Diane Mierzwik

April 18, 2010

I believe in the Buddhist (not Booty) proverb, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”

I also believe in the Norwegian proverb, “Experience is the best teacher, but the tuition is high.”

So, I’ve been reflecting on my experiences over the past few weeks and think there might, just might be something there for me to learn.
Lately, I’ve been surrounded by people who think they are smarter than they are. Seriously.
Like the woman in my spin class who wants to tell me how to breath to maximize my oxygen intake so I can increase my oxygen to … blah, blah, blah ratio. Okay, I might already be a bit irritated with this woman because she is talking during the workout instead of breathing hard. I just wish spin cycles had a speedometer on them so I could very discreetly make sure I am pedaling faster than her and that is why she is able to blab away during the workout instead of just pedaling to the music like the rest of us. Besides, doesn’t all that talking screw up her oxygen to … blah, blah, blah ratio. I know it’s bring her some bad mojo. Yes, from me.
And there’s the nice enough seeming gentleman who smiles at me at the library. Yes, I smiled back, but just to be polite, not as an invitation to get all up in my business. Then he’s asking me which books I’m checking out so he can school me on how the authors I’ve chosen aren’t really worth my time and here, he’ll get me a few books that are well worth my time. Luckily, I ditched him in the stacks, threw my books on a desk and ran out of there with my dignity still in tact.
Or the childless coworker who wants to give me parenting advice. Really? So, that works with your lhaso apso when he refuses to eat his vegetables. Yeah, I’ll try that with my seventeen year old, or I’ll let him eat cake.
After one too many experiences of this nature, I started to wonder … maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am. Perhaps, just perhaps, I’m walking around spouting off about stuff I think I know a lot about when really I know very little.
Of course, I preface all manner of spouting off with these words, “I read a report that said…” That gives me some credibility, right. Or, if I’m quite sure of myself, I demurely state, “In my experience…” because I know your experience might be vastly different. I’m sensitive like that.
Still, I wondered. Are people rolling their eyes at me when I turn my back?
I found a trusted friend and confided that I thought maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am. He reassured me that I am very smart and have nothing to worry about. He even gave me some good examples of exactly how smart I am which I’m much too humble to share with you now.
I felt much better, until a few hours later when I wondered, maybe my friend is as smart as I think he is, but a bad judge of character.

So experience has taught me, schooled me really, and the tuition has been my bruised self-esteem.

This week I will be patient with all the smart people around me and remember I’m just mostly a smart aleck and no one appreciates a smart aleck when they are imparting the gods’ genuis to mere mortals.

April 11, 2010

A few days ago, my seventeen year old cherub asked his dad to go check to see if he left his running watch in his car. It would be a strange request, unless you know my cherub.

This is the boy who went away to camp and called four days later to announce that someone had stolen his wallet. He was at camp with his teammates, so my husband and I were a bit disbelieving that any of my son’s roommates would have stolen his wallet.
“Are you sure it’s stolen?” was our first question.

“Did you check in your back pocket?” was our next. We went down the list from there. My son informed us that even Coach had helped him look for it and couldn’t find it, so it must be stolen. I instructed him to not accuse anyone and just assume that whoever took it needed it more than him and to not worry, we’d get him all new stuff when he got home – a new wallet and license and even new spending money.

Then he got home and after I cleaned out his duffel bag, guess what was found, his wallet.

So, my husband went out to my son’s car, last Tuesday night, and looked for the watch. This is one of those watches with GPS so my son can track his running mileage. Then it has a program which tells him what his average mile time was, or his pace, how far he went and what his mileage so far for the week is. It is a major part of his training routine, to be sure he is running far enough and fast enough. Why else would we spend over $200 on a watch?

The watch was not in the car. I checked his backpack. It was not there. We asked for a retelling of exactly what had happened that his watch was missing.

“I put it on the hood of my car, got distracted by everyone else, then drove away with it still on my hood.”

I guess he thought the watch was David Blaine and could jump through glass and metal on its own. It wasn’t.

My husband drove to the high school, hoping the watch was sitting in the parking lot. He figured forty minutes out of his Tuesday night was worth $200. He’s a gambler that way. Too bad he lost that night.

When we broke the news to the cherub, he was eerily calm. “That’s okay. I need a new watch anyway.”

Before I tell you my reaction, I need to do some back story here. The cherub does not have a job and that new watch was going to be paid for by… right, you got it.

I laughed. Not the jolly, belly laugh you might have expected. More the high-pitched, my head suddenly hurts laugh.

