The News Since 2/11

It has been over a month since I last posted a blog and a lot has happened; I lost my job, started a long correspondence with an interesting individual, attended a Women in Transition workshop, and most important of all, welcomed my newborn grandson, Nathaniel. He is not my first grandchild, that is his brother Gavin who came to us when Erica married John. He's lovely and loving and I am so glad to know him, but at twelve he's too big to cuddle under my chin. Nathaniel is my first grandbaby. I spent a goodly while today holding him on my chest. He's such a mellow little peanut. Babies really are the world made new. I am in love with that precious bundle.

The Women in Transition workshop was held over two days, four participants and the leader. Earlier in the month we all took personality and career assessment tests to learn our strengths and weaknesses. Nothing very surprising in the results; I hate rules, I like people, I would rather start a project than follow it through, I don't like discord and disharmony, and thrive in an atmosphere of cooperation and respect. I commented that everyone wants that. Much to my surprise I found out that some people do their best work under conditions of tension. Indeed, when I think about it there are people I know who like to stir the pot just to see what happens and how others will react. That is not for me, oh no, no, no.

One of the exercises we did was writing about pictures in magazines. Each person wrote about what they saw, I wrote stories. One picture was of a plant in a laboratory, one of an astronaut on a space walk. I wrote of them both being alone, of their strength and situations. Other people wrote straight descriptions, this is a hummingbird, this is a blue car. But to me, everything is a story. It is also the way I speak, using analogies. The leader told me I need to find a job doing something like writing for Garrison Keillor. (Insert music here: Nice work if you can get it, and you can get it if you try...) I shouldn't try to work in a factory. Oh really? The only time I tried I walked off the job after three hours and told them they could keep the money. The good thing is I've gotten off my complacent rear end and am actively pursuing leads. I've got two in the pipeline right now.

When my children were small we made sacrifices so I could stay home and raise them myself. I always said I had the rest of my life to work. Well that was prophetic! Now it looks like I'll be doing just that, once I get another job. I'm making the effort and know it is only a matter of time.

What to do?

If you ever were to visit my condo building there is a good chance you would meet Gerry. She is that friendly old lady dressed in purple with either long wild hair or very regular pin curls. Don't worry about waiting for me to buzz you in, Gerry will open the door to you or anyone. She always agrees that she shouldn't do that but there is one huge problem. Gerry has no short term memory.

Within a single conversation she will ask you what day it is three or four times. She knows something is wrong, she does, but will accept very little help. She is canny and wily and fighting for her life. No one can get into her unit and we wonder if she is getting enough to eat. I've wanted to take her to the grocery or for a haircut. She won't go. Another resident, 84 year old Betty, takes her to church and out to eat each Sunday. Betty is exhausted. Rita, age 81, wonders if Gerry might start a fire in her unit. Management doesn't know what to do. Several years ago a social worker determined that she wasn't a problem and could stay in her home.

But that was then and this is now and something has to be done for her own health and protection. We meet in the lobby and exchange horror stories. A few weeks ago I found her wandering around at nine at night in her overcoat and hat. She had been going in and out in the subzero weather waiting for Betty to take her somewhere. I was really concerned and the next day called the social worker at the building where my parents had lived. She suggested I get in touch with Adult Protection Services.

They are reopening the case and sending a social worker to investigate. Betty thinks she should go to a memory care facility. I hope she can get what they call Adult Elder Waiver where she can stay in her unit and get someone to come clean and make sure she is getting good nutrition, maybe Meals on Wheels. I know she is hungry because she took the left over food from our latest card party. Here, Gerry, do you like peanuts, oranges? Take home some chili and corn bread. Do you want veggies? Take the dip too.

Not everyone has children to watch out for them as they age. Not everyone wants to deal with their difficult aging parents. But what are we to do? Just as it takes a village to raise a child, it takes one to deal with the elderly. My mother used to say she was now the child and I the mother. What do we do with these old children with no one to oversee their health and wellness? We believe in freedom to live as we want as adults and have many protections in place so the elderly are not taken advantage of. But what do we do when they need help and won't accept it? I am the contact for the social worker and hope to hear from her soon.

Boney Butt

In my life I have been fat and thin and through it all one thing remains the same. I have a hard time sitting in most chairs. The flatter the chair, the worse. I have used wheelchair cushions for car seats, desk chairs and even new, padded, dining room chairs. I've never found a bike seat that is really comfortable. I have a boney butt with a nerve that is sort of sideways. And it occurs to me that I could have had much more profitable school days if only I'd had a cushion.

Back in the day, we wore crinolines and hoop skirts. Not the 1860's, the 1960's! I literally couldn't sit on a scratchy crinoline slip and it was damn hard arranging the hoop around me on the chair. And once sitting, the chair was either cold and hard or sweaty and hard. One leg under, then the other, up, down, up, down. It was amazing anything got done.

I was a volunteer in a daughter's second grade class. That teacher, a large woman, used to get down on the carpeted floor for reading groups. If the kids were more comfortable on the floor and could more easily learn there, she joined them. All over the room kids were lying on their tummies filling out papers or kneeling and using chairs to write on. There was concentration.

I know I have some attention deficit disorder and have a hard time staying on task. But I wonder how many children could benefit using a padded chair or cushion. Maybe if they weren't trying to get comfortable all the time they could concentrate. What if we provided a comfortable testing venue, would scores rise?

Just a thought.

60 is not the new 40 or even the new 50

I took one of the online tests that determine one's real age. I don't smoke, have lost some weight, and don't live on beer and martinis. Actually exercising, as opposed to just thinking about it, and eating more veggies had to be factored in too. Guess what? I'm only 48! I sure hope someone tells the heavenly record keepers and that they aren't planning on recouping those years early.

Conversely it seems to me that children these days are in such a hurry to grow up they are losing some years on the lower end. They don't get to loll around much. Stimulate their little minds with Baby Einstein. Six months old and it is time for Mom and Me classes. I am not saying these things are bad; you should see how clever my great niece and nephews are. They blow me away with language and innocence and I wouldn't have it any other way. But I also see little girls wearing high heels and ruining their backs and I am not crazy about twelve year olds wearing "Juicy" across their rear ends. (But that is an essay for another day.)

