I like to think of myself as a relatively intelligent woman. I'm articulate, insightful and fairly well informed. But the truth of the matter is, I don't even know what I don't know. There's a whole world out there I have no true knowledge of...creatures I have never seen...ideas I have never given consideration...lives with which I will never intersect. There are places I will never go. Adventures I will never experience. There are dreams I cannot even conceive with the limited scope of my mind's eye. It's unfathomable the amount of existence I will never have any awareness of.
We all live in a world so much bigger than we are. And yet, we seem to live in little pods, communities, families that have convinced this is all there is to life. We repeat the patterns of our parents who simply repeated the patterns of their parents before them. We mimic what we see on television or in society with little to no real thought about the value or long-term implications of such things. We are shown examples of what we ought to be and become a culmination of what many others have shaped us to be. We are given a script and asked to either follow it or revise it to suit us but to never stray too far from the outline.
We are all little actors on little stages, performing little routines for our own personal little audiences. We all have the potential to be stars in these productions...to shine bright and burn white hot. Conversely, we all have the option to disappear into the chorus and leave nary a mark on the world as we pass through it.
Who I am is not who I always thought I would be. The character I portray has changed throughout my forty years, and I'm certain it will change at least a few more times before my performance on this life's stage is over. That's what keeps life interesting, makes it all worth it, small role though it be in the overall scheme of things.
For me, a person with a wealth of opinions and often lacking self censorship, what I have come to understand about this whole production we call life is that, while I am the star of my own production, I am not the star on anyone else's stage...not my husband's....not my childrens...not my parents'. My importance varies widely as I make guest appearances in each of their lives as well as in the lives of my friends, co-workers and even the strangers I pass on the street. The big things on my stage may be mere footnotes on theirs. And that's the way it's supposed to be. I make a mark on you. You make a mark on me. We all make a mark on the world, the stage, we leave behind.
Only a rare few performers have had lasting mass appeal. Only a few go down in history as being among the greats. A Mother Teresa, a Martin Luther King Jr., an Albert Einstein...not necessarily each one of kind but each remembered above all the others with their particular bent. There are far more nameless, faceless performers who have graced this stage than those we have elevated to superstar status. But regardless, each has played a significant role...a unique, personal portrayal of a life lived...whether well done or wasted.
For me, I hope to live my life in such as way as to make a positive impact on the performances of those around me...to influence the character development of my sons...to be the lifelong love interest of my husband...to be a comedian without becoming a joke...to be a powerhouse without overshadowing my co-stars...to be a superhero when one's needed and a well seasoned sage throughout.
Though my stage be small and my admirers be few, an award-winning performance comes from a life well lived. If I accomplish this, I will consider my performance quite stellar.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Go-fers
When my husband starts a project, whether around the house, with one of the vehicles or in the yard, there is one thing I can count on. At some point, I will be his official go-fer. Go-fer this part. Go-fer that tool. Go-fer this thing or that. I don't mind the go-fering, per se. But when I don't exactly know what I'm shopping for, I can just about bet I'll have to call home for further information at one point or another.
Some go-fering trips are more challenging than others. For instance, when hubby doesn't know what the technical term for something is, which is what happened when he sent me for what he called 'gutter clips'. As it turns out, there was nothing labeled 'gutter clips' but several things that I could visualize as being 'gutter clips'. I used the camera on my phone to snap shots of various 'clips' so he could choose just which ones he wanted me to get.
When I was shopping for tile and the supplies to install it, my husband had full confidence I could do that myself while he kept working on our new bathroom. The tile was mentally exhausting for me, but something I eventually was able to settle on with a little reassurance from my mother that it would look great. But the supplies, that was another story. I don't know how many phone calls I had to make to ask him about the grout...quick setting or not. Sealer...spray on type or roll on type. Adhesive...big bucket or little bucket.
Then there's the calls he makes to me while I'm running these little errands so he can add more and more items to my shopping list. I cannot tell you how many times I have had to leave the check out line to go get one more thing or back track through a store to find something else he needs.
