Dancing with the humiliated

I like Dancing With The Stars. It is consistently entertaining. But something happened the other night that broke my heart. It wasn't Kirstie Alley's shoe falling off. She handled that with aplomb. It was the public disintegration of little Kendra. This girl is not a star, she is, to me, a poor soul trying too hard to be something famous.

DWTS is not for the fragile. It is not for people who do not have an ability to take criticism, sometimes very harsh, and go on from there. Real entertainers, real sports stars who have succeeded, have learned to have a public face and act like nothing hurts them, no matter how they feel inside.

I didn't know much about Kendra except that she is married to a football player and has a baby she loves. Then she had a miscarriage that some magazine put in big letters on it's cover. I felt so bad for her loss of privacy at the time. Today I looked her up on Wikipedia. She first caught the attention of Hugh Hefner when she was a naked "painted" young lady at his 78th birthday party. She became one of his three girlfriends at the mansion and was in a reality series.

On Monday, Kendra was not having a good day. She had PMS and could not relax into the flow of the dance. The harshest judge was Len Goodman. He told her he couldn't understand why she would not allow herself to be elegant. He said she acted like she didn't care. In front of everyone she said, defiantly, that she didn't. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I knew what she meant. She meant that she didn't care what he said. But she did and it was her way of protecting herself. I know, because I have done that, too. The next scene was of her partner saying he was mad, he could not believe she said that. Then all you could see was her crying that she wished she could go someplace and hide. The camera did not leave her alone. No privacy whatsoever.

I thought for sure that she would be voted off the show. But no, she was safe while Sugar Ray Leonard got the lowest votes and had to leave. I am sorry. I think this girl needs to go and lick her wounds for awhile. I think she needs to go play with her baby. She needs to take a good look at her life and get out of the public eye. Somewhere along the way she found out that she got attention/admiration/love for being pretty. I think she needs some intense counseling to understand she is a worthwhile human being even if the world is not watching.

In the Wiki piece her career goals were massage therapist or sportscaster. She worked briefly as a dental assistant. Her absolute favorite food comes from Olive Garden. She is a small town girl who should have had a small town life.  I wish she had not jumped on the fame bandwagon. She is  ill-prepared to have this much spotlight on her. She doesn't know how to cope by faking it. I just feel bad for her even though this is the road she is on through her own choices. And to be honest, I resent having to think about her when all I want to do is enjoy the dancing. (Yeah, it is about me.)

Ten dollars worth of joy

When I lived on over a half acre of property to beautify, I started out with high hopes planting raspberries and dahlias in an area by the garage. I didn't know about enriching the soil and the raspberries that overtook my sister-in-law's garden died in mine. Chipmunks ate every dahlia bulb and flower. I bought tulips for the slope by the mailbox but the soil there was pure clay and only one bloomed. I tried carpets of wildflowers for the same place and each year one or two cornflowers would bloom. The strawberry pot filled with herbs was another dismal failure, as were expensive tomato plants. Eventually the lawn became mostly creeping charlie and moss and landscaping friends said to keep it that way. Our hillside had a rustic charm. I took to buying geraniums in planters and roses in pots and had some success that thrilled me. Each year I would purchase four fragrant roses and treat them like annuals.  A friend advised getting new soil each year for the planters and that made a huge improvement. I was also able to grow healthy begonias, a very forgiving flower, in hanging pots. Petunias were always a dismal failure.

Last summer, the first here in the little condo, I had great plans. I started sweet pea and morning glory that I was going to train to grow up the railings that separated my area from the pool. I took the big planters and bought roses. Every time the vines would get to about five inches or so, they would be eaten by the resident rabbits. (You can't live right on a park and not get rabbits.) As the summer progressed I added geraniums and other annuals that I got on sale and eventually filled the area with color. I got most of the pots cleaned up for fall before I bought three long planters of mums, not only for the flowers which were lush and beautiful, but for the planters themselves. We got our first foot of snow while the mums were still blooming. I never saw them again this long, long winter as the area outside my glassed-in patio filled with over two feet of snow.

Once more I am starting sweet pea and morning glory from seed. This year the long planters will be hung from the railing and I will train the vines downward. I hope they are successful because it can look wonderful. There are something like twenty-three pots to be planted and I've laid in a stock of Miracle Grow potting soil. Two things I know about myself and gardening; I am cheap and impatient. I don't particularly love doing the actual dirty work but love watering pots of beautiful flowers. I splurged on jiffy pots rather than using paper cups and needed more to start the marigolds so back to Home Depot I went to get another box. 

It was such a thrill to see pansies and violas in hanging pots. They were vibrantly alive and my soul ached for their colors. The healthiest pot was filled with deep purple and orange violas. I lifted it down and brought it to the cashier. Could I justify spending twenty-five or thirty dollars right now? Ten dollars! Ten dollars for a priceless gift of joy!

Oui! Merci!

With a long baguette sticking out of one bag, and a bouquet of spring flowers in the other, the groceries I carried could have come from a market in Paris. Yes, there goes the confident single woman with a spring in her step, the sun in her face, and a smile for anyone she sees. My, it has been a long winter indeed.