When I was 48 I went on strike and had the time of my life. Organizing, rallying, spending time on the picket line and helping out wherever I could. Within a few months of returning to work I was fired. I could have fought it, and maybe won, but I was determined to get out of food service before age 50. Banquet serving was golden handcuffs, good wages but no life. At the time I was living on ibuprofen, taking it before, during, and after work. My feet felt at least 75, but boy did I have some muscles! These days the feet are mostly fine, although long walks on marble floors tell me they are the same feet that bothered me at 17 when I first saw a foot doctor or 23 when I cried after a waitressing shift. Within months of leaving banquets I was able to wear normal shoes.

It is twelve years later. I am almost 61 and looking for a job again. I look pretty good, but not 40, maybe a mature 50. No one tells me they can't believe I'm 60. Believe it baby. Yet I have decided not to let the number get me down. Yes there is ageism; you'd better believe there is. And yes the economy is not the best, but people are getting new and better jobs. Granted these are people in their mid thirties. Their determination, research, and networking skills have gotten them interviews and subsequent hires. I am inspired by them. Wish me luck, but send me ideas too. I've got a lot to give and can't consider retiring for at least five more years.

The idea behind this blog was to make fun of the aging process and how ridiculous the whole thing is. Our nostrils get big and earlobes longer. I think my nose is growing. Won't it be funny when all those people with all that work done have long earlobes too? No wonder you never see their ears, the lobes don't lie. Excuse me while I examine my shell-like ears in a mirror. Are they scallop, oyster, or conch?

Onion Jam

Although I like a wide variety of foods, I am fairly conventional. Don't put hot pepper in my chocolate. Jam is for fruit, and leave sweet off any meat. Squash does not belong in soup, or carrots in cake. So it is with delight and surprise that I tried and enjoyed red onion jam on bread at Napa Valley Grille at the Mall of America. Leslie and I did three circuits of the mega mall before repairing to the quiet and classy restaurant on the second floor. Our server brought out our soup and a plate with thinly sliced baguette, olive oil and onion jam. It was sweet, but not overly so, subtle, and delicious. I tasted wine and something deeply mellow, like no onion I had ever eaten. I do like onions when they are cooked but don't care for them raw. I wanted to know how to make it.

From the internet I found several recipes which I share here in the spirit of culinary adventure.

1. Onion Jam from the Mustards Grill Napa Valley Cookbook

Makes about 1 cup

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

2 cups sliced onions; I have used both yellow and red

2 tablespoons sugar

½ teaspoon soy sauce

1 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

2 tablespoons red wine

2 tablespoons water

Heat the olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add the onions and cook for 5 - 8 minutes until tender and translucent. Add the sugar and cook, stirring occasionally, for 15 - 20 minutes, until onions are golden brown. Add the remaining ingredients and cook, stirring often to avoid scorching, for about 20 minutes, until the mixture is thick and jam like.  Taste and adjust for salt, if necessary.  The slower you cook it, the richer the jam will become. Store tightly covered in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks.

2. Alex Guarnaschelli's Onion Jam

Ingredients

• 1/4 cup vegetable or canola oil
• 4 large red onions, halved, peeled, and cut into thin (1/4-inch) slices
• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 2 cups dry red wine

Gastrique:

• 1/2 cup honey
• 1/2 cup red wine vinegar
• Juice and a few grates of zest from 1 lemon, optional

Directions

In a medium saute pan, heat the oil until it begins to smoke lightly. Add the onions and season with salt and pepper, to taste. Cook until the onions give up their liquid, 3 to 5 minutes, and then add the red wine. Lower the heat and cook the onions until the wine reduces almost completely. Leave on low heat while you prepare the gastrique.

In a separate small pan, heat the honey until it begins to bubble and froth. Cook until the honey turns a light caramel color, an additional 2 to 3 minutes. Add the red wine vinegar, simmer for a few minutes on low heat, and then shut off the heat. Pour the honey mixture over the onions and continue cooking them over low heat until all of the juice is absorbed and the onions are a jam-like consistency, 10 to 15 minutes. If you desire, add lemon juice and zest at this point. Taste for seasoning and transfer to a bowl to cool until ready to serve.

3. Onion Jam from Bon Appetit

Ingredients

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 2 pounds red onions, halved, thinly sliced
• 8 fresh thyme sprigs
• 4 garlic cloves, pressed
• 1 cup ruby Port
• 1/2 cup dry red wine
• 1/2 cup grenadine
• 1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
• 1/4 cup sugar

Preparation

• Heat oil in heavy medium pot over medium-high heat. Add onions, thyme, and garlic; sauté until onions are slightly softened, about 10 minutes. Add 1 1/4 cups water and all remaining ingredients and bring to boil. Reduce heat to medium and continue to boil gently until onions are soft, liquid is reduced, and mixture thickens to jam consistency, stirring often and adding more water by 1/4 cupfuls to prevent sticking, 30 to 40 minutes. Remove from heat. DO AHEAD Can be made 1 day ahead. Cool slightly. Cover and refrigerate. Before serving, rewarm onion jam just until heated through, stirring frequently.

4. And from Martha Stewart, the easiest looking recipe.

Ingredients

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 2 red onions, thinly sliced
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/4 cup red-wine vinegar
• 1/2 cup dry red wine, preferably Syrah or Zinfandel

Directions

1. Place oil in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat. Add onions, and cook until they begin to soften and become translucent, 8 to 10 minutes. Add sugar and continue cooking for 1 minute. Carefully add vinegar and wine. Increase the heat and bring to a boil, and immediately reduce to a simmer. Cook until liquid has evaporated and onions are caramelized, about 3 minutes. Keep warm until ready to serve.

Or you can go to The Napa Valley Grille and enjoy some for yourself without the bother or experimentation.

Unacceptable Answers

There has been a lot of talk that social media, instead of opening people to opposing points of view, actually reinforces ones point of view because we tend to stick with those who agree with us and banish those who do not. Yes, it is true that I like to read posts from those whose philosophy I find in concord with my own. I do not like to feel frustration and anger or anxiety. Those are emotions I experience when someone's worldview seems out of kilter to me. I try not to give them too much energy. Is this new since the internet? No, I don't think so. What is new is seeing just how widespread the views are. Where before we knew our small circle of friends, now we know, on a virtual level, many more who support our view. That makes it all the more upsetting to see how many disagree and how upset they are by us.

