July 25, 2010

I’ve always been really good about NOT thinking, “I’ll never…” because, lo and behold, you always do.

But, I”ve learned I have to be careful about wondering, like in “I wonder what is going on in her life to make her act like THAT” because, lo and behold, I seem to always find out … first hand.

Like the time I picked up my son from a play date and the house had tufts of dog hair scattered all over the house, from the foyer to the hallway leading into the family room to the kitchen to the sliding door leading outside where I found the cherub, who I barely recognized because I was too busy wondering how hard it is to vacuum occasionally.

Well, I’ve found out. It’s pretty darn hard when you have a dog that sheds in tufts no matter how often you take him to the groomer and the freakin’ vacuum is a pain to pull out of the closet, so you just hope no one comes over, or, at the very least, people who do come over are not judgemental about a bit of dog hair on the ground. It’s not like I ask them to lay on the floor and roll in it – I do offer them couches and chairs to sit in.

Or like the time I watched a friend hand over twenty dollars to her whining teenager even though the teenager had not done her chores and had already been told she would not receive any money for the evening until her chores were done so she had better get to it if she wanted to get the chores done before she went out with her friends. The teenager disappeared, I assumed she left to go do her chores, but apparently she just went to her bedroom to plan her verbal subterfuge. Or to apply her make-up and straighten her hair, because she reappeared thirty minutes later, all dolled up and ready to go, asking one last time for the twenty dollars.

“I’ll do extra chores tomorrow, I swear.”

I got ready to excuse myself politely so as not to witness the ensuing battle, but instead after a few exchanges of incomplete sentences that went like this:

“I told you -”

“I know but -”

“Last time -”

“I learned my -”

“How much  does it -”

“Never mind, I can borrow it from -”

when a twenty dollar bill drifted into the teenager’s hand and she disappeared.

So, I’m wondering why would a parent make a rule only to break it a half hour later. Then I became the proud parent of a teenager, and try as I might not to make rules I won’t be able to stick to myself, money seems to float right into the cherub’s hands with not a chore being done, ever. Besides, twenty dollars to make a whining teenager disappear seems a small price to pay!

And here I thought that I was being so non-judgemental. After all, I was just wondering, not thinking, “Well, I’ll never…”

But it seems the universe answers all, even wondering.

So, I’ve taken to hanging out with really rich people and wondering, “If I had all that money, I wonder how I would spend it” and I’m waiting for the universe to answer!

This week I will wonder how my life will be when all my dreams come true.

July 18, 2010

My work takes me to Orange County, the land of sea breezes, temperate days, and beautiful people. It is also the land of narrow yards, streetlight alleys, and a patchwork design of freeways.

So, I was a bit surprised the other day when a colleague asked me if I had moved to Orange County yet.

“No, I’m still in Cherry Valley.”

And he responded …

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Now, it is true this colleague has lived his whole life in Orange County and at the age of 77 still surfs most mornings. He obviously thinks of Orange County as home, sweet home.

But I think of Cherry Valley as home, sweet home. And let me tell you why, as I have been paying close attention lately so the next time I see this colleague I will have a catalogue of reasons for living there, rather than a vague sense that it is where I belong.

I love the day I was out on the deck, overlooking the state park with a friend and told him about how there is deer in the area. And he said…

“Like that one?” pointing to a deer below our house, looking right at us, as if planted there to prove my point.

I love the patch of raspberries, not just the one in my yard, but the one past my mailbox and at the corner where I picked a handful last night to rinse and savor.

I love the census worker how flagged me down, looking for an address on my street of four houses. I got to explain to her, to her astonishment, that the address was for the vacant lot, no, no one lives there. “Except snakes!” my husband yelled as a warning as she ventured into the knee high shrubs. And she said …

“I’ll just ask around some more,” as if a vacant lot in Southern California was unbelieveable, like a talking frog who turns into a prince.

I love red tailed hawks who seem to wait on the neighbor’s fence for me to come home so they can fly just as I drive near them, as if reminding me that magic is everywhere.

Finally, I love that in my house only the bedrooms have curtains, and those are only closed when it is late at night and friends are over and I need to slip out of warm weather clothes to put on a pair of jeans and a thick sweater.

So, though it does get hot, and it does get windy, I wouldn’t live any place other than my home, sweet home.

This week I will appreciate my home and the gifts it gives me each day.

July 11, 2010

My sister-in-law called last week to ask for the recipe for my famous bean dip. I should have given her my recipe because then when I showed up for the party, I could have eaten my famous bean dip. Instead I dug to the back of the drawer with the plastic bags and aluminum foil and saran wrap and wax paper and straws and other loose floating recipes, and repeated for her the recipe given to me over six years ago.

