks the light from their eyes on bad days. It’s the winning strategy of people who’ve escaped dead-end jobs by daring to dream that they were on the cusp of something better, if only they just tried. And it’s the way that underdogs win pennants, Super Bowls, and American Idol.

Get out of your own way, the little people say. Find your own fairy tale costume. Oz awaits you.

Frustration - An Unlikely Inspiration

The name for this blog evolved from 45 vulgarity-laced minutes of searching for "good names" to bestow upon my latest creation.

I descended into madness shortly after discovering that the name, "Why bother," had been taken by someone named Mark who made no entries, but opined, "I just don't understand any of it. It just all seems so pointless." Props to you, Mark, for helping me birth my blog.

For the record, yes, I am crazy, but not any more than the average Joe (or Jane). If you've ever wondered why we are constantly reminded that life is not fair and why so many Walmart shoppers seem to have enormous butts — and have had these thoughts within seconds of each other — you are likely an "average-league crazy" like me. If you're looking to do something different with your life, and haven't been able to because of excuses, obligations, guilty pleasures, or watching every episode of Dancing with the Stars or The Biggest Loser with a bowl of ice cream on your lap, you may be just as crazy as most of America. And as equally frustrated.

Frustration will do good things for most people. When we're pushed to the edge, it often makes us reconsider what we want, what we need, and how the hell we can get it. This blog is a start. Hope you'll keep reading as we journey through the land of thoughtful, insightful procrastination together.