I have often told him it might be faster if he would just get what he needs himself. After all, he isn't getting that much done here at home if he's had to be on the phone with me half a dozen times. And truthfully, it can be very frustrating searching for things I'm not familiar with in stores filled with things I'm clueless about.
I'm not sure my husband has fully appreciated just how arduous these kinds of shopping trips can be until now. For the last two weeks, while I have been off my feet, he and our sons have been doing the grocery shopping. Not just stopping and picking up a couple things...the whole family-sized, week's worth, heavy haul grocery shopping.
I will give them credit. They have done a fine job doing something that ranks high on my list of most time consuming chores. But even with a very detailed list, laid out for them row by row through the grocery store with name brands and prices included for advertised items, I think they still had to call home six or eight times today while shopping to double check on things. They were legitimate questions, such as could Swiss steak be substituted for round steak if the price per pound is the same and does it matter if the soft shells for tacos come off the shelf or from the refrigerated section, but I couldn't help but chuckle as call after call came in.
I think today he and the boys have a much deeper appreciation of what I do week in and week out, but they also understand that being a go-fer isn't always as easy as it seems. I know next time he sends me out on some great mission at a big box home improvement store, he'll have a little more empathy for me if I have to keep calling home for help.
Some go-fering trips are more challenging than others. For instance, when hubby doesn't know what the technical term for something is, which is what happened when he sent me for what he called 'gutter clips'. As it turns out, there was nothing labeled 'gutter clips' but several things that I could visualize as being 'gutter clips'. I used the camera on my phone to snap shots of various 'clips' so he could choose just which ones he wanted me to get.
When I was shopping for tile and the supplies to install it, my husband had full confidence I could do that myself while he kept working on our new bathroom. The tile was mentally exhausting for me, but something I eventually was able to settle on with a little reassurance from my mother that it would look great. But the supplies, that was another story. I don't know how many phone calls I had to make to ask him about the grout...quick setting or not. Sealer...spray on type or roll on type. Adhesive...big bucket or little bucket.
Then there's the calls he makes to me while I'm running these little errands so he can add more and more items to my shopping list. I cannot tell you how many times I have had to leave the check out line to go get one more thing or back track through a store to find something else he needs.
I have often told him it might be faster if he would just get what he needs himself. After all, he isn't getting that much done here at home if he's had to be on the phone with me half a dozen times. And truthfully, it can be very frustrating searching for things I'm not familiar with in stores filled with things I'm clueless about.
I'm not sure my husband has fully appreciated just how arduous these kinds of shopping trips can be until now. For the last two weeks, while I have been off my feet, he and our sons have been doing the grocery shopping. Not just stopping and picking up a couple things...the whole family-sized, week's worth, heavy haul grocery shopping.
I will give them credit. They have done a fine job doing something that ranks high on my list of most time consuming chores. But even with a very detailed list, laid out for them row by row through the grocery store with name brands and prices included for advertised items, I think they still had to call home six or eight times today while shopping to double check on things. They were legitimate questions, such as could Swiss steak be substituted for round steak if the price per pound is the same and does it matter if the soft shells for tacos come off the shelf or from the refrigerated section, but I couldn't help but chuckle as call after call came in.
I think today he and the boys have a much deeper appreciation of what I do week in and week out, but they also understand that being a go-fer isn't always as easy as it seems. I know next time he sends me out on some great mission at a big box home improvement store, he'll have a little more empathy for me if I have to keep calling home for help.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Growing Old Together
It's amazing the changes my forty year old self is going through. It isn't just the obvious things either...the wrinkles, gray hair and sagging upper arm skin. It's the stuff no one else can see...no one else knows about. Or maybe everyone else knows but they just aren't talking about it.
For the first time in my life really, the possibility of being 'old' genuinely looms large. In my twenties, even my thirties, 'old' was somewhere far away. It was a place I might go when I ran out of things to do or at least the energy to do them. It was almost an inconceivable land where the pace is slow and demands of this life dwindle down to a manageable level. A place that seemed to be a million miles away just a breath or two ago.