There is a part in Judith Merkle Riley's In Pursuit of The Green Lion where the evil, egotistical, and awful poet Count asks the knuckle headed brother of a true poet if his poem on Spring is overdone, trite. Hugo disagrees. How can Spring be overdone if it comes each year? I thought of this when I started to write about it. What can I say that is different than what has been written for centuries? Nothing, except what is in my heart. Just being in the warmish air and seeing the sun feels like we are coming to a time of rebirth.

Everyone knows not to put out bedding plants until Mother's Day. Yet there is such a yearning for the growing season to be here. I want flowers, flowers, flowers. I want color and fragrance and abundant life all around me. I've started some sweet peas and morning glory from seed and still have marigolds to plant. More Jiffy pots! Last year I started the sweet pea and morning glory in pots and thought to have them climb up the fence. The darn rabbit kept eating the vines, not one flower bloomed. This year they will be in boxes that will sit high on the fence and grow down instead. I can't wait to see the pink, purple and blue blossoms. Oh, I want, I want, I want.

I do not hate winter. In a way I almost love it. For me it is a time that doesn't fly. Long periods of stagnation, hibernation, and just existing. Life lasts a long time. And then spring comes and the rush begins. We know spring is fleeting, summer is just around the corner and fall comes too soon. So between now and the beginning of September, life must be lived to it's fullest, much of it outside while possible. I want to grab it and make it slow down so I can savor the season. It is a little exhausting if I think about it too much. So the trick is not thinking and just doing.

Don't think about taking a walk, just walk. Don't think about riding a bike, just ride. Lie in the sun or the shade and be calm and happy. Appreciate each day with gratitude. Yes! Thank you!

Enjoying today

"In this life, be conscious every day. And when you are conscious, you will be able to see how beautiful this life is. This life that you keep cursing. This life that you keep weighing with happiness and sorrow. This life, it should not be weighed with happiness and sorrow. Because in it, there is a joy in every day, in every moment. If there should be any measurement, then it should be: "how much have I enjoyed today?".- Prem Rawat (Maharaji)


I am making an effort to enjoy each day, to go for the gusto and enjoy being alive. I am trying to take a moment when the moment is lovely to acknowledge that loveliness. I am looking at the cleanup of chrysanthemums that wintered in the planters as a chance to enjoy being outside in the cool spring air instead of as a rotten job to be done. It is all my attitude, and my attitude is good.


Many years ago I knew a man who told the story of going to Altamont to see the Rolling Stones. He drove his motorcycle through the rain all the way there. He said he was wet, but his girlfriend was miserable. It was all in the attitude. (I also think the fact that he was sitting in a comfortable saddle and she was on a pillbox on the fender may have added to her misery, but that takes away from the story.)


This morning my blood sugar was 74 (woohoo!), I had a charming brunch date with someone I wouldn't mind seeing again, and I bought a bowl of pansies in the belief that if I put them out, spring will really come. When I got home I found I had lost my house key somehow. I called management and waited to get back in. No biggie, what good would freaking out do? (I don't know yet I do it all the time.) If it is raining tomorrow and I wake up late for work, have impatient customers and the boss yells at me, I hope I can keep this good attitude.


I never thought the thousand year old parents would still be alive. In acceptance of them never dying, and having to bring the old man to the beach again this summer, I bought a new float that is like a chaise. It will be so much easier to get him in and out of the water, although I will still call upon strong young men to help. As long as I am going to be there, I might as well enjoy it. This is the life I am privileged to have. L'chaim, to life.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gk7HXuQE5pw

I'm just a girl who can't say no (But once in a while I do!)

If you were to ask me if I am a generous person, I would probably say yes. I have given away boatloads in my life and consider mean spiritedness in others a major character flaw. Yet there are times when I have to look my generosity in the face and accept that it is easy to give when one has an abundance to share and not so easy when it comes to things I want to hang on to.

I don't think many of us growing up in my neighborhood had a lot of extra. We lived in small apartments and had school clothes that had to be taken off when we got home, and play clothes and one outfit for special occasions. My friends had one Barbie Doll, I had a Vogue Fashion Doll. We had a stuffed tiger and corduroy dog. My sister had a kind of Humpty Dumpty soft toy and we had some hand me down Ginny Dolls from a cousin. Monopoly, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land (my all time hated), coloring books and crayons. I don't think we were deprived. We used our imagination and had lots of fun.

When I was in High School, I came into possession of a gorgeous red designer coat. It was truly beautiful and I loved it. My parents and I had found it at Loehman's and watched it being reduced from week to week. When it got to a reasonable price, they bought it for me as a birthday present. It had to have been the finest garment I ever had in my life and I treasured it. I think it may have come straight from an atelier because the pockets were sewn on by hand and I had to be careful not to put much in them. One day my Aunt Judy asked if her daughter could use that coat for a date. I said yes, because it was expected of me but I put so many conditions on her borrowing it that Judy just went and bought her a coat. I felt guilty, but that coat was precious to me and I didn't want to share.

Later on in college I got involved in a movement that asked us to give up all the things we could to raise money. No problem until I was asked to give up a simple ring that had belonged to my birth mother. I did it and felt bad. I still regret giving it up.

When I got interested in photography my husband invested in a good camera for me. It meant the world that he would buy me something so precious. I took good care of it and didn't let anyone else use it. Years later he offered it to a niece who was taking a college course in photography. I freaked out. That was mine, he couldn't just offer something so valuable to someone else. It might get stolen or broken and then what? He had no idea that Miss Generosity could act that way. I apologized over and over, but I could not lend it out.