“But Mom,” he responded. “That’s how we upgrade in our family.”

Really? What family is he spending his time with when I think he’s in school or in bed asleep.

“Think about our boat.”

And I did. We had a perfectly good 18 foot ski boat for 15 years. Sure the upholstery was ripped and the gel coat was a bit faded, but it ran fine, well, except for the occasional smoke coming from the engine episodes, but that usually happened right when you were ready to jump in to cool off anyway. We kept that boat, until it was put to pasture in the middle of the Mojave Desert, flying free from its trailer to deposit itself where we would no longer insist it keep up with our friends’ new boats. Then we bought a new boat.

I sighed. So, the cherub had learned that if you have something that works perfectly good, you do not replace it, no matter how much you want the new, shiny  whatever. You wait until the thing is no longer functioning, or it’s destroyed… or lost.

Luckily, when we had bought him that new fangled watch, I took his old watch. I wore it once and was so depressed by the honest facts, I haven’t worn it again.

I went to my bedroom and pulled out that old watch and handed it to the cherub.

“That’s okay, I’ll run without a watch for awhile.”

This week, I will be a good consumer and shop, but only for those things I really need.

March 28,2010

When I saw the President’s face, I tried to delude myself by thinking, I know how he feels.

We’ve all been in the company of well-meaning commenters who reply in the most inappropriate ways in the face of good news. I saw it all on his face, the desire to acknowledge the exuberant expression of support along with the dismay that such a thing was ever uttered, let alone in earshot of others, not to mention microphones.  I’ve been in that position, but I have to admit, more often I am the one spouting off those well-meaning comments, much to the dismay of my family and friends.

In the movie, P.S. I love you, the character played by Harry Connick, Jr. explains that he blurts things out, no filter. No kidding.

There are now names for all kinds of quirky personality traits. People who insisted on checking all the faucets before leaving on vacation used to just be called control-freaks, or anal-retentive, but now they suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and there’s medication for it.

Students who were poorly raised and had no respect for their elders were considered rude and insufferable, but are now diagnosed with Conduct Disorder and are to be sympathized with since they can’t help themselves.

I wonder what those of us, myself and Joe Biden included, will be called when they come up with a great new medicine for our lack of filter about what to say and what not say, and when.

Just the other day I was attempting to find common ground with the other parents at and the talk turned to former colleagues. I blurted out, “Well, she was a b@&$ch!” Later my husband explained that if I have nothing nice to say….

I know this in my head. I was taught this as a child. You’d think I’d have learned this golden rule through the school of hard knocks, or through the  immense embarrassment of the time I am telling everyone who is listening that so-and-so is so prissy she doesn’t have a corncob up her butt, because she’s wound so tight you can’t get a toothpick up there. No one laughed because  so-and-so was right behind me. Still, I run my mouth.

I thought when I quit drinking, I’d also quit telling people they should invest in veneers for thier teeth, or my friends that their bar-b-ques would be more fun if they’d play music I like.

But, no, though drinking did make my running mouth wrose, sobriety has not been a cure. Just last week when my son got beat in his race at a track meet, I consoled him by pointing out that he did crush the next kid in the race. Of course, that kid’s parents were sitting right behind me.

I think this affliction might be genetic, since my son also seems to suffer with it. Just yesterday he told me the wrinkles on the sides of my face looked like an accordion. When I looked hurt, he asked, “What, is that bad?”

If it is genetic, then Fox News should take a chill pill and relax. Vice President Biden can’t help it when, in his excitement, things slip out.

Besides, hopefully now, when the do come up with a name for this affliction and a new medication to solve it, with health reform, I will be able to afford my prescription.

This week I will bite my tongue so I don’t have to pull my foot out of my mouth later.

March 21, 2010

Ahhh! Spring Break. Remember that week off this time of year when all you had to worry about was getting a tan and watching as many music videos as possible before your mom got home and made you turn the channel?

Even after I joined the working force, I still had spring break because I was a teacher. Unfortunately, because I was a teacher, I usually had stacks and stacks of writing projects to grade over spring break. I was able to sit outside and get a tan while grading, but watching tons of television until my husband got home and turned it to ESPN was out of the question.

No longer a teacher, now I was only able to squeeze in two days for spring break, but what a glorious two days they were.

On one day I drove past a house on the north bench that has metal sculptures throughout the yard. I’ve driven by many times, admiring the sculptures, but this time was my lucky time. The artist, Michael, was outside. I introduced myself and he gave me a private tour of his work. We chatted about his view, his adobe house and his lovely pieces of art and I purchased a piece to bring home with me. I had been saving a spot in my garden and now Bunny Angel, formerly known as Crank, has joined my Friar, Mother Mary, Indian woman worker and Indian mother sculptures. They make a lovely family and Michael made me smile the rest of the day.