Which brings me to the dating site of which I am a member. I filled out a profile and answered as many questions as I wanted. I think I answered something like 525 questions. When checking out a potential date I can see their answers as well as my own if we both answered the same question. There is also a little list that compares you % match, % friend, % enemy. Sometimes I will check out a person whose numbers are high only to find out he has many unacceptable answers.

If he thinks homosexuality is wrong and denies others the right to have children, unacceptable. If he thinks gun rights are more important than voting, unacceptable. If he thinks burning the flag worse than suborning the Constitution, unacceptable. I can accept not reading a lot, or hunting, or even being a member of an activity that bores me to death. But I do find as I grow older, that I don't want to spend time with people that I am going to fight with. I won't change his mind, and he probably won't change mine.

I recently went to a show at the Bryant Lake Bowl Theater. It was one man being many characters in an interview setting. Hard to explain, but he asked for audience participation and couldn't do the act without it. I volunteered (big surprise there) and asked to talk to "Manuel, who knows what women want". He asked what I wanted, and I told him he already knew, didn't he? Poor guy was flummoxed so I said that my mother always said it was just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one, but she didn't say how I could meet one. He told me to join the Republican Party.

Another unacceptable answer.

Anticipation

About this time of year in 1977 I wanted watermelon. We lived in Flagstaff, Arizona and I was having a pregnant hankering for a sweet, juicy slice. I got up in the middle of the night and drove to East Flagstaff to the all night market. Of course there was no watermelon. It was the middle of winter! It wasn't watermelon season. I used to get so jazzed at the sight of the season's first asparagus. Those thin green stalks told me Spring was not too far away. Cherries in June, sweet corn and blueberries by August. Summer fruit in Summer, apples in the fall.

Today watermelon is available all year round, as are asparagus. The multinational food conglomerates in Chile and Argentina are growing and shipping produce to us. Nothing is out of season and we never have to wait. Oh look! Blueberries are two pints for five dollars, better buy two. That is how I come to be snacking on my favorite fruit in January. No waiting for Texas (early) or Michigan (late). I marvel at the huge asparagus available all year long. But when anything is available anytime, is it as good without anticipation?

I am not one of those people who mourn the good old days. As my old man used to say, "These are the good old days." I look at little children playing with their parent's tablets and smart phones as they sit in a shopping cart and think that they will always know wireless and touch screens and whatever else is coming down the pike. Cool. But will they ever know the thrill of that first taste of cold watermelon on a hot, hot day? I hope so.

Minnesota Tuff and Minnesota Stupid

Minnesotans are a hardy bunch, they can take the cold better than extreme heat and, in a way, almost rise above the winter. I have one friend, originally from Chile, who wears short sleeves, sandals and short pants year round. He is my age and has been in Minnesota about forty years. He carries a coat with him in the car to shut other people up. He is on the hardiest end of the spectrum. People with lower internal thermostats are on the other. Most of us fall somewhere in-between.

I remember visiting friends in Brooklyn when the girls were about four and eight. The mother of the family was simply appalled that I didn't make them wear undershirts in what she considered very cold weather. To me, it was above freezing, and if they kept a hood on outside, I was quite happy. You have to know how to pick your battles and undershirts weren't on my list.

Yesterday, though, I got a little frustrated with a father who did not know when to pick his battle. All day long I saw teenagers and older come into the store wearing just a sweatshirt. I thought ten degrees deserved more than that, but hey, if their parents, wearing only light jackets themselves, approved... Then I saw a cart with two little children, maybe three and four, a boy and a girl. They were stopped right by me. The little boy was appropriately dressed but the little girl was not. Remember it was only ten degrees. She was wearing a little dress and a jacket. Her legs were bare and she was not wearing socks or tights or pants. I asked where her pants were and dad answered she didn't like to wear pants. I looked at him. It was ten degrees out! I said it was quite cold. Well, he didn't like to fight with her.

Children are wonderful, sometimes irrational, and sometimes downright stupid beings. That is why they have parents to take make protective choices for them. I had friends who said their six week old didn't like the car seat so they let her make the decision and held her instead. Then there are situations where child safety is not an issue. I have a friend whose son could not tolerate socks and closed shoes when he was younger. They lived in a moderate climate and compromised on sturdy sandals. My daughter hated bibs. Rather than fight with her, I let her clothes get dirty. It was easier for me to wash the little garments than fight with her. But letting a small child go out in ten degree weather with nothing on her lower body is not the kind of battle to admit defeat. It is cold out, you can't go without the proper clothing. Period. Be the parent and insist.

To everyone who reads this: Treat each other with love and laughter in the coming year. Take good care of your health, get rest, and have a wonderful new year. I'm serious, and I insist!

What we think and what others see

Like most people I have an image of myself. Like most people, it is skewed. Sometimes it is skewed in a flattering way, sometimes it ignores the warts. Today I showed someone the way I see myself, and they showed me the warts. I apologized but my immediate reaction is defensive. Those aren't warts... those are, oh, beauty marks, or unusual plumage. Or sarcastic, so sorry I haven't lived up to your expectations; you who are so perfect.

I like to think I am a social person and enjoy being around others. But I am not so sure. I don't like long telephone calls except to my nearest friends and family. I'm not good hanging out at a bar or a dance. I've been known to tell my company, "OK, time to go now," and will herd them out the door. If someone at work stops to chew the fat for a long time, I make up needing the ladies room to get away.

I think I want to meet a nice guy and have had quite a few coffee dates. The auditioning is exhausting. I want someone to see me, find me fascinating, and feel like we can talk about anything. Hasn't happened yet. I wonder what I project and what they see? Sometimes I make a lot of effort, sometimes not. As Popeye put it, I yam what I yam.

Today's mail had a chance to win a pre-paid cremation; quite a practical sweepstakes if you think about it. Enclosed in the offer was a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt. "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift; that's why they call it the present."

I've made a decision. Apologize for what needs an apology, forgive myself for being human and give myself permission to stop feeling bad for the past. I only have today to be who I want to be, showing who I think I am, embracing the gift of the present.

