Lose This, Pal

And on the subject of working out/weight loss, etc.:

Is there anything more annoying than the fact that a guy can think: "You know, I need to drop a few stone." He looks this way and that at his body, contemplates each side in the mirror, grimaces a bit. And poof: five pounds gone. Later in the day, he does a leg lift or two. Poof: another three pounds gone. He plays a game of basketball: five pounds. He thinks again about losing some weight: three more pounds. Gimme a break here!!!!!!! I work and work, guzzle water, carefully eat this, studiously avoid that: half a pound. An hour on the machines, an hour+ of yoga: quarter of a pound. Two weeks of this routine: two pounds. If I'm lucky.

A few days of his regime, and it's: you know, I wasn't able to wear these pants two minutes ago, but now I can. I think I've lost some weight.

Oh, really.

It sounds as though this makes me angry. It doesn't. I applaud my husband's wanting to stay in shape. I am merely intrigued by the phenomenon that he can lose weight simply by thinking about it and I can gain weight simply by breathing.

(I won't even mention what happens if a Krispy Kreme hops on my train of thought.)

So no---it doesn't bother me. Really. That's fair.

Proof Positive

There have been times in the last several years when I've wanted another baby so badly that it was an ache I physically felt. I teetered between yearning and doubt---should we? should we not? A little more time would pass. The feeling would come and go.

Here's one more little proof, however, that the time has permanently passed, that feeling but a faint and distant pang:

When I'm working out at the Y, invariably, inevitably there's an announcement: "Would so-and-so please come to ChildWatch." In the background you can hear a child screaming or crying. This announcement is sometimes met with a murmur of laughs. And what do I feel? "They are never going to call my name. THANK GOODNESS!" Sometimes I have to stop myself from pumping my arms up in exultation.

So, should the highly unlikely time ever come when I wonder if the pitter-patter of little feet is what I'm missing, all I need to do is spend an hour at the club. It won't take long to get my answer.

Phew.

You Don't Say?

My 7-year-old in a nutshell:

Tonight we go to watch our local major league soccer team. About three minutes into the game, he states, impressed: "These guys are even better than me."

I Know Why The Caged Snake Sleeps

We have a pet python. Well, they--as in, the rest of my family--have a pet python. I, myself, have nothing to do with it. Her name is Roxy, short for Roxalana. As a pet, she's as easy as pie---especially for me because, like I said, I have nothing to do with her. Simple care: she only needs to be fed once every two weeks. She doesn't need to be walked or groomed or cared for in any of those normal pet ways. (She gets "held" often---if you define being held as a snake winding its body around yours. Blech.) You can take a two-week trip and you don't really have to worry about her. Practically care-free, as it were. Which brings me to the crux of the matter: a snake's life is completely pointless. I guess I should say: a caged snake's life is completely pointless. It's possible that if she were out in the desert, out in the elements, she'd have a whole pointful routine. She'd be hunting and gathering and doing all sorts of snake-like activities, I suppose. She'd have a happy snake life and home and family. It's also possible that if she were out in the wild, she'd be dead. But anyway, as a snake who lives in a cage, her existence is fairly shallow as far as I can see. Often I go into the office where she lives...in her cage...and see her poised in some bizarre yoga-type position, staring at the glass on one side. She holds this pose for hours. I know this because I'll come back later just to check, and yep---she's still in the same position. Sometimes she hovers around, flicking out her tongue, and then withdraws quickly into her little log-like home. I think at these moments she's bored out of her mind and is playing imaginary battle with other ghost snakes. The more time that passes and the more I see her odd behaviors--or I witness as entire days go by and she does nothing but lie coiled in sleep or meditation--I begin to wonder if it's some form of animal cruelty. Does a snake like to be in a cage? Does a snake feel safer in a cage? And how would we know? I don't know anyone who speaks Snake (that would be Parseltongue to you Potterheads), so how do we really know? Until we do, I guess we'll all carry on with the status quo. But honestly, Roxy: get a life.

Meandering Down Memory Lane

Most of us have a place, or places, that are special to us. Places we've been---maybe even only once. Or places that we still visit because they have a certain meaning to us, make us feel a certain way, give us a place to unwind....Whatever the reason, there is a place that's special to us in our thoughts. There are many places in my memory that I won't ever forget and hope to revisit when I can---stretches of the midwest, places in the south, tiny towns. Nothing exotic, nothing foreign or trendy. But real and alive in memory because they hold the story of my childhood, the best memories of my childhood. They continue to be real, no matter how long it's been since I've seen them.