It was a joke to my daughters not to admire anything of mine too much because I would always offer it to them. One year Eri admired a new pair of Romika sandals and I reluctantly gave them to her even though I liked them. A year of two later she asked if she could have my new red Dansko sandals and I surprised us all by saying no. It was surprising, but it was fine. Yeah, Mom could have her own shoes.

Now a friend is collecting for a young woman and her daughter who lost everything in an apartment fire. I started looking around for what I could give.  When I moved into my own place I only took things that I really liked and needed. This place is small and there is not a lot of room for excess. What I found was I didn't want to give much up. A few cookbooks, a few utensils, my sweet stuffed dog, Rocky. I gave the larger box of Kleenex, but when it came to the glassware I baulked. I love the stupid Shrek glasses from MacDonald's and don't want to break up the fine Mikasa set.

I saw my ex and his assistant at Costco later in the day. I told them this story and Toreeta has a brand new quilt to donate. I was feeling guilty for not giving more, for saving the things I wanted for myself. I told them that Jesus said if a man had two coats and his neighbor none, he should give the neighbor the better one. I was confronting my own selfishness when S reminded me of a long held family saying. "If you give away your frying pan, you only have to buy another." Thank you to the voice of reason.

The Midnight Crazies

It has been awhile since my last blog, twelve days. There are three different starts in the draft file. Two titled Growing Old Is Not For Sissies and one titled Here Comes The Sun. But there really isn't anything new to say about my thousand year old parents, and it snowed, hard, on the morning of my pean to spring. I still don't have much to say, but feel it is important to keep writing. It helps to clear my mind and although I know a few people read this, it really is for me. Posting it is just exhibitionism. (Hey! Look at me!)

Why does anyone engage in self-destructive behavior? Why do I? Why do I procrastinate taking helpful action when I know it will ease anxiety? I really don't know. I've been to counseling. I've been to a shaman. I've read a book by a medical mystic. I've bought books on organizing that sit on the shelf because I have put off reading them. Intellectually, I know what needs to be done, but somehow, just like Oprah, I haven't made the connection. Unlike Oprah, I don't have a staff that does what I command. I do have the occasional helpers, but ultimately it is me.

Years ago I went to Malibu for a party given by the leader of the meditation movement I belong to. S and I were living in Flagstaff. He couldn't take time off from school and work so I went with a few other people from our local group. We had to drive across Arizona and California and then park at the bottom of a winding road up a small mountain. As I climbed the steep road I longed for my partner to be with me. I wanted us to be making that trek together. But as I ascended, step by step, I realized that each of us walks this road of life alone. There are people who can keep you company and make the journey lighter, but only we can move our feet.

So... how can I move my leaden feet and do what needs to be done? The first step for me is to make a list. And every list starts like this:

Make list (Harder than you might think. I have to find a piece of paper and pen. I have to actually DO something.)

Take shower

Get dressed

Eat breakfast.

Empty dishwasher

Put away laundry

Then we get down to the nitty gritty:

Pay bills

Make appointments (for whatever needs an appointment)

Return phone calls 

Sort mail and clear table

Clear counter

Read email and send out a resume

Go to bank

Go to dry cleaner

Go to (wherever)

What I usually do without a list is this. Get up, feed cats, test blood, eat something, make bed, get on computer and check email and facebook until it is time to rush and get ready for work, if working, or tell myself to go back to bed. I also clean the cat box and berate myself for not doing what needs to get done.  There are no easy fixes except to get off my hinder and start. Somedays I can and those are good days, and somedays are harder, but they can be good days too. When my children were small, I had to take care of them and it gave my day structure. So, too, with working.  When I was actively married there was accountability and responsibility. But now, it is just me. I can't blame the spoon in the sink on anybody else. This is my mess. I make it and I must clean it up.

I called this blog the midnight crazies after the silly cats who chase each other all around and the thoughts that keep me up. Here is George, Ringo, Elton, Eric and others to sing, "Sun, sun, sun, here it comes."

Fun with Sidney and Harriet

Scene: Kerasotes ICON Theater, St Louis Park, MN.
Cast: The Old Man, The Old Lady, The Intrepid Daughter

Today was bitterly cold in a different way. Instead of just being bone chilling cold there was a wet windy bite that knifed through all layers, but they still wanted to go out. The old man read a good review of "Cedar Rapids" and wanted to see it. I had a Groupon for 2 tickets for $10.00 to the fancy new theater, so away we went, on to the theater!

Have you been to one of these ICON theaters? The lobby is at the top of a three story escalator that goes straight up to a huge atrium. We took the elevator. Then there are stairs or an incredibly long ramp to the lobby. No place for the old people to sit while I bought the tickets, so they leaned against the wall. Usually, the old man sits in back, the old lady in front, and I go back and forth between them every so often. But at this theater you have to pick out your seats on a touch screen and those are the seats you have. I explained that we would all be sitting together at the back of the closer section. Then we started the trek. We passed the restrooms, theaters one and two and then slogged up an incline and another and finally got to theater 10. Then down a couple of corridors. The old lady started breathing very heavily and I made her stop. I took off her coyote coat and hat as she caught her breath. She was actually sweating, and I thought she might collapse. But no, she started to feel better and I was able to get her down a step and into a chair. When I turned to my dad, he wasn't behind me.