Then I received in the mail a copy of my frined Eva Schlesinger”s latest book of poetry, View from My Banilla Vanilla Villa available from Dancing Girl Press http://www.dancinggirlpress.com/banilla.html.  The poems made me smile and was a great afternoon read. My favorite line is “She wanted an inmate to imprison her in a life sentence./ A commitment that didn’t start or end…”; from the poem “Object of Desire”. Of course, I loved the entire poem, “Friend or Pho”. I am so happy for Eva as we met over four years ago, both attending a writer’s conference, neither of us published at the time. Thinking of Eva’s success made me believe in future success for both of us.

Then this Saturday I attended a book signing by Toi Moore ( www.toimoore.com ). It was so fun to hear about her journey as a writer, to share in round table format discussion with other writers our journeys as writers, and to be inspired by a woman committed to her craft.

Okay, so today has been great too! I had lunch with my mother-in-law and mused about how lucky I am to be married to her wonderful son. And I got her in the bargain.

No, I didn’t get everything on my list done, not even close. But, I think I did a great job of squeezing lots of joy and fun into a short spring break.

And, you’ll all be glad to know, I only laid in the sun once. I did wear sunscreen!

This week I will carry with me the joy and fun I experienced this spring break throughout my work week!

March 14, 2010

At my recent tax appointment, my tax man dropped this piece of wisdom on me, “You get to a certain age, look around and think, ‘Yeah, this is good enough.’ Then life becomes easier.”

So I started looking around because I’m all about life being easier. Maybe I’m of a certain age. And I thought, yeah, this is good enough.

Well, I thought that, then I thought, but having someone around to cook me dinner each night would make things better than good enough. I tried to talk my mother-in-law into moving in and  had visions of home cooked dinners most nights of the week. I didn’t tell her this. I tried to sell her on the idea of not being lonely. She worried my obnoxious dogs would knock her down every time she went outside. At least that is what she said to my face. She’s pretty smart, maybe she saw through my plans.

So, I stop and get take out, unless my husband is getting home early enough to cook.

Then the other morning, I looked around and thought, yeah, this is good enough, but what would make it better would be a bed partner who knew how to cuddle without groping. Yes, ladies, twenty-four years of marriage and still I’m usually on the defense when it’s cuddle time in bed.

Then today, as I was folding laundry, I thought, yeah, this is good enough, but having someone to do the laundry would definitely make it better.

Obviously it is not good enough if I keep thinking it would be better if only…  So, I wondered how could I get to good enough. I needed someone to cook dinner each night, cuddle without groping and do the laundry. It dawned on me – I need a Russian Wife.

Really, how expensive can a Russian wife be? An airplane flight from Russia on Lufthansa Airlines is only $462. A marriage license in California is only $45. There is plenty of room in my house, so there is no expense there. Bread and vodka are cheap, right?

So I got on my email and waited for one of those great messages telling me there is a Russian wife waiting for me.  Anastasia sent a nice email telling me “I wait for you”.

I wanted to open the email, not because I wanted to see what Anastasia looked like – if she does laundry, cooks dinner and it’s dark while we’re cuddling – who cares. It was more about wondering what the fees were and how long before she got here.

Then I remembered an email I opened years ago that seemed harmless enough. But, it was filled with fists and body orifices that still make me flinch today.

Plus, I asked Bill for a divorce – just on paper, and he said no. But he did promise to cook an extra night this week, put away his laundry and try not to grope too much. And he gave me that puppy-dog eyed smile and I thought, yeah, life is good enough.

This week I will appreciate my Polish husband rather than wish for a Russian wife.

March 7, 2010

Today while I was pulling out my exercise ball (please ignore that it is March and I am just now pulling this piece of exercise equipment out of the closet with only a few weeks until spring), I noticed it was a bit deflated. Which got me to thinking, if something in your life was becoming a bit saggy and wrinkled, would you throw it away, or plump it up?

Grapes or raisins? I used to prefer raisins. Now they just stick in my teeth. There are lots of foods that now get stuck in my teeth. Bread gets stuck in my teeth. Think of how happy I was when a disposable toothbrush was invented (sorry Mother Earth). Toothpicks are just so low class but bread in your teeth is so … gross. The aging gods smiled on me in my time of need. I try to stick to grapes, unless I’m eating chocolate.

