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Decades ago, my young daughter reproached me with those words: writers write. It has haunted me lately because I haven’t been—writing, that is.
I could blame the extremely thick Florida heat.
I could say I am distracted and out of sorts since giving up sugar about 6 weeks ago.
I could curse the atmosphere at my day job.
I could bemoan being homesick for the Jersey Shore—the real one, not the TV variety.
I could complain about my shifting work schedule.
I could whine about being empty, with naught to say.
While all this may be true, it matters not.
My daughter is correct: writers write.
All else is irrelevant.
There are few things more miserable to be near than a “non-writing” writer. So I find myself avoiding people when not at work, trying in vain to pressure myself to produce.
As for what I’m doing here, writing about how I’m not writing, it’s akin to those Seinfeld shows where they jabbered on about “nothing.” Big yuk.
I guess I’m just trying to prime the pump, move my fingers across the keys in the hope that something will catch. It’s a bit like going through the motions of exercise, meditation et al...sort of the ol’ “fake it until you make it.”
Writers write. Writers write. Writers write...
Looking back, it started about a month ago, with a noisy, but innocuous seeming microwave problem. It made a loud noise which continued even after it shut off. After a few moments of panic, I discovered the motor running the turntable seemed to be running on. I wound a metal flap to access it and now shut it down manually after its use.
Then I awoke from a couch nap just before the holiday weekend to find no picture on my flat screen TV, which couldn't be more than 2 years old. So I shut off the power to reboot and was rewarded with a series of well-spaced colored lines. To this date it remains, with me watching on my old not-so-flat, not-so hi-def bedroom TV.
And today, it's my laptop. (I'm writing this on my Dell net book). I started getting weird virus messages--even tho I have so-called virus protection. And before you know it, I couldn't connect to the net. Since the net book and my nook connected fine, I knew it was the computer. Now, I can connect to certain site, the machine shows I have an "excellent connection" however, most other sites refuse to connect and when I run the diagnostic--get this--it won't work because there is no connection and THEN Verizon directs me to and ON-LINE SITE to correct the problem. Since this is a holiday, I can't get a hold of a human, of course.
Since I have an old TV and this tiny computer I'm gettin' by. And through all this, it's hard to get too upset. In fact, I awoke this morning to a sound that made me more than smile--I let out a breath I wasn't aware I was holding.
Abbie, my calico cat/companion of 17 years, appeared whining at my door. She had been AWOL for 2 nights, the longest ever. I was hoping it was a combo of the driving rain and fireworks that sent her into hiding, but some part of me feared she was hit by a car or fodder for some gater.
Her arrival put things in perspective.
ps: Did I forget to mention my toilet--recently repaired--has started leaking from the bottom again. A story for another day...
AND the tub drain is still running slow even tho I fed it liquid plumber........................................
As of last week, I have officially aged another year. I find myself in one of those reflective moods that affects us as the years pile up. In taking stock, I have given considerable thought to those old saws and whether or not I’ve found any truth there. So, here goes.
• You’re not getting older, you’re getting better. Maybe a bit wiser, but not better. My back hurts, my teeth are wearing thin while the rest of me is thickening. Youth is most certainly wasted on the young.
• The best things in life are free. Nothing in this life is free. And the best are the most dear. Nonmaterial things such as love, trust, family, fitness—you name it—all require a significant investment of self. And that can be not only personally expensive and time consuming, but painful. Oh well, no pain, no gain.
• A stitch in time saves nine. I have repeatedly ignored this one to my detriment. I can’t seem to get it through my thick skull that things break down, wear out and need maintenance. I expect them to go on forever and continue to be surprised when anything fails, be it my car, my toaster oven or my body.
• You are what you eat. If this were true, I’d be a lot sweeter and quite a bit richer.
• If you’re happy, your children will be happy. Many of us, myself included, raising a family in the 1970s swallowed this one, I’m sorry to say. And our children paid the price. The needs of adults and children are often not in harmony. Being the adult means taking care of the kids first. And that can mean postponing careers and making peace with a marriage that has fallen far short of expectations.
• All you need is love. See above.
• Children should be seen and not heard. Actually, it’s the grown-ups who should be seen more and heard less.
• It’s just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor man. Sure it is, if your bust size is at least twice your age.
• Better safe than sorry: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Well, that all depends on the type of bird in your hand, the kind of birds in the bush, how far away the bush is and the length of your reach. Sometimes it pays to go out on that limb.
• Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Most of us play it too safe all our lives, for which many of us are sorry later on. I, for one, have come to regret the chances I let pass by rather than the ones I took.