I looked up and he was making his way to a far row, a little old man on a mission. "Dad, Dad," I tried to get his attention. Finally he looked at me. "You have to sit with Mom and me," I called. "Those are reserved seats, come sit over here." By now the entire auditorium was watching the Sidney and Carol show. I meet him as he descended and helped get him situated. He couldn't understand why he had to sit so close. The old lady said she was cooling off which was good. At last the previews began and I have to admit, the seats were very comfortable and the picture quality excellent.

Cedar Rapids is a wonderful movie about innocence and honesty and corruption and hypocrisy. It is entertaining and surprising and altogether lovely. I laughed and was touched and enjoyed the entire short eighty-seven minutes. The old man stayed awake the entire time. As soon as it was over and the plot explained to the old lady, she decided it was good. When she asked him if he liked it, the old man said he loved it.

We started the trek back to the lobby, stopping along the way to rest and use the facilities. Down to the parking lot; my car parked right next to the door. On our way to dinner, the old lady said, "It's a beautiful theater but I never want to come here again." We need one of our little neighborhood six-plexes. This was just too huge with inclines and passages. At 97, and somewhat blind, Harriet is game for almost anything. Have cane, will travel. At almost 96, the old man just can't get around the way he wants. He is angry at how weak he has become.

We ate at Chili's and because we had our movie stubs, took home a couple of free pieces of cheesecake for the old man, as well as six ribs and lots of fries. They drank two for one Blue Moon beers and the old lady enjoyed pretending she was tipsy.

I remember being a typical young teen and not wanting to be seen on the same street with my parents, and even five years ago had no patience to watch them eat. Now I can sit with equanimity and wait and watch as they enjoy their food in their own inimitable way. It isn't because they have gotten easier, not at all. It is because there has been a change in me. I want to be loving and I feel it might be sooner than later. I told the old lady that I think she will make 100 and she told me she doesn't want to. The fact that my father is still alive is pretty amazing and makes no sense at all. I can't see us going to the movies every week as we have in the past. But as long as they want to keep going out, I will try to find places they like to go.

Life is good

On one hand I watch 92 year old Ginger Rogers dance salsa with her 29 year old great grandson. He dips and lifts her and I applaud just like the rest of the audience. Then I turn on coverage of the Tsunami in Japan. A wall of water just washes away everything in its path, houses, farms, cars, roads. Where I can't imagine dancing that way when I am 92, not being able to dance that way at 59, at least I can comprehend it. Yep, natural talent and constant practice. But the tsunami and earthquake, that devastation is beyond my ability to understand.


I forget that we are living our little lives on a big blue marble in space that has a molten core. Some people think the Earth itself has a consciousness and a life above and beyond us. If that is true, maybe earthquakes and tsunamis are no more than the planet belching. We are just little ants on the surface going about our busy little lives without wondering about the surface below our feet. It is not God being angry, or retribution for our sins. It is what happens according to physical laws on our planet.


I am sorry for the people of Japan who have unimaginable pain, disbelief, and sorrow to deal with. I am concerned for all coastal people who must live in readiness for what might be coming. I send my heartfelt wishes for their safety. And yet, after Haiti, Katrina, and all the man-made horrors we inflict upon ourselves, today I can still say that life is good.


In the words of the writer Kurt Vonnegut, "And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is." 

What you see

Wednesday evening I arranged to meet a charming man at Rojo, an upscale Mexican restaurant. We decided to have some appetizers and soup in lieu of a full scale dinner. I suggested the Mexican grilled corn. It is usually wonderful, rolled in butter and cheese. He remarked that I was very brave eating corn on a first date. Really? I like corn and I had a napkin, what was so brave?  I said the worst that would happen is we would get some on our faces or teeth and then we would wipe it off. I said "This is me; what you see is who I am." He answered that very few people are that way, at least in his experience. But then again, he has spent his life in advertising.

Clearly there are dating rules I am not aware of. In this world of texting and email, what are the rules? And do I have to follow them?  I am not a big rebel rule breaker, it is more that I have a hard time following them. I goes before E, except after C, I need to check every time. Email after dinner, or text after coffee, and who makes the first electronic move? I have a nice time, I send a thank you. I don't want to repeat the experience, I send a nice thanks, but no thanks. Someone told me that these days you just don't get in touch again and expect the other to know what that means. To me it means rudeness, although I shouldn't take it personally.

I wonder about people who put up a dating facade. How long can you keep it up? How long can you pretend to be someone who you think you should be instead of who you are? Can you imagine the surprise when you start to show your real personality? Hopefully, it is a charming surprise, but I imagine it isn't always. Why should I pretend to know baseball if I don't?  Once in a while I lie to protect other's feelings. But other than that, why bother? I can't keep the stories straight; better to tell the truth.

What other things don't I know? Are there other things I should know about dinner? What else shouldn't I order? I have heard that there are women who order the a meal and only play with it. If I am invited to dinner I am going to eat and enjoy it. Oh, oh, I've thought of one... don't order dessert unless he does! Am I a catch or what? Yes, what you see is what you get, and boy are you lucky.