Life in this modern world

Verbatim text message:
-is your brothers name Paul?
-Who is this?
-i dont know i can't c u. give me a hint
-You asked me if I have a brother Paul. So who are YOU?
-im Robb and you?
-Carol
-hey carol i thought this was my brother in laws cell his brother is a cpa I wonderred if his name was paul cause i saw paul reiters name
-Sorry. Have a good one.
***********

Verbatim Facebook messages:
-Carol thanks for the laugh, update, I got a job hurray for me, it is temporary and it is on Staten Island and it is only $17 an hr but after 4 yrs it is a paycheck. I am a secretary/admin asst to a Superintendent of the Bd Of Ed. which btw has no $ so no future either but once you get in with this agency Gd Temps they can continue to place you. Larry is a mess in total meltdown mode in trouble with his job (we will probably lose the house) but not sure if there is anything I can do, he refuses to take meds, refuses to go away to get help (btw NYS law unless he is volunteering to go away he can sign himself out in 36 hrs.) After 30 yrs of killing myself he has destroyed everything in less then 3 months. I am just numb waking up everyday with panic attacks and just putting one foot in front of the other. to be continued but I must tell you looking great these days really Carol I love your new look. thanks being here for me. Happy New Year sweetie love you talk soon.

-(((HUGS))) Who ever thought we'd be 60 and in this position? I feel like a stereotype.

-I know and also a jerk.
***********

First off, what I mean about being 60 and in this position. I am much luckier than my friend because I do have a home that is secure thanks to loving in-laws. But I too am sixty and under employed. I was unemployed for five years after losing a good job. I don't know if at my age I will ever make good money again. It is a stereotype, but true, that older women of divorce go into retirement at a disadvantage.  But having a long marriage crumble and being alone? That is the hardest part. I am luckier than my friend in that my ex is supportive and a very responsible man. He subsidizes my health insurance which is a huge deal, indeed, in this modern world.

On Christmas Day I saw the movie Les Miserables, The Miserable. Life in the earlier part of the 1800's was pretty awful for anyone without means. The dirt, the filth, the lack of dignity, the hopelessness of the poor and oppressed was staggering. I know that dramatic license made things look even more horrifying, but it was based on what is known. For the past few days I have been listening to Isabel Allende's Island Beneath the Sea, which is about slavery and the revolt in Haiti two hundred years ago. The opening scene in Les Miserables shows prisoners with neck and wrist shackles trying to haul a huge boat into dock. They are slaves. I hope life is much better for most of us in this modern world.

The other night I watched a documentary on the PBS show POV (Point of View). It was about a program that takes smart, but impoverished women from different parts of the world and brings them to India to "Barefoot College". There, illiterate women from Africa, South America and the Mid East learn in six months to be what they call engineers. We would call them assembly workers. They teach them to make solar collectors and the hardware to run them for electricity and light. The philosophy being to make them supervisors who will teach others. They train women because they know that women will take their new found skill and improve their villages where they have family. (Men might take their new found skills to the city.) The film followed two women from a desert community in Jordan.

It knocked me out to see the hopelessness of the lives of the people there. No work, and for women, no education over the age of ten. It was a hard sell to allow one of the women to go to India. She lived in a tent with four daughters, the oldest fourteen. Her husband was a liar. He would agree with the Minister of Labor that it was a good thing, and that he would take care of his children, and then turn and threaten his wife if she went. She went anyway but was called back because one of the children was ill. After another conference with the Minister she wants to go back to India and finish the course, the husband vows to allow her, and then threatens her again if she goes. She finally tells him that he can take the children back to his first wife, but she is going. It is a great scene when she plugs in a solar light that she has made herself in a small house with a roof.

So! Progress, yes? But it seems for every step forward, there is another one or two back. The stories of sexual and other slavery in this modern world are being brought into the light. And I recently read a story of childhood death in Chad. There is huge malnutrition in this Sub Saharan country. Add ignorance and it is a recipe for disaster. The government has set up feeding stations where parents can bring their malnourished children who can get the nutrients they need and thrive. But superstition and custom has parents bringing their starving children to a local person who performs surgery with a dirty screwdriver to knock out their teeth and cut off their uvula. Of course this pain makes it impossible to eat and most of the children die. Aieee!! Makes me kind of crazy. What good is a child nutrition program that is not being used due to ignorance? Is this the second decade of the twenty-first century or are we back in the stone age? As I fed my cats their dry and wet food this morning I wondered if their food was more nutritious than what much of the world subsists on.

Part of me wants to go back to bed and hide under the comfy covers. I want to see a comedy and laugh. I want to eat ice cream and dream of warm places near white sand beaches. Instead, I will try to be a good person and sign another petition. One day, I will find a real way to help make this a better modern world.

Words have consequences

Forgive me for this rant, but I just heard something that made my blood boil. There is a smarmy little comedian named Daniel Tosh. There was a promo for one of his shows where he says something to the effect that adopted children used to be homeless then people adopted them to have sex. Oh, ha ha ha! What a scream! What a joker! For some adopted children, there is so much to deal with. They do not need that kind of nasty joke. I'm not talking about being politically correct, I am talking about being mean on purpose for a laugh. I love to laugh, but I did not find that funny. In fact, his whole act and show is about how stupid other people are.

Some years ago I worked with a woman who commented about a co-worker, "He's too stupid to live." I replied that there were worse things than being stupid and she asked, "What?" I said, "Being mean." And I meant it then as I do now.

I do not like mean spirited comedians. I prefer Craig Ferguson's type of humor because he riffs on his own self. I don't think there is a joke on earth about Lindsay Lohan that I could laugh about. Kicking people who are down, or sad, or broken or pathetic isn't funny. Making fun of people who put themselves above others can be funny, though. Call me a hypocrite, but I think joking about a politician who touts "family values" and then serves his wife divorce papers while she is in the hospital being treated for cancer so he can marry his mistress, makes him fair game.

I have followed the career of Joan Rivers since the 60's when she first appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show. I read her first book and know she is a very intelligent woman. She can be scathingly funny, but these days she is going for the mean laugh and shock value. There are so many good lines she could use, so why does she have to say nasty things about an actress' vagina? Not funny. Just shocking and I really think it demeans her.

Remember Madonna's song Papa Don't Preach? When she was told that young girls emulate her and look up to her and she influenced them, she pooh-poohed it. She could do what she wanted and didn't ask to be a role model. Some people say that Rush Limbaugh is just putting on an act, that he says the things he says just for ratings. But the type of hate he spews is contagious to people who don't think and look up to him. Anne Coulter is a terrible liar. There are consequences of speech. Speeches can bring people to do heroic deeds or commit genocide.