But there's a more tangible spot, a more local destination, that probably holds first place among special places. And that is Santa Cruz. It's not Paris, it's not Rio, it's not the Caribbean. Nothing very exotic. But I'm drawn there again and again, in life and in memory. Santa Cruz is the holder of my secrets, my heartaches, my memories, my experiences through some of the most formative years of my life. From the time I could drive, I was drawn to the beautiful curving drive that brought me to the edge of the sea. West Cliff Drive and the rocks and the ever-moving water. There I poured out every thought, raged with tears, basked in contentment, paced the water's edge, sat motionless for hours on the rocks. Santa Cruz holds the pieces, the ingredients, the substance of my life in the making.

There are special places there which I shared with special people that I'll never forget. And it's close enough that I can go back and stand in the same spot, the very place, and relive an exact memory. Whether it's a painful one or one that still sends shivers down my body, I indulge in standing in the precise space where once a memory was designed, formed, created. Just thinking of it brings a smile, thinking of those memories, knowing it's only a hop, skip and a jump and I'm there. It's a comfort knowing it's near enough to almost touch from where I'm sitting now.

In fact, today is a perfect Santa Cruz day. What am I waiting for?

Give It Some Thought...

Did you ever consider the fact that without a memory, life would be almost pointless? The narrow fragment of the present moment would be the only thing that gave life meaning if we had no memory of the past. This moment, right now, is life and then--poof!--gone. Nothing remembered. Nothing retained. Just one moment. Poof. The next moment. Poof. There would be no color in life, no depth, no texture. We couldn't build on past experiences. We couldn't learn from past mistakes. We couldn't revisit wonderful places in our minds. We couldn't recall fun trips that we once took. People who had given life meaning...gone. Moments of majesty that took our breath away....gone. None of that. Just this one moment.

There are times when I'm doing something---sometimes just a mundane, unspecial thing---maybe it's with my kids, or just driving down the road I always drive, looking around at my town, and I realize: this will be a memory. It hits me: someday, I'm going to look back at this time with nostalgia and even though it isn't anything special, it will be a memory; this exact moment will be a memory that adds substance to my life.

It is true, and I believe, that we should live in the moment. Live our lives in the present. I believe that. But thank goodness we can remember the moment once it's gone; otherwise, no amount of living--no matter how fiercely and bravely in the present--would give it the kind of meaning that memory adds to it.

Good times, bad times, events in our own personal history---these memories write the story of us. Revel in them. Cherish them. They are the fabric of your life.

Take Two Steps Toward The Trashcan and Call Me In The Morning

It's a strange phenomenon. All members of my family (myself excluded) seem to be struck by the same malady. All of them are allergic to the garbage can. Every single one of them. They cannot throw out an item of trash. Sometimes they get close. I'll go out to the kitchen and I'll find wadded up paper towels or wrappers from something sitting on the counter, mere inches from the wastebasket. So close. Almost made it but not quite. After a meal or a snack I can absolutely count on going into the kitchen and finding every item of trash and leftover garbage from the meal still sitting on the table: used napkins, empty soda cans, empty Capri Suns--you name it; it's still there. Practically every time. If I just left it---because that's the theory: they don't throw the stuff out because they know you will---if I just left it, it would only become evident that there was a problem when the trash had piled so high and took up so much room that they couldn't plop their plate down on the table. It might strike one of them then that something was amiss.

I don't know if there's a cure. I don't know if there is any medicine that helps trashcanitis. I don't suppose it's that rare of a condition, though I haven't heard much about it. But I do know, I know without a doubt, that it exists.

Hindsight Is So 20-20

I just glanced at an email that said something about the "poor" people (yes, in quotes, as though we all know the truth) in New Orleans who could've left/evacuated via a $10 ticket out of town. I didn't take the time to read the entire article; I'm sure I missed out on a wealth of knowledge. Like was mentioned by a smart someone I know (okay, my husband), this $10 didn't include all the expenses that would be incurred at the other end of that ride: motel rooms for who-knows-how-many nights; food; toiletries; possibly clothes and other miscellaneous; fare back home. It wouldn't have just cost $10 to leave. And maybe there were five or six or ten people to consider (we all know how poor people reproduce, like rabbits). So now we're at $100. Not counting all the above-mentioned expenses. Not to mention wages missed. So, that's one thing. Those "poor" people had but a short time to consider all those facts....Another thing: hurricanes aren't exactly news in the South. How many storms and hurricanes had most of those people lived through, some with barely a scratch, barely a shifting of possessions? Who could have possibly known the tragic outcome? They would've been labeled foolish and paranoid if every time there was a hurricane warning, they headed for the hills with all the possessions they could carry. It's true that this was shaping up to be a Big One. But again, who could've imagined the outcome? NOW we know. Now we can see what should've been done, what could've been done. If some of those who lost everything, who lost loved ones even, if they could re-decide, I'm sure that all of them would pick the $100+ it would've cost. If they had the option at all, they would pick it now. But we don't always get to pick after knowing the end of things. Sometimes we have to pick in a moment of little information. Sometimes we pick and just have to hope we're picking the right thing. Sometimes we don't have any choice of even picking anything. Sometimes we just don't get to choose. And for those of us who are living far from the storm and its aftermath, who are living relatively comfortable lives (even the lives of kings, relatively), who are we to hand out verdicts on what should have been done? Who are we to get to dismiss the "poor" who didn't leave and, we've decided, could have?