Apnea and Insomnia

I have never been a good sleeper. The old lady says it used to scare her when I would wake her up screaming as a little girl. They would come in and wake me up and I would go back to sleep. As I got older, I stayed up later and later reading by the light from the hallway. I still don't understand why I never just got up and read in the living room. It was probably forbidden. "Go to bed!" The first night I was away at camp, at age sixteen I kept my cabin mates awake with my noise.

At age twenty-one, I received meditation techniques that allowed me to tap into the energy that keeps us all alive. I had a profound experience and stopped fearing death. I was never a very faithful meditator, but I know it is there and stopped screaming in my sleep. I toss and turn and talk and sit up and make all kinds of noise. At the same time I am also a very sensitive sleeper. I used to complain about my husband's snoring. He told me I snore. That didn't bother me since I was asleep when I snored. (Sometimes, though, I would wake myself up with a loud snort when I fell asleep in the passenger seat on a trip. It always embarrassed me.) He started using Breathe Right strips and his snoring didn't bother me anymore since it became very rhythmical. How he ever put up with my shenanigans is a mystery to me. My daughters would become very alarmed when it seemed I stopped sleeping.

About eight years ago I was diagnosed with sleep apnea, a condition where I stop breathing, wake myself up, and go back to sleep. It could happen thirty or forty times a night. Obviously one does not get good deep sleep if one is always waking up for a moment. At the sleep clinic they tried me with a cpap machine that administered continuous air from a mask and it showed deeper sleep. I got a home machine and could never adjust to the mask. I tried four different masks and always wound up pulling it off after about two hours. Last year I went back to the clinic, was given a different mask that I seemed to tolerate better, but still could not wear for very long. They never told me at the clinic that about 40% of all users can not be helped by cpap.

My brother in-law told me about a dental device that helped him and I went to a special dentist to get one made. The dentist was upfront and told me that about 30% of the people he treats do not get relief from the apnea. The only way to tell was to go back to the sleep clinic and have them hook me up to all the machines and watch me sleep while wearing the device, which is a lot like a mouth guard and a retainer. I don't think I can afford 20% of $4,000. to find out if it is effective. I already know the answer: It is and it isn't. It takes care of the apnea but does nothing for the insomnia.

Tonight I was quite tired and went to be just before ten. I didn't read, just put in the device, closed my eyes and fell asleep. When I awoke, I figured it had to be at least four or five in the morning. But when I looked at the clock, it was only 11:53! It wasn't even two hours later. It wasn't even midnight. Holy Toledo.

I am not upset, but I am disappointed. Now I will stay up for awhile, reading, playing on the computer, maybe watching some TV. I don't have to stay in bed reading by the hall light. I am an adult and live in my own home with plenty to do.

Sleeping pills make me ill. Readers, if you have any cure for insomnia, please let me know.

A life in motion

I must admit I have not been looking forward to turning fifty-nine. Don't think for a minute that I wanted to die at fifty-eight, oh no. But it sounds so old. Sixty is just around the corner. If I could do any decade over again, it would be this one. I feel like I slept for five years, deep in inertia, sadness and fear. And now that I am active, mentally and socially, I can't help wishing I did things a lot differently. I know, I know, water under the bridge, acknowledge and move on.

I had a really good birthday. John spent hours sitting at the table sorting papers into piles for me to deal with. We threw out a ton of paper, trash and recycling. Eri kept me on task and the bedroom floor is empty.  The file cabinet is moved into a corner of the dining room and the boxes that sat in that corner are gone. I really appreciated the gift of their time. Laurel sent beautiful flowers that are perfuming the air around me and a dear friend took me out to dinner. Facebook friends sent birthday wishes; perfect.

There is a part of me that is quite frightened to be this age and alone without a good job. There is a little voice that tells me I will never get a good job if it doesn't happen by sixty. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Listening to that voice is counterproductive. Listening to that voice is a waste of time. Here is one truth, it is hard to get a good job at any age and harder as one ages. Here is another truth, we only have today, right now. If I spend my life worrying about what is going to happen, I am missing right now.

Here is my plan: I am going to wade through all these papers and do what needs to be done. I am going to keep my eyes and ears open for opportunities to be of service and make a good living. I am going  to give praise for life and try to see the positive in everyone I meet. I will try to eat well and get back to the pool and exercise room. I am going to look for opportunities to dance. I've done inertia, it doesn't work. A life in motion is much more fun.

What does it mean to feel peace?

What does it mean to be a daughter, a mother, a sister, a friend? What is our obligation? When do we put our needs above our parents, children, siblings and friends? What is right and what do we justify to feel right?

These past few years have been hard. At times I had to put other's needs behind my own and say, "I need this for me." And other times I have put my needs behind those of my parents and children. There is a balance that is tricky to get right. As a mother I usually put my children first. I liked that. I think they liked it too, unless it became a burden. Putting myself first was new and I often didn't know how to do it without drama, nor they how to react.

My parents are a different galaxy to explore. Where they had a certain authority, and I very little power, I now have almost all the power. It is a heavy responsibility at times. Other times the burden rests easy. Tonight was beastly cold but I took them out for a nice dinner. We sat in peace waiting for our meals. They loved the food, the ambiance, the wait staff remembered us. The old man ate quite a lot and had nothing to complain about. I gave the old lady strokes for being a bigger woman than someone she is feuding with. I looked at these truly ancient people and thought, good for them. When I moved them out here from Brooklyn, I truly didn't think it was going to be for more than a few years. Now I have the patience to see it through for as long as it takes. At least I do tonight. (Tomorrow I might scream.)