• You can’t judge a book by its cover. True. Remember Ted Bundy?
• If you lie down with dogs you get up with fleas. Also, true.
• Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. Don’t make me laugh.
• Take care of the pennies and the dollars will take care of themselves. Yeah, right.
• A fool and her money are soon parted. I’m the poster-girl for this one.
• The meek shall inherit the earth. No way. As a character in the musical “Camelot” sings: “It’s not the earth the meek inherit, it’s the dirt.”
• A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Ignore this at your own peril. I have. There is just no way around this one. And I’ve tried. Nike puts it best: Just do it.
• Ninety percent of life is just showing up. Woody Allen was on to something here. Of course, it’s the remaining 10 percent that separate the haves from the have-nots, the doers from the did-nots, the Woody Allens from the rest of us.
• Do unto others, as you would have others do unto you. This makes more sense and becomes easier the older you get. I’m not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with where we begin. As babies, children, adolescents and even young adults, we assume we are the center of the universe. Perhaps as we mature, we move off center a bit. Suddenly, letting someone into your driving lane or cleaning up after yourself is not such a big deal. Besides, it feels good.
The best is yet to come. Maybe, maybe not. But whatever good comes, I’ll appreciate it. As my mom always said: “Tomorrow is another day.”
Another adventure in bookselling.
So it’s Saturday morning, and parents with kids are gathering for story time in the children’s department. I notice an attractive new couple with an infant and a toddler among the small crowd lining the stage. As I put stuff together to get started, I notice she is breastfeeding her daughter.
Now, this is not unusual. As those who know me or are regular readers of this space, are aware, I am a great proponent of the practice. I go out of my way to make sure my kid’s department is hospitable to moms looking for a place to feed their young.
Most go about nursing with a degree of modesty. Not this young mother, however. Her babe chowed down with gusto, her mom’s breast bare. And when the child was done, mom made no attempt to shield her nipple from public view. It wasn’t as if she was flouting it or anything. It was as if she—and her husband--didn’t notice. She suited up for story time, but later I saw her walking around the department, again seemingly without a clue.
I confess to almost laughing out loud. The sight of a totally bared breast in public didn’t so much shock, as surprise me. And the total comfort of this young mom astounded me. This is Florida, you understand, not New Jersey, where breastfeeding is protected by law.
Back in the early 1970s, when those of us in the La Leche league were rare indeed, I was considered a fanatic for not only breastfeeding, but for continuing until my children were each about a year old—almost unheard of in this country back then. Frankly, I was mad with happiness to find a use for the pair I’d been lugging around since the age of 11.
Mother-nature made has come back in vogue in years since, as science has discovered it’s advantages for both mother and child. Regardless, we in the USA have an uneasy relationship with public breastfeeding, with many viewing women’s mammary glands primarily as sex organs.
I refused to rush off and hide to feed my own children when at home, forcing even my own father to deal with his own issues. I also nursed in public, using clothing to maintain decorum.
What really pleased me was that I heard no obvious snickering or signs of discomfort from those at my story time, which included men and women of varying ages. No one complained to me or to the store’s management.
Rock on, mom!
That’s SICK. In capital letters.
A true 4-letter word.
I am finally up after 10 days of being so wretchedly ill that for the first time since this blog started, I failed to post in a timely manner. And for that, I apologize.
But this time, there was no choice. For days, I lay on the couch, coughing up stuff that made me gag.
The milk in the fridge soured, the food ran out, the garbage overflowed. I didn’t much care. I lived on green tea with honey and some protein shakes I happened to still have.
Me, who never loses an ounce when sick, dropped 7 pounds in a week. Sure, that would be a little good news, as I certainly could stand to drop even more—but I know it will hop back on these ol’ bones as soon as my appetite returns with a roar.
I was finally forced to venture out the day the cat food ran dry.
The weird part of this was that I lost my voice—and I mean TOTALLY. I couldn’t even call in sick and had to drag myself in one day to let them know I couldn’t work. Yes, yes, I know it’s kinda funny for someone who talks as much as me to be silenced. But the truth is, it was incredible frightening. It lasted for almost 5 days, before I could croak out sounds. I felt completely isolated without use of the telephone and once found myself wondering if one could text 911—that is, if I could figure out HOW to text.
Yes, I fleetingly thought of reaching out for help via email. But I have no family here and just about everyone else is busy working etc. Also, I didn’t want to expose anyone to whatever was bouncing around my innards.
Each night, I was sure I’d feel better the next day, if I could just hang on. But I didn’t. I finally filled a prescription for antibiotics and now feel almost human. Either the virus had run it’s course or the drugs quashed the evil bacteria. I’ll never know which.