Right now part of the roof of our house is off because we're in the middle of a remodel. We're trusting of course that this is a very temporary position we're in, being semi-roofless. And right now we're hoping it doesn't rain like has been said might happen tonight or tomorrow. Thirty percent chance of thunder showers. If it does rain, we sure will know that we should've taken the time and energy and ucky effort to tarp the whole roof area that's exposed. We sure will know then. If it rains. After the fact. It'll be really clear then. But we've got a choice right now, and it doesn't seem likely that it will rain and we're taking our chances. It would be a huge effort and unpleasant and have to be done in the dark. Doesn't seem worth it from where we stand on this side of things. It may look different on the other side of tomorrow.

There's much to be said on this subject, enough for a person to meld right into his soapbox and become one with it, so long would he be there. But I'll just end it with the trite reminder that Hindsight Is Twenty-Twenty.

Skin Deep

Sometimes it seems like there's hardly anything more delicious than a really good book. Some authors have a way of writing that makes me gasp out loud in pleasure---does that make me really strange? Sentences put together in such a way that it's physically felt. How come some people can write like that?? It doesn't seem fair that for some, words just wait so beautifully until pen comes along and sets them free. Unfair. I mention this because I'm reading such a book. Maybe someone else reading it wouldn't have the same reaction, but I'm delighting in it even after only a few pages. (Incidentally, the book is called "The History of Love" by Nicole Krauss or something like that. I know it sounds like a foolish romance but I assure you it is not). Another recently read book that exacted the same response was "Peace Like A River". Excellent read. And there've been others. I've read many super good books, but it seems there's that handful that just hover and hum above the others, winking at the best of them, and then take flight into greatness.

Obviously one thing that determines our reaction to a book is where we're standing at the precise moment we're reading it----I don't mean standing as in: standing by the first bench at Washington Park or standing on one leg in the backyard. I mean, of course, what is happening in our lives at that precise moment, what our circumstances are, what state of emotion we've been existing in. Also our response stems from our individual history, the things in life that shaped us, scarred us, lifted us. Those things will partly determine the appeal of a certain author, the appeal of a certain book. But sometimes it's just plain flawless talent.

Which brings me to what made me think of this whole topic---how one goes about selecting a book. Many times---and the best way---is by finding another book by an already-loved author. That's almost certainly a winner. And then there are recommendations by fellow book lovers whom we trust with book suggestions. Some of the best books I've read were recommended by those whom I know read something besides, say, Harlequin. Short of those two methods, however, I resort always to judging a book by its cover. I just do. If a book has an ugly picture or one that is unappealing to my senses in any way, it goes back on the shelf. There are just too many books to read to start with one that has an ugly cover. I understand that's a shallow way to go about things, but I've got to start somewhere, and I start with the most appealing and attractive covers. And that encompasses colors, font type, picture, layout. The only way I might bypass this method is if the title is extraordinary or unusual: "The Confederacy of Dunces" as a small example. A book with a title like that just begs to be read (a great book, too, by the way, with a very interesting author history. I may never have read it based on my skin-deep criteria if it hadn't been for that title). If books didn't have covers, I'd be in a bit of a quandary. If all of them were ugly, I'd have to just close my eyes and pick. But until that happens, the one with the best cover wins.

SO....to keep me from sinking even further into these shallow waters, does anyone have a great book recommendation? I'm all eyes.

Huh??

This wasn't a recent event, but it's been bugging me all over again. (Let it go, I say; let it go):

I'm at Target waiting in line, and there's a lady in front of me with a boy who's probably only five. In her basket is Target brand stroganoff (or something equally unappetizing, but hey---it's cheap), Target brand juice, some other food item---maybe bread; I can't remember. Anyway, a few paltry items. And budsy boy, while standing there in line, notices a movie---clearly rated R, some violent-looking, evil-type movie, and demands to have it. The conversation goes something like this:

boy: I want this. I haven't seen this yet.
mom: you don't need it. we have movies like this at home.
boy, raised voice: But I haven't seen it. I want it.
mom, sighing: I don't know why you want to watch movies like this.
(It's completely out of her hands, clearly).