I am sitting here, alone except for the cats. I really have no worries, nor anyone to report to. I have some nice friends, and dear family. The peace I am feeling is precious. I am not going to analyze it or think about how long it will last. I am here and I am happy.

More life under the visor

It was another day of demonstrating AmLactin body moisturizer. It is a pretty easy sell. I mean everyone in Minnesota has winter dry skin. At one point a strange young man with a turquoise stud in his upper lip studied a bottle of lotion. I asked if he would like a drop. He told me he didn't put carcinogens on his body. O... K, what carcinogens was he talking about? Parabens. I truly don't think the number one recommended by dermatologists and podiatrist lotion is going to cause cancer. I didn't argue, everyone has his or her own particular ax to grind. (I for one have a list against Ronald Reagan, but don't get me started.)

Lately I have been wearing a pair of men's black jeans to work. They were quite inexpensive; unfortunately they don't always stay up on my waist. I was pulling up my pants when two old men walked by giving me a funny look. I said I needed a belt, and to my surprise the skinny one said what I needed was to lose weight. I looked at him for a moment and said, "Thanks Dad!" I should have said, "My what a tacky thing to say." So they didn't break the mold when they made my old man. There are other rude old farts out there.

It is always fun to see the little ones put up their little starfish hands to get a drop of lotion and rub it in. I'd give them just the merest hint of lotion. All in all, I pushed about 30 bottles in 6 hours. As I said, it is an easy sell this time of year.

Yesterday two people linked me with Satan. The store was almost empty and I was standing around with a tray of Macadamia Caramel Clusters when a woman said, "Satan, get thee behind me." Really! I told her she was confused. I was the angel of chocolate. Later another woman told me I was the devil. I responded that I was offering her life affirming candy and was an angel.  I'm just a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, I don't do the devil's work. I told the third one who referenced the devil to please not project their own weaknesses on me. Yikes.

I have discovered a way to distinguish people who did not grow up in MN from the natives.  Offer something and the Minnesotan will say, "I'm good" and walk by. Once in a while someone from out of state will say, "No thank you" and walk by. People in Minnesota just don't say no thank you. It's true, they are all either good or fine. Customers knew I wasn't from around here because I pronounced all three syllables in caramel instead of carmel. It doesn't mean much, just an observation.

"So here's to you as good as you are!

And here's to me as bad as I am!

And as bad as I am,
And as good as you are

I'm as good as you are

As bad as I am!"

-old toast

L'chiam, to life!

Can't think of a clever title

I was sitting in the break room when my phone rang. It was Agatha, one of the nurses at the assisted living facility where my folks live. I asked if my father had fallen again. She asked why I thought it was my father and I replied because it always was. No, he hadn't fallen. He refused to get out of bed. He said he was cold and that he wanted to sleep. I asked if he had a fever, no. His blood pressure was a little high. She told me that my mother, when asked her opinion, said she wasn't a nurse; she didn't know what to do. I told them to let him rest, check on him in another hour and call me back. The next phone call informed me that his blood pressure went down, he took his medication, had a Boost, and wanted to stay in bed. He said he was tired. I told them to let him rest and I would be by after work.

I stopped at the store and bought him some ice cream, and a few Marie Callenders Beef Pot Pies. He will eat that when he can't stand the food there. When I entered the apartment, they were both sitting in the living room with the television blasting. They were very surprised to see me since we'd had about a foot of new snow the night before. Where other parts of the country become paralyzed by a couple of inches, Minnesota knows how to clear the roads. This winter might become the snowiest on record.

The old man was sitting in his robe and slippers. I noticed he was not wearing pajamas and his legs were pathetically skinny. He had just gotten up. I asked what happened that morning. "He was sick," the old lady said. I mentioned that he didn't have a fever. He said he was tired from going to the bathroom all night. I asked about feeling cold. Why didn't he turn up the electric blanket? It wasn't plugged in. Why not? It had been too warm to use. (Sure it had been too warm, -10 degrees outside but about 90 inside) How did he feel? Fine, tired.

The thing about dealing with the extremely elderly is that you never get the whole story. Had he told Agatha about running (shuffling) to the bathroom all night and that was why he was tired? Had he told her that his blanket was unplugged? I bet not. I once had a boss who used to ask me why didn't I ask questions. I used to say I needed to know what the question was before I could ask it. Poor Agatha, she was doing the best she could with the information she had.

In the morning I will call the facility and talk to the head nurse. I will tell her the reason he was tired and cold. I will ask them to make sure his blanket is plugged in. I am also going to request that an aide put in his hearing aids each day. This shouting is making me crazy. He only wears them when I put them in on Saturday.

One day I will get the phone call, but it isn't quite yet. He is not ready to die, he just bought a new pair of pants. I wonder, though, am I ready for him to die? Yes, I think I am. Am I ready to deal with my mother on her own at 97? Moving her to a smaller apartment, dealing with all the paperwork associated with death and listening to the endless stories? No, I don't think so.

The Saga Continues...

When last we saw the thousand year old parents and their intrepid daughter... I'd told my parents that they couldn't go to a wedding in New Jersey because the old man was too frail. He was greatly disappointed. And although the old lady seemed to accept it, she was disappointed too.