We tell our children that they can do it. When a toddler falls we say upsadaisy! Our words of encouragement mean something. I sometimes commute with a forty-five year old man whose mother always put him down and discouraged him. He is fighting to believe in himself. She never encouraged him or his siblings to try. She only told him he could fail. Her words have consequences, they don't visit or call. My father used to say nasty things about why people ate dried fruit. I have a problem eating those foods although I had them available for my family. He never said anything nasty about dried apricots and I love them.

I want to laugh with delight over cleverness. I want to take a moment to get a silly joke. I want to hear employers address their workers or parents speak to their children with respect. Humor and respect.I want news stations to report the news and stop editorializing. I want politicians to stop bending the truth for their own purpose. (Here's an old joke: Q: How can you tell if a politician is lying? A: If his /her lips are moving. Har de har.) It is late right now, but I hope tomorrow all my words will be those that empower. I hope I can make someone laugh, even if it is just a baby.

A girl who CAN say no.

I am someone who, at least in my own opinion, tries to go out of my way to help people. I hardly ever say no, and that sometimes has been a problem of my own making. But today I said no, and instead of feeling guilty, feel OK.

There is a woman who lives in this building who winters in Tucson. She spends her summer here in Minnesota to be near her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren. She called me today from Tucson to ask me to take a taxi to a car dealer and pick up her van that had work done. She told me they called to say the weather was changing and they didn't want to keep it on the lot. I said no and told her to ask her daughter who had someone to drive her to the lot and home.

I can remember the last time I said no. My daughter asked me to buy a baby grand piano. Nope, wasn't going to happen. To be fair, she never expected me to do it either; just pulling old mom's leg. What I like best is doing things before I am asked, seeing an opportunity to assist and jumping in.

Several years ago I took my folks to a concert at Lake Harriet Pavilion. We were sitting in lawn chairs watching as a young woman with a toddler in a back pack and an infant in a loaded stroller tried to make it across the area when a wheel fell off the stroller. She was in a fix and a hundred people were watching. I got up, helped her negotiate the distance to the parking lot and came back. So many people thanked me for helping. Well, yes, you are welcome. But why didn't one of them jump up? I know if that had been me struggling I would have looked at someone and asked for help. But then again... I am from NY.

I like holding doors and carrying packages for old people. I like tying a little child's shoe. I like wishing people a good weekend or telling someone they have a terrific family. I like making people feel good. (I can see someone rolling her eyes right now, but it is true.) I like giving of my time and resources.

There is no profound point to this blog. Or maybe there is. Maybe I had to tell myself, again, that it is OK to say no sometimes.

Dear Mitt,

Dear Mitt,

I was just lying in bed in the dark thinking about the gifts President Obama promised me to win my vote. According to your "private" statements, I must have been duped and bribed to have voted for him. I also wonder how you can be so naive as to think you have any privacy at all after the 47% debacle.

Let's see, he promised me a road to citizenship. Thanks, but I was born in Brooklyn, NY and proud of it. Oh, I know, college loan forgiveness. I didn't have any personally, but I did write checks to Idaho State and the government for ten years to pay off my spouse's loans. Free contraceptives, that's what I'm getting! Wait, I'm sixty years old and past childbearing. Besides, I can afford a box of Trojans, should the need ever arise. I'm sorry, I am just going to have to dig a little deeper to find those gifts.

Could it be the promise that sometime soon I will be able to purchase affordable health insurance? Could it be the assurance that my daughters and nieces, and everybody else's daughters and nieces will have access to reproductive health services? Yeah, Mitt, that was a big one. That one was enormous. Speaking as a woman who was able to limit her family to two very much wanted children, this was important to me. I like President Obama. I like his wife and I like the way he treats his mother-in-law and daughters.

You seem not to know why you lost the white woman vote. You were not honest with yourself or anyone else. Instead of proudly owning up to the creation of the Massachusetts  Health Insurance program, you distanced yourself. Every time you could have made yourself appealing to the common man or woman, you aligned yourself with the radical right. You courted the millionaires and billionaires. You showed no understanding of what it takes to get by these days, none. I didn't see how you were going to make America a better place. Going back to the policies that President Obama inherited just didn't fill me with hope.

Right now your party is bemoaning the fact that rich white men are not in power. That it isn't the same America. Don't worry; rich white men are pulling the strings, and becoming even more obstreperous in Congress even as I write. This is the same America, believe me. The difference is that women of all ages, youth, minorities, real people of faith, and thinking white men have said no. No more free ride, pay your share. One man, one vote and they all count the same. Yup, not even Karl Rove gets two legal votes.

Take some advice from the grand dame of your party, Barbara Bush. She wants you to get over it and move on. So do I.

Sincerely,
Carol

This and that

1. Political Sideswiping

I woke up yesterday feeling good. I can say it was the first day since surgery that I really felt right. I looked down at my ankles and saw... bones! Yahoo! My left ankle has been in some state of swelling since June. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, but definite cankle. Great start to the day.

I make a joke at work when people walk by with jumbo flat screen televisions. Something to the effect of "What a tiny TV" and everyone laughs. Last night a couple stopped to talk about their purchase and before I knew it we were talking about cable. I mentioned that I have one step above basic and so do they and I said it bothered me to have so many shopping channels and no choice as to news programs. I said I would rather have MSNBC, which I don't get, to Fox, which I did. Oh boy, did the shit hit the fan. Which brings me to the next topic.

2. Legal vs Ethical

The couple maintained that Obama was leading us into a socialist state and started talking about how people can use food stamps in liquor stores. I told them that was 100% illegal and they said they knew about a place on the northside where it is being done all the time. I told them to call the Dept of Agriculture and the police and report the offender.

Now instead of shutting my mouth and wishing them well as they were spouting garbage, I raised the topic of a friend of mine with MS who cannot get physical therapy and Mrs Romney who also has MS and was able to take a $77,000. deduction for her Olympic horse training fees because she uses him for therapy. The man said it was legal. The tax code allowed for it. I said it wasn't moral. He asked if I took any deductions and I said only the basic one. Well, hell. Yes I take a tax deduction. They finally left.

Recently I have been doing a little research on Donald Trump and his "bankruptcies". All perfectly legal and all smarmy as hell. Legal for the creditors to get pennies on the dollar while the billionaire takes advantage of the law.  Legal but unethical. How was he able to do this 3 times within ten years? Banks kept offering him money. Not only did they not hold him to the same standards as anyone else who declares bankruptcy, they courted his business. Of the three times, he only lost money the first time. After that it was all his corporation taking the blame. Oh yeah, it was legal, but highly unethical on the part of the banks and the Donald.