I used to say I wanted to grow old with my husband. Now I realize I already am growing old with him. But growing old together looks and feels so much different than I thought it would.
Twenty plus years ago, I imagined growing old with this man I have loved in one form or fashion since I was thirteen years old would mean me in a house dress and slippers and he in old man jeans and a flannel shirt sitting on the front porch in our rocking chairs, maybe bouncing grand babies on our knees. I was envisioning 'old' the way my Aunt Mary and Uncle Billy were 'old'. That's how they looked. Old. And still loving one another.
I didn't see all the time they put into growing old together. My memories of them begin when they were closer to the finish line than the starting blocks. But I didn't have to be there to know they had spent many years building a life, raising children, making a home. They had figured out how to get through disagreements and disparities. They had invested in one another in every way imaginable. They had shared everything...laughs, tears, dreams, fears...secrets just the two of them knew. All those things come together and accumulate over time and form the firmest of foundations.
The love my great aunt and great uncle shared wasn't flashy or wild, but it was palpable. What do I know, maybe there was a time when it was flashy and wild. But in the time I knew them, they loved one another in the deep and abiding way only years of life experience together could produce. It was a love that didn't fade away even when her physical and mental abilities did. When she became totally dependent on others for literally everything, he was there. What he couldn't give her himself, he made sure others did. And what he couldn't have from her anymore, he still possessed in abundance through his memories. Even after she was gone, she was never far from him.
My husband and I bear very few physical resemblances to Aunt Mary and Uncle Billy. We live our lives in a completely different way than they did. I doubt I'll ever be in a dress of any kind, and I can't imagine my hot husband in old man jeans. I doubt our lifestyle is anything like theirs was. But somehow I think we're probably not as different from them as we are the same. Our goals and dreams and hopes of growing old together...sharing a past, embracing a present and looking forward to a future together are just the same.
This past week, as I've been out of commission with a bum knee, my wonderful husband has been just incredible. He's taken care of my every need. Gently loving me in word and deed, putting my needs at the forefront of everything else. When we were younger, it probably would have been my mother coming over to help out. But now, it's him and me. That's they way it should be. That's the way I always want it to be...for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness or in health for now and for always. I intend to love this man and share my entire self with him...to both grow and age together. I love you, Dan.
For the first time in my life really, the possibility of being 'old' genuinely looms large. In my twenties, even my thirties, 'old' was somewhere far away. It was a place I might go when I ran out of things to do or at least the energy to do them. It was almost an inconceivable land where the pace is slow and demands of this life dwindle down to a manageable level. A place that seemed to be a million miles away just a breath or two ago.
I used to say I wanted to grow old with my husband. Now I realize I already am growing old with him. But growing old together looks and feels so much different than I thought it would.
Twenty plus years ago, I imagined growing old with this man I have loved in one form or fashion since I was thirteen years old would mean me in a house dress and slippers and he in old man jeans and a flannel shirt sitting on the front porch in our rocking chairs, maybe bouncing grand babies on our knees. I was envisioning 'old' the way my Aunt Mary and Uncle Billy were 'old'. That's how they looked. Old. And still loving one another.
I didn't see all the time they put into growing old together. My memories of them begin when they were closer to the finish line than the starting blocks. But I didn't have to be there to know they had spent many years building a life, raising children, making a home. They had figured out how to get through disagreements and disparities. They had invested in one another in every way imaginable. They had shared everything...laughs, tears, dreams, fears...secrets just the two of them knew. All those things come together and accumulate over time and form the firmest of foundations.
The love my great aunt and great uncle shared wasn't flashy or wild, but it was palpable. What do I know, maybe there was a time when it was flashy and wild. But in the time I knew them, they loved one another in the deep and abiding way only years of life experience together could produce. It was a love that didn't fade away even when her physical and mental abilities did. When she became totally dependent on others for literally everything, he was there. What he couldn't give her himself, he made sure others did. And what he couldn't have from her anymore, he still possessed in abundance through his memories. Even after she was gone, she was never far from him.