This morning he called me and told me to take my mother all by herself. He would stay home and be OK. I said we will talk about it. He told me she really wanted to go. It was her last hurrah and he did not want her to miss it. He'd worked it out. She could go and have fun and he would stay home and sleep. Then he put her on the phone and she was so excited. "I can do it. It won't be so bad and they all want me to come! Iris was crying she wanted me to come." I said we would talk about it. I was trying to figure out where I could find money for the fares when I decided to call the mother of the groom, cousin Iris. She called back and I found out the real story. We talked a long time. The old lady does not hear very well in person, and even less well on the phone. Iris had told her that she would come to visit after the wedding and bring a video.

At four, I went over to pick them up to go shopping and out to eat. (The old man wants a new pair of pants.) The couch was covered with evening wear. I knew she was picking out her wedding outfit because before I talked to my cousin I thought about it, too, and decided to wear the dress I wore to another wedding. I sat them down and had an almost truthful discussion with them.

"Mom," I said, "you don't always hear well on the phone." I then told them that it was NOT going to be a big wedding like the one we went to last year. No big groom's dinner, no big day-after brunch, no band, very few relatives. Although it was at a country club, it was actually a golf club near a Marriott near a freeway. It was interesting to see them change their minds. I told them it was going to be more like my daughter's wedding, small and intimate. And suddenly it was over. They couldn't see going all the way out there for one day. "But the invitation was so fancy, who knew?"

At dinner the old lady told the old man she was going to keep one outfit out for the February birthday party at their assisted living facility. Then the waiter brought over some chocolate wontons for the 97 year old and all was right with the world.

When your parent becomes your child

My parents are very old. The old lady is 97 and the old man will be 96 in June. I moved them here from their apartment in Brooklyn in 2005. At that time we got a handicapped parking permit that will expire in April of 2011. Six years, we all laughed and I was sure they would be gone by now. Well, they are not and I have to renew the permit. Let me tell you, if they are still around in 2017...

It is a funny thing about growing older, people still feel young in their minds. My father does not understand why his knee hurts him. I tell him his body, just like an old car, is wearing out. He still feels young and vibrant in his mind but watch him take an hour to eat three pancakes, or get in and out of a car, and you know this is a very old man. He recently told my mother that he is tired of her pinkish, strawberry blonde hair and wants her to go blonde again. She wants to let her hair go silver but he insists it makes her look old. What, I want to know, is wrong with looking old at 97?

I went over this morning to put some blonde dye in her hair. She told me to start on the ends and work up to the roots. She knows what she is talking about because she used to be a very successful and talented hairdresser and colorist. We did not strip all the color out, just used the dye. When I left it was looking like a lighter color, but I sure wouldn't call it blonde. This evening my father called me to complain about something and I asked him how her hair looked. "Like shit," he answered. My old man, tactful as ever. Then the old lady got on the phone and I asked how she liked her hair. She loved it. She told me she had cut off most of the darker hair and it looks beautiful. She told me this was it. She was letting her hair grow out and I never had to put color in it again. I will be interested to see how she cut her hair since she is legally blind. Curly hair can be quite forgiving.

I take care of their finances, I buy their groceries, make and bring them to all appointments and give them a day out every Saturday. Today I signed their yearly lease. It was almost as long as a purchase agreement. I signed CSandberg, POA, twelve times! At this point they don't know that they are broke. They have this fantasy that there is still "big money" for me to inherit. They are so lucky to be in a HUD senior building with county assisted home care. I try to make things as pleasant as possible.

Sometimes, though, I have to be a bad parent and deny them things. The latest is another trip to New Jersey for another wedding. It is going to be a big affair at a country club and my father is crushed that he can't go. Why? Why can't he go? How do you tell a man that he is too fragile, (his skin actually tears if not treated very carefully) he can hardly walk, and doesn't remember much? How do you deal with taking two ancient people through security and getting them on a plane, getting them to the bathroom, getting them off a plane and to a hotel? How do you feed them, get him dressed, take care of his medications, and answer the same questions a thousand times without getting cranky and mad? I could conceivably take the old lady by herself but that would break his heart.

The old lady is much more on the ball. As a narcissist she can repeat how much everyone loved her and how wonderful it was to dance at the wedding. "We made the whole thing!" she explains. "It wouldn't have been the same without us!" She understands how hard the trip would be and I think she is almost relieved not to go. She has accepted staying home, but not the old man. He is reacting like a small child whose parent is unreasonable. Let me tell you, this isn't a fun position and I keep thinking maybe I can swing it. Then good sense comes to my rescue. I hate saying no.

As a parent, I sometimes had to deny my children things they wanted. We did not allow our daughters to go on Spring Break. Yeah, I was a meany. But I knew that when they could afford it on their own, they could go wherever they liked. They had their whole lives ahead of them. It is a much different story to deny things to my parents knowing they don't have many more years to do the things they want.

Such a treat!

My friend Connie called to tell me there was a free lecture by Garrison Keillor at Concordia College. It was on the art of joke writing. We met at the auditorium and got wonderful seats about fifth row, dead center. The Concordia Handbell Choir played a modern and fun piece and when Garrison got on stage he asked what they were doing Saturday night. That made their night and we all laughed and applauded.