A person can use a cutting tongue to abuse a spouse or child and not break any laws. I happen to think the Golden Rule should be obeyed too.

3. The Burden of Love

I've been thinking about independence and love and if you can have both together. I did not tell my out of town daughter about my surgery beforehand because I did not want her to worry. And I did not want to take any healing time to reassure her. I told my in-town daughter when to drop me off and when to pick me up and not to call or visit. I just wanted to sleep. What followed were hurt feelings and apologies and having to use mental energies to make things right. Just what I didn't want to do. But that is the burden of love.

We cannot ignore the people we love and who love us when it is convenient for us. That means considering their feelings and not just our own. When there is a network of love, one cannot decide to be 100% independent because whether or not you are thinking about the others, they are thinking of you. We try not to knowingly hurt others and must accept the responsibility that love brings. I would rather be loved than be an island alone.

Which brings me to:

4. Aging connections

It is no secret that I relocated my parents, lock, stock, and knitwear, from Brooklyn to Minnesota. They were 90 and 91 at the time and had become a problem I could not solve long distance. It was pretty traumatic for them and I tried to reassure them that I did not want to take away their dignity or independence. Yet they became dependent on me for so many things. Every once in a while my mother would say, "Now I can tell you..." and it would turn out that my father had fallen out of bed or she had fainted and it had all been dealt with but she hadn't wanted to tell me because she didn't want me to worry. I would get upset and say it was my job to worry. Then I would work with the administration to change the situation.

I am only (yes, only) sixty. That is thirty years younger than when I brought my folks to Minnesota. I like to think I am independent. My daughters are 25 and 29 years younger than I am. I must recognize that they are adult women and not interfere in their lives. I also have to acknowledge their right to be as concerned about me as I am about them. I have been lucky to have the example of my in-laws, Betty and Don who did not interfere and were always supportive.

Harriet would sometimes say that she used to be the mother and I the child, now I was the mother and she the child. I hope that when the time comes for me to surrender to the circumstances I will do it with grace and not give my daughters a hard time. I figure I have another thirty years or so to kick up my heels. So darlings, don't worry about me- too much.

Realistic Expectations

I'm on a dating site and decided to see who visited my profile. I didn't read all of this mans answers to questions but he seemed a decent sort although not very local. He is 70, which is not outside my upper limits. One of the things he said he couldn't live without was his heart doctor. He also admitted to only reading 2 novels. (Well maybe he likes non fiction?) OK, OK, OK, maybe not such a winner. This is what he is looking for: Women 40-71. Yes that is right, women as much as 30 years younger and up to ONE year older. What a prize, what delusions.

I would like to think that at 60, and a couple of pounds extra, I am still attractive. But based on the amount of interest I get, I think that attractiveness is not very strong for most people. That is OK, I'm working to reduce my gut. I know I want someone to be in fairly good shape too. But this guy? He actually thinks he has something so compelling women 30 years younger will want him? Or even 20 years? And he has the audacity to dismiss anyone older than he is.

I used to live in a place with a tiny, high mirror in the bathroom. By standing on tiptoe I could see my entire face. By standing on the toilet, I could check out different parts of my body. I never did get the whole picture. But sometimes, I would spend a lot of time on eye makeup and leave the house convinced I was stunning. Later, I could be in a store or public place with full length mirrors, catch sight of myself and, in the words of Christine Lavin, ask, "What was I thinking?" Because what I thought was going on and the appearance I was presenting were two different things. I am remembering the story of when a group of blind people got to touch an elephant. Their impressions varied from something thin and swishy, the tail, to something strong as a tree, the leg, to something like a snake and something as broad as a wall. No one could see the whole animal.

I'm not going to say I am not judging the guy who loves his heart doctor. Of course I am. But does he have a realistic view of himself? I really don't think so. Pivot these thoughts around towards ourselves. Do we have realistic views of our own selves? I really don't think so. When I see young women disparage their beautiful bodies with false ideals, or see how inappropriately some dress, I want to hold up the full length mirror. I want to say, look, look at how lovely you are. I want to say wear jeans that make your pretty butt look good. I want to tell men young and old, pull up your pants! I want to say all kinds of things.

But mainly I need to talk to myself. I need to say, stop judging, walk a mile in his/her shoes. I need to tell myself to be the best, and kindest person I can be. I need to tell myself to be the love I would like to find.  

Open those eyes. 2nd edition

I went in on Friday to have my gall bladder removed. And for the next few days I have been in a dream. With eyes closed, they could do anything to me and I didn't care. I came home yesterday and fell into bed. I wake up every hour or half hour, mellow as cheese sauce.

The crazy thing is the ongoing dream I have been having for over fourteen hours. I get up, use the bathroom, drink 50/50 grape juice and water, and fall back into bed to resume the dream. If you want to know what it is like, imagine a an old English film where nothing makes sense. The quality is awful and I am squinting in the dream. It kind of goes together, and I've found myself sitting with my eyes closed while using the bathroom and waking or sleeping it's all the same. The nurses would say, "Open your eyes." I am relaxed and can say my discomfort level is only about a 1.5. So I'm doing great.

To my Canarsie friends, do you remember walking to school during a hurricane? Those were mild ones that we would get the tail end. In those days little girls wore rain boots and coats. We would fling our arms wide as we got blown to PS 272. I wonder, does anyone allow their kid to walk in the rain anymore? I would get blue when there wasn't a car waiting for me, because my mother had been one of the few mothers who drove. Somehow those women would wave for the friend I was walking with and not take me, too. (Listen... if you need a ride, I'll take you. Just want to have that straight.)

So to those that knew, I am fine, and those that didn't know, I didn't want you to worry or visit or call.*

On another jolly note, I found some little led head lamps at Costco, three in a package. Can you imagine the fun of sending those to almost 4 year old twin nephews and their 6 year old brother? I bet they were excited to get them too. I just love those little things. (A very happy unbirthday to you! And you.)

Mmm, gonna switch things up with some organic broth. Oh yeah, I know how to live.