I've got a huge question mark hanging over my head at this point, so big that I'm surprised no one has noticed and pointed it out. I think I've missed something here. Maybe he's not really five. Maybe he's twenty-five and just really really small. Maybe she's three and just really really big. I mean, who's the mom here?? And why has he, at only five (unless he's 25 and traveling incognito), seen ANY movie resembling the one clutched in his hands?? I'm really struggling with this, my question mark clanging in confusion. I'm considering the sad state of affairs before me when I see to my disbelief that she is taking food items out. of. her. bag. True, several of them were really only psuedo-food items, but surely a little more nutrional than guns and blood and guts? She's taking out the juice and processed boxed item and putting in the flipping movie. I know for a fact that the food she now has is probably going to come to a grand total of about $4. She's checking out now, and I watch as she counts out $25 in bills. She paid almost $20 for garbage that has no value whatsoever, no matter what age Budsy is. She spent $20 of what is quite evidently not money easily come by to give her small child something that A) he'd demanded; B) was clearly inappropriate; and C) something she could ill-afford. I could hardly keep quiet.

This bothered me---and clearly still does---on so many levels. But mostly I just kept thinking about this five-year-old watching all that violence, clearly a common practice, and wondered how it was that people can't figure out why kids are so unhappy these days. Why they're becoming so violent and out of control. Why they're so much more disrespectful and aggressive. Gee, I wonder. The great news is that Budsy and plenty more like him are going to school alongside MY children who are still curled into fetal position, waiting to be born, compared to kids these days. Is all innocence lost?? I don't want to believe so.

But folk like Target mom and Budsy make it hard to keep the faith.

Words To Live By

Tonight my youngest son, my 7-year-old, says--apropos of nothing: "You're the greatest Mom in the world.....salt of the earth." Unearned, undeserved, unmerited praise!! He and my middle son (9-yrs-old) will often say "you're the greatest mom in the world" and every time, I feel humbled and exalted, all in the same moment. (The "salt of the earth" was just a little added bonus tonight, I guess. He often tries out random phrases). I feel paralyzed by how much I don't deserve to be given such a badge of honor, and at the same time, I feel like I'm top of the world and nothing matters more than truly being worthy of such a title. And if I can feel like that from my child, surely a hundred times more he could and should feel that from me. What greater gift---worth more than gold---than to give my children that same honor: "You're the greatest kids in the whole world." And not just to say it in those words, though that's important. But to show it in dozens of ways every day---in little touches, in praise, in encouragement, in responding kindly, in being nice, in being patient instead of critical. Then they would know the prize of being cherished, in believing they were the greatest kids on earth. Because they are. In a million different ways they are. But I have to tell them, I have to share it, I have to show them so that it's real and attainable. And in the meantime, as I learn better how to do that, I'll attempt to be worthy of the title "Greatest mom in the world" to the greatest kids on earth. Lucky me.

The Art of Not Listening

My husband is a pro at not hearing me sometimes. I'll say something and he'll not respond, and so I'll call him and get his attention, repeat it, and he'll then not respond again. Sometimes, he'll say, "Oh, I'm sorry, say it again, say it again!" So, I'll start over and say my thing again and half-way through, I'll see his eyes glaze over and can almost watch his brain retreating, scampering pell-mell back into that mystery space where no voice can be heard, at least not mine. It used to be infuriating; now, it's mostly just bemusing and intriguing. How does he do that?

It happened again this morning. I said a little ditty about what I'd just been doing. No response. So I mentioned to him that I'd said something, so he made a noise of some sort that meant: say it again. So I did. I'm sure that by the second word, he was completely gone. Planets away.....Now--in his defense--I sometimes will say something when he's reading or at the computer or otherwise mentally-engaged. So, I don't mind that he didn't catch it and that I need to repeat. But once he's pretending to listen, I foolishly believe that he is. Silly me. Silly girl. Sometimes I find it more fulfilling to talk to the nearest object--a chair or a shoe. At least I don't have any illusions about their ability to listen. Or not listen.

Beyond that, though, my husband has hundreds of other most-excellent qualities. As long as the only question on the test doesn't require any listening (or isn't read by me), he'll pass with flying colors.

Pretzel Logic

Finally, after so many things that can bend a person out of shape, I've recently discovered that there's one which has the potential to actually bend a person INto shape! What a concept. YOGA. I'm definitely h-o-o-k-e-d. No doubt about it.

Just thought I'd share that little morsel.

How much did you say??

So today I paid over $3 for the first time for gas. Choke---gasp---wheeze.....sigh. What's a person to do? I can remember when I couldn't believe that I was paying over $2 for gas. And that wasn't very long ago. It seemed terrible and yet was clearly only a speedbump on the landscape. I imagine $3 will be too. At what point is it too much and it's time to find other means of getting around? Since public transportation here isn't exactly what it could be, maybe that point will never come. We won't be able to buy much except gas. That naked family you see driving down the road, eating roots and berries: that'd be us.