The lecture had been advertised on comedy writing, but I don't think they told Garrison. He said he was going to talk about futility. It was wonderful. Seeing him up front and personal as he spoke for over an hour was a real treat. He is one of the major talents of our time and you can see he just loves what he is doing. He talked a little bit about his stroke and growing older. Did you realize his little girl is now 13? I thought she was about eight. He covered so much ground, I really can't tell you all he said. I can just say I am so glad I got this wonderful treat.

Kindness with a side of fries

This evening, a friend and I went to a Valentines dance and each lady received a lovely long stemmed red rose. We got there about nine and by eleven my feet told me, "Enough!" On the way home I realized I was really hungry and stopped at a McDonald's drive through and ordered a small fries for a buck. I paid for the fries and just for the heck of it gave my rose to the woman at the window. She was really delighted. She came back to tell me that it would be a few minutes because they were making fresh fries.  I told her that I'd had a very good time dancing and that I was going to take some aspirin before bed. She told me to soak my feet in hot water with salt and I would feel wonderful in the morning. Then she offered me some coffee. I declined and she went to get my order. We wished each other a nice night and I drove away.

I put my hand into the bag and pulled out the longest hot french fried potato I ever did see. And was it good! I kept eating them, and there seemed to be no end.  When I got home I looked at the container. It had gone from a small to an extra large at no extra charge. What a nice surprise.

Someone gave me a rose. I gave the rose away, that woman will go home from her fast food job with a nice story and a rose. I enjoyed hot potatoes and got good advice which I pass on to you. Kindness, it is my favorite thing. Pass it on.

Using words

You hear it all the time, parents telling their small children to use words, that mama can't understand unless you use your words. The tearful toddler says "Want juice" and the mother produces the sippy cup. So, I wonder, when do we learn not to use words to get across what we want? And why do we do it when the results are so spotty?

There is a 15 second spot for a new Lifetime Network show about giving birth. The ad airs between games on my computer. In it a woman in bed says to her husband, "Look at him." He looks up and she looks away and says, "His wife is in labor and he's on his Blackberry." Then she looks at him and he says, "What do you want me to do?" At first I thought the guy was a jerk. But the more often I saw it I realized that the wife was not using words to get what she wanted. When she asked for his attention, she got it, but she looked away. He might not be the most sensitive guy but he did ask what she wanted him to do. Why didn't she say, "Please come be with me, I want you with me." She expected him to just read her mind and know. He couldn't understand unless she used her words.

The other day Eri and I went up to see Grandma Betty. At one point she said she wanted to wash her hair. When it was getting time for us to go I mentioned the hair washing. She waffled around, oh it wasn't necessary, or maybe I should, or she could do it herself, or I didn't have to if I didn't want to, etc. Finally I said I was going to ask her a question and there were only two answers, yes or no. Did she want me to help wash her hair? "Yes." There! Wasn't that easy?

I come from New York and we are not big on subtlety. In your face, you know how we feel. But I have lived in Minnesota longer than I ever lived in NY and I still don't get it. I am very direct and sometimes people here think I am mad. It isn't anger, it is just the way I communicate. Subtlety is lost on me. I need things spelled out in big red letters. I'm a little psychic, but I don't usually trust it; I need clarity, I need words that say what you really mean.

So dear friends, I can't tell what you are thinking. Leave me a comment, let me know what you think about this or any other posting. Use words (or emoticons if you must.)

Overwhelmed by Grace

Have you ever walked into a room and had the experience of being completely surrounded by holiness, Grace, unconditional love, and the energy that keeps you alive? It doesn't happen all that often to me, but it did on Monday night.

I had been invited to help pack food for Feed My Starving Children, an organization that sends millions of meals to child nutrition centers around the world. They call them Manna Packs and each bag contains enough rice, soy protein, dehydrated vegetables, chicken flavoring and all the vitamins and minerals needed to feed six one cup portions. It is quite palatable and the results of having even one meal a day of this food are remarkable. Each day and evening volunteer groups pack thousands of pounds to ready for the next shipment abroad.

Our group consisted of some very young female hockey players and their mothers, my niece's group of friends and family and others. We had a boisterous crew ready to help. The leaders really knew how to handle the volunteers and got every one's attention to teach how the packs were made. There was a job for everyone to work in teams. Several of the men were assigned to warehouse duty. I volunteered to sit and label bags away from the fray along with a friend. Behind me the hockey players were full of the competitive spirit that had them shouting for more supplies and "Bingo!" when the bags weighed the exact amount. In an instant the hour and a half flew by. After we sampled the fare, which tasted somewhat like fried rice, the leader said that one thing she always did after a session was to pray for the safety of the shipment.

I followed her into the warehouse filled with pallets of supplies and boxes ready for the journey. There I was hit by Grace. I was surrounded by the love of God and felt it in every cell of my being. My skin sang and my eyes started to tear. I was overwhelmed. As more people came into the room I could hear gentle murmurs as each experienced their own moment. After I could speak, the words "When two or more of you are gathered in My Name, there is love" came naturally to my lips.

Someone said a prayer blessing the food and the journey in His Son's name. It was a good prayer, as far as words and human understanding goes. But the energy and love in that room went far beyond what words could say or mind comprehend. For me, it was the Holy Name that cannot be pronounced or ever spoken. And because words can't describe it, I can only tell you this. It is real and I am blessed to have felt it again.