*Several hours ago I received a text from a daughter expressing dismay at finding out I had been in the hospital via Facebook. Again I reiterated that I didn't want phone calls or visits and she said I could have just told her. I remember one of the old lady's tricks was to say, "Now that it is over I can tell you..."  I would get furious and tell her she had to tell me before or during, not after. That it was my job to worry about them. That I would almost rather not know than to be told after the fact. I realize I was being selfish. I didn't want to have to deal with some one else's feelings. By not saying anything, I was free to just think about myself and healing rather than what the other person would feel. I just did not want to think about anyone else. I also didn't want to hear lectures and alternative cures. What is done is done, and to my dear ones, I will try to figure out a way of communicating that respects us all. (After I do, will some one please nominate me for a Nobel Peace Prize?)

Time, a rather depressed blog post.

Today I was surprised by an old work friend stopping by my booth. It has been about ten years since I last saw her and yes, time has taken its toll on both of us. Still, it was lovely to see her. She told me another old friend had shown her my blog and I was quite touched. I told her I hadn't written much recently.

"Time keeps on ticking, ticking into the future" writes Steve Miller.

Day follows day and the things I want to accomplish are not getting done. I am taking the smallest of steps and calling each one a victory. Cleaned the catbox, yay! Emptied the dishwasher, did laundry, took a shower, made a phone call, ate ice cream. The plants are inside, let the frost come. Got the oil changed, blew my nose, went to work.

October and November are hard months for me. I feel depression on my shoulders as I do each fall as the light fades. Turn on the Happy Light. Keep turning on the Happy Light. Knowing that this depression has a physical cause keeps me going. Anti-depressants do help, but they do not cure. Knowing that this shall pass in time keeps me going. I am fine, not suicidal, not unhappy, just depressed. I look at all my problems and they are in my power to fix. If the bedroom is a mess, I can clean it up, just need the energy to do so. I have a bedroom, a cute little bower all of my own. If my problem is a pile of books that the cats knock over, my life is truly blessed.

And that is what I really want to say. I am depressed, but I am not unhappy. It is like having an allergy. Sometimes something triggers it, and sometimes many things trigger it. I know that in this case, the season and a raging case of procrastination are the triggers. Add to that some angst about a date that never called back...

Yesterday Leslie asked me if I am missing Harriet. I heard something about a politician she knew and would have liked to have told her; or seeing something she would have enjoyed. I am grateful for the year we had without the old man. And although I longed for her and my own release, I do miss her. I am someone who needs to do for others.

(This is a small rant: Parents, unless you need something like medicine, formula, or diapers, there is nothing so urgent for which you need to bring your screaming infant into a large echoing warehouse store. Please be kind to the baby, and other people. Some of us have all our nerve endings on our ears.)

Snow globe

While I was up in Ely for two nights I slept quite well. Home for two nights and just getting my usual three hour stretches. Aside from the cats, the difference is the absolute blackness of the north woods, so dark, and the street and security light pollution that I thought I've learned to live with. Time to do some serious shopping for blackout curtains.

So many thoughts swirling around me as I lay there trying to fall back asleep. It was almost like being in a snow globe with partial essays falling down like glitter. What to write about? Spirit cards? Breaking the rules? Hibbing? Driving? Anniversaries? Politics? Indignation? Gratitude? Helplessness? Art? Literature? Friendship? Diabetes? Diet? Television? Electronics? Electricity? My daughters? Compassion? They are all interesting to me. And as my sister once pointed out to me in a card she sent, "Everybody is entitled to my opinion."

One thing that is getting my goat and I can't seem to let go of is taxes. My dad used to say he never minded paying taxes because it meant he was working and making an income. In 2010 I was fifty-eight years old and unemployed. I had to withdraw ten thousand dollars from an IRA to get by until I got a job. The penalty was about thirty percent or a little above three thousand dollars. Those are the rules of retirement accounts and there was no getting around it. What killed me was having to withdraw another three thousand to pay the taxes.

Then I find out that the Romney's were able to deduct $77,000.00, yes, seventy-seven thousand dollars, approximately twenty-five times the amount I was taxed on a measly ten thousand, for a horse.  Mrs Romney has MS and riding a horse is good therapy. Not taking Old Brownie from the livery stables for a ride, no these are the expenses for maintaining an Olympic calibre dressage horse. I have a friend with MS and she is having a terrible time getting approved for physical therapy. Not only is dressage an "alternative" therapy, they are able to deduct it on their taxes.

My last boss said I did not think rules applied to me. Oh yeah, they apply. But why don't those same rules apply to the privileged? Now, now, Carol... the rules for early withdrawal of funds from an IRA is not the same as a legitimate medical expense such as training fees for a thoroughbred horse used for therapy. And then, this arrogant man has the nerve to insult me. I am the 99% and I am the 47% and I am angry. How can I insult him in public the way he has insulted me? (Yeah, that would show him!)

I try to live my life by the Golden Rule. I want to treat others as I want to be treated and just can't wrap my mind around mean-spiritedness. I remember asking one of my little girls where she learned to be selfish? She didn't get it from her father or me. (Of course she was only five or so and outgrew it and is now a fine, generous, human being.) Driving home from Ely on back roads I was struck with the emptiness of the land. It was very green with Simpson's type of fluffy white clouds on a blue sky. Why do people have to live in shanty towns all over the world when there is so much abundance here? But what would they do here? Damned if I know. I drove through Hibbing, MN, Bob Dylan's home town and saw why he would want to leave at the first available minute. So truly, I have no answers. 

The glitter has settled, the globe is almost still. Those other thoughts will have to wait for another day. 

And Everything Is Going Fine

Last night I watched a posthumous production about Spaulding Gray called And Everything is Going Fine. I truly loved watching bits and pieces of his filmed monologues that covered several decades. I saw a man with a unique talent for storytelling that combined, laughter, pathos and charm. He'd suffered a terrible car accident and while physically improving, had gotten more and more depressed. He disappeared two months before they found his body floating near Brooklyn. They think he jumped off a Staten Island Ferry. I just looked up his obituary from 2004 and this sentence struck home for me. "In a 1980 show, Mr. Gray spoke a line that may well have summed up his life and career. ''It's very hard for me,'' he said, ''not to tell everybody everything.''