Mary Tyler Moore or Raquel Welch?  I’m aging and I know that each small choice I make is either speeding that aging process up, or allowing it to meander at a nice reasonable pace. Sure, I wish I had listened to my best friend in High School who told me to wear sunscreen – and a bra. I used to look like a grape, now I look more like a raisin, in lots of specific places, some of which I cover with a form flattering bra.

So, do I choose Mary Tyler Moore as my goal for aging gracefully, skinny and severe? Or do I choose Raquel Welch as my goal, voluptuous and happy?

It’s difficult because I have always been thin. I understand thin. I enjoy shopping for small sizes and having lots of room around me in my airplane seat. Still, I live next to a retirement community and some of those thin older women look like raisins in the sun. I don’t find the look attractive.

So, okay, I admit I drink coffee with Raspberry Chocolate Creamer every morning – even in the summer when I pour it over ice. One alarmed girlfriend told me, with my best interests at heart I’m sure, “Do you have any idea how many calories you are consuming before you’ve even eaten breakfast?” I was spinning from a sugar/caffeine high so couldn’t explain to her that since I never actually measure my creamer (I just pour until the coffee looks more like light chocolate milk) because then I might decide it’s too many calories and stop treating myself every morning to a delicious cup of coffee that I deserve for even getting up given my age and attitude, no I had no idea.

Sure, rarely a day goes by that I do not eat chocolate for lunch. Really, it’s only drizzled over the granola bar or over the yogurt I’m eating as dessert for lunch. Who says there is no lunch dessert? No one I know!

Okay, so I might eat a few cookies a day. I’ve only had four so far today and I’m not sure one even counts because it was cookie dough and don’t the calories get activated in the oven?

And, yes, it is true that I can’t stand to be hungry. Why at my age would I want to have a stomach ache I can prevent by driving through Del Taco? That’s just silly.

Besides, voluptuous and happy is much more my style, at least at my age.

This week I will strive toward grape-ness by plumping up my deflating body with chocolate, drive-through and any other food that strikes my fancy.

February 28, 2010

I am the first to admit that I wear rose-colored glasses when viewing the world. I am a firm believer that you see in the world what it is you are looking for. Looking for trouble, you’ll see it. Looking for harmony, you’ll see it.

What has been a revelation to me this week is the notion that not only do I wear rose-colored glasses, but I also seem to have some form of amnesia. There are things I have no recollection of and am convinced never even happened no matter the insistence of those closest to me.

Now, you may know people in your life who seem to suffer from amnesia. If you have teenagers, as I do, you have probably experienced the form of amnesia I like to call “chore-amnesia”. In my house it goes like this:

“You were supposed to take down the trash today.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“So.”

“So, it’s trash day.”

“It is?”

“Yes, and you were suppose to take down the trash.”

“I was? Are you sure?”

Another form of amnesia that I am very familiar with because my husband suffers from it is food amnesia. It looks like this:

“That’s a big sandwich.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t eaten all day.”

“What about the pancakes you ate for breakfast?”

“I didn’t eat pancakes today. I haven’t eaten all day.”

“What about the ice cream I saw you eating in the kitchen earlier?”

“Prove I ate ice cream earlier, because I have no memory of it.”

I think that’s what my adorably chubby husband said, though it was hard to understand him because he was talking with his mouth full.

I found out this week that my form of amnesia is poor-planning amnesia.

My son decided to sign up for Water Safety Instructor classes. He was able to take the classes this weekend or in March. He decided to put the classes off until March. I found this odd. Why would you put off something until later that you could get done now? Get it over with so your future has time for other things, is my motto. Or so I thought.

I mentioned to my husband how odd it was that our cherub did not follow our shining examples of a life well-lived and was procrastinating.

“It’s so weird. Why would he do that when we never do that?”

My husband was very quiet. After so many years of marriage to an English major, he has learned to choose his words carefully when he is planning to disagree with me. I have learned to brace myself when he has grown quiet.

“Aren’t you taking classes now when you could have taken them for free four years ago?”

Oh.

On the one hand, I’m rather proud of how I’ve conveniently blocked all memory of the fact that I got myself into this on-line classes mess because of my procrastination. It all seems to be a blur, rose-colored, not there because I’m not looking for it. On the other hand, how am I suppose to avoid these mistakes if I’m not even aware of them?

What mistakes? What were we talking about?

This week I will focus on the things in life that make me happy, and forget the rest.

February 21,2010

Do you ever read what is supposed to be an inspirational saying and think, “What?”