I did tell her how I changed the recipe. “I leave out the jalapenos and the onions. Oh, and I add gabanzo beans and black beans. It makes the dip more colorful.”

“How much cilantro, exactly?”

This is where I should have known that she was not listening, not even interested in my famous recipe, but wanting to follow a recipe.

I showed up to the party, went straight for the dip and was disappointed when I saw chunks of onions and bits of jalapenos floating among the delicious corn, kidney beans, chunks of tomatoes all awash with Robusto Italian Dressing (DO NOT SUBSTITUTE).

I never learned to cook by recipe. Not that my mom didn’t try to teach me. I just found the idea of following directions to prepare food so boring. I would quickly lose interest, grab a handful of Saltines and be off to bigger and better things.

And so it is with my life. I know the advice is to find a person who has accomplished what you want, then follow in his or her footsteps, but I can’t shake the feeling that everything is about context.

If you add onions because the recipe says to add onions, I won’t eat it. I don’t care that the onions have been cooked and I won’t even taste them. I don’t care that you left them big enough for me to pick out easily. I don’t like onions and just looking at them has made me lose my appetite. It’s an onion context I’m not comfortable with.

So, I don’t care that J.K. Rowling wrote her books on napkins in coffee shops while homeless. I’m pretty sure that recipe is not going to work for me. I’m not interested in the fact that the experts say to diversify my portfolio. I know where my money is working for me, and I think I will stick with that, thank you very much. Also, I’m not interested in how great your approach to life is working for you. I prefer to find my own approach. Sure, it may look like a disaster from where you are standing, but so did being homeless and writing books on napkins and look how that turned out.

Next time someone asks me for a recipe, I will be sure to recite the way that I make the dish, even if it means I have to say, “I just pour until the dish is filled within a half inch of the rim.”

And I will always wait to be asked. And I will always preface the giving of recipes, for food, life, following dreams, with “This is what works for me” and never “This is what you should do.”

So, I have to admit, I think following recipes is a disaster, for me.

This week I will make my own recipes and eat the food I made.

July 5, 2010

It’s always the day after that you realize what  just happened, especially if it’s the day after the Fourth Of July.

Do you suppose that our founding fathers felt a bit like I feel today – What did I just commit to?

Of course, I did not break ties with a despotic ruler, nor did I commit to paper the ways in which I would govern myself. Instead, I only over ate and went to bed too late. A high price to pay, I think, for a holiday that goes out with a bang, literally.

I’ve heard the Fourth of July described as Christmas with fireworks. I’ve always just thought the holiday was an excuse to eat lots of hot dogs, potato chips and chocolate chip cookies. And I surely don’t really need an excuse to do that.

So, though it’s not my favorite holiday, I have had some memorable experiences related to the Fourth, and here they are.

When I was in tenth grade I was at the river in Blythe with a church group. The youth pastor of the group took a group of eight of us out to the dirt fields, no flammable or combustible materials any where near, and set off fireworks. Then he began throwing them at us. Of course we ran. The fields on either side of the dirt road had recently been plowed so I mostly stumbled in the dark, with a flash of light too close to my feet lighting my path every few minutes. I’m not sure if the point was for us to get a taste of what hell might be like, or for us to learn to walk, I mean run, by faith though the path may be plowed and dusty and dark.

When I was life guarding at the local lake and water slide (okay, I was only a water slide attendant, but lifeguard better suits the American lexicon), we got to stay after and watch the fireworks for free. Did I mention these lakes were surrounded by dry, flammable, combustible fields and there were fire trucks stationed all around. I spent the entire show watching all the sparks die out only a few feet from touching down and starting a massive wildfire that would have forced everyone at the local lake into the local lake to survive. By the way, if you think I was overreacting, there was a fire. Yes, it was put out quickly, but still!

When my son was eight, he got into a water fight with a girl who told on him to her dad who insisted my cherub apologize. Cherub refused, so I did what any good, respectable parent would do, I threatened him.

“If you don’t apologize, we’ll have to leave the party now.”

And he did what any spawn of me would do, shrugged his shoulders and walked out to the car.

This year was rather uneventful, except for the 16 chocolate covered strawberries and the four brownies I ate. I did get to see good friends whose children no longer play soccer with my cherub because they are all away at college and my cherub is running cross country and track, and I stuck my cold feet in a hot jacuzzi while being amazed at the fireworks, and how lucky I am, we are, to live in a country where when you see bright flashes and hear big booms, it is only a celebration.

This week, I will celebrate living in a country that is good, but can always get better.