That is true for me, too. I remember taking the girls to an event where we sat with another family. The mother and I got to talking and one of the other children said her mother had to talk to everybody. My girls agreed that their mother did that too. The consensus among the children was that we were odd. The mother and I had a fine old conversation. If I could remember whole conversations the way Spaulding Gray did, or make up new ones like Garrison Keillor, I would be a story teller. There are some very funny (and off color) anecdotes about my folks in their older, uncensored years that would make a great stand up act. But I will never do it. I like telling stories though. I like working through the physical details and coming out the other side to what I think it means. What do I need to learn and can I share it with others? That is why I blog.

I like people and I like learning about them and seeing how they work. Even people I have known for years can surprise me. I think I first went to S.R. Harris Fabric Outlet about fifteen or twenty years ago. I bought polar fleece for throws that I was making for Christmas presents for daughters, niece and five nephews. This was before I learned about cutting fringe and I actually blanket stitched around all of them. I did it in August while the girls were at camp and endured the summer heat and having my lap covered with fleece while I worked. No air-conditioning, of course. The owner of the warehouse was a real pill, crabby all the time. I used to avoid him if possible. Today he was jolly, making jokes and the life of the party, so to speak. I introduced him as the owner to the friend I was with and he said, "Not any longer!" He had given the business to his son, who frankly looked a bit haggard. Just not being responsible for those millions of yards of fabric had freed him to be the nice guy he wanted to be. Amazing.

Also amazing was my friend. She needed to recover some couch cushions, had brought a swatch from her sofa and found her fabric in about ten minutes. I could not believe it! This place has thousands of rolls of upholstery fabric, to say nothing of every other kind of cloth, leather, fake fur, fleece, you name it, they have it, piled high to the ceiling. I wanted her to look at all the options and she did spend another while looking but when it came down to it, the oatmeal colored ultra suede was her choice, and at $8.49 per yard a real steal. My usual mode of shopping at S.R. Harris is to walk around and get overwhelmed and leave. But she was one pointed, knew what she wanted and would not be moved.

How can one look at a garden and say one flower is more beautiful than another? How could I look at silk and not want it all? I started thinking scarves for presents, no, I'd go into business and become the hand made silk scarf queen! Then I saw an exquisite sheer silk with little clusters of french knot embroidery. I looked at that roll and saw every few inches a cluster of the knots, all done perfectly, and all done by hand. Then I saw the same pattern in a celadon green with matching embroidery. The next roll was yards and yards of tiny french knots running across in rippling stripes. I turned it over to see how it was done and my heart nearly broke. Could you imagine the woman who sewed each perfect knot in a never ending task? I could almost feel the toughness of her calloused fingers as she plied her needle for hours. I could almost feel her back aching. That silk was marked $40. a yard. It was on sale at half that. How much did she make for all that work? It wasn't the price of a retail yard I am sure. I mentioned how upset seeing that beautiful fabric made me and someone more prosaic said that at least that person had work to feed her family. I hope she does make enough to take care of her family and that they aren't in want.

Getting back to telling everything, I had a long conversation with one of my daughters this evening. We were talking about facebook and the implications of social media. She warned me about checking my privacy settings, etc., which I have done. The other point she made is that in some states employers will not only check what you have posted, they will also ask for the password to your facebook account. I am an open book and don't really care if people can see what I have posted, but if it came to that, I would erase my account and refuse to work for that employer. I believe in the right to privacy, even if I am open about my life. If I was a candidate and asked to talk about religion or sex or anything I don't feel has an impact on the office, I would tell them that I have the right to privacy. When they asked Bill Clinton about Monica Lewinsky he should have asked them why they needed to know. When they ask President Obama about his religious views he should tell them that it is private.  Mitt Romney is invoking his right to privacy in not releasing his tax returns. Of course that pisses me off because that does have an impact on how he would govern. Am I a hypocrite? I don't think so, if he shows me his... I'll show him mine. A fun time would be had by all.

Tea bagged, ugh.

Today I made nicey-nicey to an unpleasant woman at work. I've worked alongside her on occasion since January and she has never been very friendly. But you know me... always willing to try again. This morning I told her my daughter was having a baby in March and that I was really looking forward to it. Instead of saying congratulations, or asking if we knew the gender, she asked if she was married. Four years, I told her. She then went on a rant about "family values" and morality, that marriage is between one man and one woman and she even had a bumper sticker that said that. I asked if she opposed civil unions and she got real nasty about what people did in the sight of God. I tried to tell her I have a bumper sticker, too. She did not want to hear what I had to say and stormed off in a huff. I wrote her a note that said my bumper sticker reads: God Bless The Whole World, No Exceptions.

Blech, I felt icky. I wanted to brush my teeth and went to the ladies room to calm down. When I got back to my kiosk there was my note, returned in a pamphlet. It was a copy of the United States Constitution. The sticker on the back showed it was from the Tea Party.

Lots of things went through my mind. Freedom of speech, mine as well as hers. Freedom of and from religion. Separation of church and state. And hubris, bloody, bloody hubris. I am even willing to grant that she has a right to believe God wrote out what she should do and I am even willing to believe it is true... for her. But her rights stop at her life. She can espouse what she believes God thinks of the way she is living, but can't begin to tell me what God thinks of the way anyone else is living.

There are so many people in this world living moral lives. Some follow a religion and religious leader, some muddle through on their own interpretation of the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. There is a quotation about the Devil citing scripture.  To me it means anyone can take anything out of context and make it suit their arguments. I am not a Biblical, Talmudic, or any other scripture scholar. But I know what feels right to me and it isn't exclusion.

In the Old Testament we are taught to be stewards of the land and treat workers with dignity. We are taught laws for living a moral life. In the New Testament we are taught that God is love, Jesus reminds us that we are meant to take care of each other, to go into our closet to pray, and many things are done in his name that he does not acknowledge. We are told to take the log out of our own eye before pointing out the mote in someone else. Paul of Tarsus reminds us that it doesn't matter what we say if there is no charity and love behind it.

I don't pretend I know the answers for everyone. I know that I must allow others their own opinion even if it is noxious and unfathomable to me. I know I have to make the effort to understand and accept people in any stage of their evolution.   I don't say what God sees or thinks because my mind is finite and the Creator is infinite. I can only lead by example and that takes me to task. Am I judging the morality and outrage of the Tea Baggers by the same standards I want to be judged? The answer is yes. I want to be judged as kind and helpful and doing what I can to improve the space around me.

God Bless the Whole World, No Exceptions. (Even unpleasant people? Yes!)