My husband and I bear very few physical resemblances to Aunt Mary and Uncle Billy. We live our lives in a completely different way than they did. I doubt I'll ever be in a dress of any kind, and I can't imagine my hot husband in old man jeans. I doubt our lifestyle is anything like theirs was. But somehow I think we're probably not as different from them as we are the same. Our goals and dreams and hopes of growing old together...sharing a past, embracing a present and looking forward to a future together are just the same.
This past week, as I've been out of commission with a bum knee, my wonderful husband has been just incredible. He's taken care of my every need. Gently loving me in word and deed, putting my needs at the forefront of everything else. When we were younger, it probably would have been my mother coming over to help out. But now, it's him and me. That's they way it should be. That's the way I always want it to be...for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness or in health for now and for always. I intend to love this man and share my entire self with him...to both grow and age together. I love you, Dan.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Public Bathrooms
Forty years and three children have wreaked havoc on my body in many ways. But perhaps the most annoying relates to bladder control, or a lack thereof. Let's just say, when I've got to go, I've got to go. I can literally pee on cue. Just passing a bathroom spurs the urge. It is not a pleasant reality nor one I ever would have predicted when I was younger.
I no longer take my ability to hold it for granted. Something as simple as laughing or as benign as a sneeze can spell big trouble these days. Many a day I have waddled in from work, precariously making my way to the bathroom, hoping beyond hope to get there in time. When my kids were little, I called that the pee pee dance. Now I call it the please don't pee pee dance.
Unfortunately, this lack of control doesn't restrict itself to when I'm home. So, out of sheer necessity, I have become quite the public restroom aficionado. I have developed an odd appreciation for a good lavatory, as my Grandpa Hudson used to called it.
I can tell you who has really nice restrooms and regrettably, who doesn't. These are things one can only learn through experience. Now, keep in mind, I'm a person who refers to my kids' bathroom as the gas station bathroom because of it's frequently unsavory conditions so I wouldn't generally consider myself a particularly picky restroom connoisseur. I can tolerate a lot. But there are some issues I think public restroom designers should take into consideration.
First off, no woman wants to straddle the stool to get the door closed. I'm all for conserving space, but seriously, give us enough room to get in the stall without hovering over the toilet. If the door scrapes the front of the john, it isn't good. If we were standers instead of sitters, our behinds would be pressed up against the metal door, for Pete's sake. Now how hygienic would that be?
Secondly, give a little thought to the placement of the diaper changing station. I think giving mom a place to change that little tyke's dirty pants is a terrific idea, but must it be the main attraction upon entering the restroom? Move that handy dandy little wall-mounted table into it's own stall or at least to the back of the room. Junior may need therapy if memories of his bare bottom being exposed to everyone in the big box store ladies room surface later in his life.
When one enters a stall and takes a seat, she isn't, at first, thinking about the placement of the stool behind the door. But once perched upon that porcelain pedestal, poor stool location becomes not only obvious but often embarrassing. There's nothing more disconcerting than finding oneself mid-stream and nearly fully exposed through the big ol' gap in the stall door. If we wanted to be on display when we go, we'd just cop a squat somewhere. Either narrow that crack or at least make sure there's no money shot for every one entering the restroom by placing the stool squarely behind the door itself.
A hook of some sort is, in my opinion, a necessity in every ladies room stall. I do not want to have to sit my purse on the bathroom floor or try to balance it on top of the sanitary napkin disposal box or hang it from my neck while I do my business. It doesn't have to be anything fancy...just someplace cleaner than the floor and less likely to choke me to death than dangling around my neck.
I don't want a toilet paper dispenser that's so close to the bottom of the wall I can hardly get my hand up under it to get the paper free or so far away I can hardly reach it. I don't want the dispenser to be so tight I can only get two sheets at a time. If I need six squares, I want six squares, and I will fight to get them if I have to. And I never ever want toilet paper that feels like sand paper. I don't care what kind of budget a place is working with, two ply cannot possibly be the thing that puts a business in the red.