And at this moment, I don’t much care.
I received my first Mother’s Day card in a good many years this week, thanks to my son’s new wife. My off-spring, you see, do not believe in celebrating a day “invented by greeting card companies.”
I have made an uneasy peace with it. I know how they feel about me. Besides, I’ve never much hankered for that which is not freely given. In that spirit, I hereby take note of a few things my children have taught me.
CREATIVITY: I mean this in the most basic sense, as in: I can really build another human being; I can produce milk that will keep that child alive and well. It’s one thing to be told all your life that women in general can do these things. It’s quite different thing, however, to actually do it.
VULNERABILITY: With the birth of my daughter more than four decades ago, I learned the true meaning of vulnerability – not hers, mine. I specifically remember the moment when I realized that any individual having control of that little bundle had me at his or her complete mercy; that there was NOTHING I would not do to keep her safe.
PARENTAL MATH: Children are originals, not reproductions. Regardless of how much they may resemble their parents, children are more than the sum of their genes.
RESILIENCY: My son is the true teacher here. Since he was a lad, he’s been impossible to permanently flatten. While it’s true that many of his troubles are of his own creation, so are his solutions. If faced with a wall too steep to climb, he will reassess and change direction; whatever it takes to get around it, under it or through it. He seems to know where he wants to go and willingly engages “creative” detours en route. I confess to a silent admiration for his ability to bob and weave through life.
ASSUMPTIONS: Don’t rest on them and life will be a lot more fun. Why can’t you eat ice cream for breakfast? Why not get dressed for school before you go to sleep? Who says underwear must be folded before it’s put away? Where is it written that hair must be the same length on both sides or a pair of earrings identical? Look for reasons to say yes. What can it hurt?
LABELS: They don’t mean squat. This I learned from my daughter, the thrift-store shopper. Forget sizes and categories. One person’s bedroom slippers are another’s party shoes. The odd thing is, once you start thinking this way, it tends to spill over into the rest of your life.
TRUST: And I don’t mean in “experts.” Because it was so important to me, I managed to shake off all those older and wiser souls who advised me that I couldn’t totally nurse for six months, care for two children while working and going to school etc., etc.
I will never forget the dingbat psychologist who insisted my grade school-age son was a potential serial killer because he drew human figures without necks. Since I knew that this was simply his chosen style of cartooning, I was in no danger of confusing and offbeat sense of humor with the profile of a young Ted Bundy. (Can you imagine what some art teacher might have said to Gary Larson’s folks?)
NORMAL IS AS NORMAL DOES: I have little idea what “normal” behavior is and neither does anyone else. I don’t care what degrees the person holds. Go with your gut. If you sense something is wrong with your child, don’t’ let anyone dissuade you. But the reverse also holds true. And if your kid crosses an authority figure, find out what really happened before you do anything rash.
BE A GROWN-UP: This is the biggie. I am all of 21 years older than my daughter and 23 years older than my son. If I had not had them, I fear I would have remained eternally in the “what’s-in-it-for-me” stage of human development, never suspecting that I have a considerable amount to offer. That’s no small insight. All in all, I would say motherhood has given me more than it took. Thanks to my children, I know myself.A happy greeting-card-holiday to all...
This is gonna sound weird, even for me.
But as I sit, sipping coffee from my ‘I (heart) NY” mug, watching the scene in Times Square unfold early Sunday, the story is fresh, the smoking car—as it were—recently towed.
The CNN reporter is doing a stand-up in the most famous spot in America’s most famous city.
And all I could do is peer behind the reporter to take in Times Square as folks go about their business, wishing like hell I was there.
Yup, even a car bomb couldn’t scare me off.
New York, New York, a helluva target.
With “apologies” to Sarah Palin, it’s where the heart of “Real America” beats.
It was also such a helluva New Yorkish story. Where else could a STREET VENDOR sporting an “I Love New York” t-shirt, flag down a MOUNTED POLICE OFFICER to report a suspiciously smokin’ SUV? The only thing missing was the cop chowin’ down on a bagel with a smear as he bends down to catch what the vendor was saying.
Where else would it take only 53 hours to pinpoint a suspect and flag down a jet about to take flight to Dubai to take him into custody? So CSI New York.
Call it: The miracle on the tarmac.
I caught Police Commiss Ray Kelly on Charlie Rose right after that and was only mildly surprised to learn that police had foiled seven such car bombs since Sept. 11.
And New Yorkers go about the business of being New Yorkers.
New York, New York.
It’s a helluva town.
Still.