I doubt the paper towel cost has been the ruin of many, if any, a business either. I understand air dryers save trees and make less waste, but seriously, I don't have thirty minutes to stand there and try to get my hands dry. Either upgrade to those wind tunnel type dryers or give me some actual paper towel please.
And while a need for cleanliness goes without saying, I'll say it anyway. There's nothing more repulsive than dribble on the seats or an unflushed toilet. It's bad enough when it's a relative leaving the mess behind, but when it's a perfect stranger...EGAD! If you're big enough to use the big girls' potty, you're big enough to clean up after yourself.
Ok, time for a bathroom break. :-)
I no longer take my ability to hold it for granted. Something as simple as laughing or as benign as a sneeze can spell big trouble these days. Many a day I have waddled in from work, precariously making my way to the bathroom, hoping beyond hope to get there in time. When my kids were little, I called that the pee pee dance. Now I call it the please don't pee pee dance.
Unfortunately, this lack of control doesn't restrict itself to when I'm home. So, out of sheer necessity, I have become quite the public restroom aficionado. I have developed an odd appreciation for a good lavatory, as my Grandpa Hudson used to called it.
I can tell you who has really nice restrooms and regrettably, who doesn't. These are things one can only learn through experience. Now, keep in mind, I'm a person who refers to my kids' bathroom as the gas station bathroom because of it's frequently unsavory conditions so I wouldn't generally consider myself a particularly picky restroom connoisseur. I can tolerate a lot. But there are some issues I think public restroom designers should take into consideration.
First off, no woman wants to straddle the stool to get the door closed. I'm all for conserving space, but seriously, give us enough room to get in the stall without hovering over the toilet. If the door scrapes the front of the john, it isn't good. If we were standers instead of sitters, our behinds would be pressed up against the metal door, for Pete's sake. Now how hygienic would that be?
Secondly, give a little thought to the placement of the diaper changing station. I think giving mom a place to change that little tyke's dirty pants is a terrific idea, but must it be the main attraction upon entering the restroom? Move that handy dandy little wall-mounted table into it's own stall or at least to the back of the room. Junior may need therapy if memories of his bare bottom being exposed to everyone in the big box store ladies room surface later in his life.
When one enters a stall and takes a seat, she isn't, at first, thinking about the placement of the stool behind the door. But once perched upon that porcelain pedestal, poor stool location becomes not only obvious but often embarrassing. There's nothing more disconcerting than finding oneself mid-stream and nearly fully exposed through the big ol' gap in the stall door. If we wanted to be on display when we go, we'd just cop a squat somewhere. Either narrow that crack or at least make sure there's no money shot for every one entering the restroom by placing the stool squarely behind the door itself.
A hook of some sort is, in my opinion, a necessity in every ladies room stall. I do not want to have to sit my purse on the bathroom floor or try to balance it on top of the sanitary napkin disposal box or hang it from my neck while I do my business. It doesn't have to be anything fancy...just someplace cleaner than the floor and less likely to choke me to death than dangling around my neck.
I don't want a toilet paper dispenser that's so close to the bottom of the wall I can hardly get my hand up under it to get the paper free or so far away I can hardly reach it. I don't want the dispenser to be so tight I can only get two sheets at a time. If I need six squares, I want six squares, and I will fight to get them if I have to. And I never ever want toilet paper that feels like sand paper. I don't care what kind of budget a place is working with, two ply cannot possibly be the thing that puts a business in the red.
I doubt the paper towel cost has been the ruin of many, if any, a business either. I understand air dryers save trees and make less waste, but seriously, I don't have thirty minutes to stand there and try to get my hands dry. Either upgrade to those wind tunnel type dryers or give me some actual paper towel please.
And while a need for cleanliness goes without saying, I'll say it anyway. There's nothing more repulsive than dribble on the seats or an unflushed toilet. It's bad enough when it's a relative leaving the mess behind, but when it's a perfect stranger...EGAD! If you're big enough to use the big girls' potty, you're big enough to clean up after yourself.
Ok, time for a bathroom break. :-)
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