This week, in my “A Woman’s Journal of Inspiration” this saying by Margaret Mead was at the top of the page, “Even though the ship may do down, the journey goes on.”

To which I thought, “What? Yeah, the journey may go on, but not with me because I’d be dead. Drowned.”

I’m a pretty good swimmer, good enough to know that floating on my back is the best way to keep afloat for long periods of time. Not good enough to believe that if the ship went down, I would survive it. If my boat went down, that would be a different story. I can usually see the shore from the middle of Lake Mohave. But, the ship, I don’t think so.

How exactly is this supposed to inspire me, I wondered. Then I began to worry about the other sayings and if I had paid close enough attention to them for inconsistencies.

Then I found this one by Colette, “You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.” I wasn’t so much inspired by this saying as reassured. It’s nice to know that there are other women out there who make fools of themselves with great enthusiasm. I don’t feel so alone when I wear a bright orange scarf to a conference, piss of one of the presenters and fail to take off the scarf so that pointing me out to all her buddies will be easy. “Here I am, the foolish one,” my scarf said with great enthusiasm. Colette would be proud.

I worried that maybe the book had been published by men trying to trick me. They probably left out the most important parts of the sayings, like the part about how once the ship goes down, the journey will go on because a rescue boat will pick you up and be filled with ruggedly handsome Coast Guards who only want to be sure you make it safely to shore. Or the part about doing foolish things with great enthusiasm in the privacy of your home, not at a two day conference wearing a bright orange scarf.

Then my son came in and announced he had decided on his senior quote. “Do your best, forget the rest.” Not my quote, probably not even Reverend Run’s quote but that’s who I got it from. My son thinks he got it from me.

And I wonder. Someday will someone be reading inspirational quotes and read “Do your best, forget the rest” by Diane Mierzwik and wonder, “Yeah, but what about learning from your mistakes. If I forget the rest, how will I learn and not repeat the same stupid mistakes?’

I’d reply, “You mean a mistake like wearing a bright orange scarf to a two day conference knowing deep in your heart that with your big mouth you will probably piss off someone and that scarf will help you to stick out from all the other well-behaved attendees. That type of mistake?”

Yeah, just forget it. It’s not like I’m going to stop having a big mouth any time soon. Besides, orange looks good on me. No, that would be the end of my inspirational quote because I’m a fan of mistake-amnesia.

This week I will focus on what I do best, and forget the rest, like drowning or doing foolish things with great enthusiasm.

February 14, 2010

I am a firm believer that you teach people how to treat you. So, as I spend my 26th Valentine with my partner, if it wasn’t all I hoped it would be, I only have myself to blame.

I remember the night before a Mother’s Day when hubby got home at 9:30 and I asked, point blank, if he had bought me something. He complained that he’d been very busy, what with his two jobs so I could stay home with the cherub. I handed him his car keys and pointed to the door, “Walmart is still open!”

I remember my birthday when I made it very clear that I wanted a solatire blue sapphire ring and when I opened the velvet ring box to find a band of sapphires, I burst into tears and threatened divorce.

I remember the Christmas when I had pretty much given up on the idea that I was ever going to get exactly what I wanted from hubby, let alone above and beyond, so I bought myself a dress I’d wanted for some time, wrapped it up, opened it on Christmas and waited for hubby to be all confused. But not my hubby, he took full credit until I confessed I had bought it for myself. (This is the same husband who spends most of Christmas asking everyone, “What did we get you?”)

I even complained one time to my mother-in-law about how she hadn’t trained her son, my husband, very well. She retorted, “He was fine until I gave him to you.”

Yes, you teach people how to treat you. And this year I got roses from hubby. Not a dozen long stem roses. Not  a half dozen roses from the guy at the off-ramp to our house. Not a single rose wrapped in cellophane with the mini-mart prize tag peeled off.

No, I got Tuscany Superb, Empress Josephine, Celsiana, Queen of Denmark, Old Blush China and many more roses, all bare root, all planted with MiracleGro Rose Planter Mix, all with sprinklers at their base, and all slowing leafing out. Fifteen roses bushes in all and I didn’t lift a shovel, or even pick up the roses and planter mix. Hubby did it all by himself.

Count me lucky, or hubby well taught. Either way, I have had a fabulous Valentine’s Day. I can’t wait to see what I get in another twenty-six years!

This week I will teach others how to treat me, by treating them the way I want to be treated.

February 7, 2010

I never learned to cook. I could probably spend lots of money on a therapist to explore the many reasons I never learned to cook – feminist movement, lack of patience, bad recipe reading skills – but none of this changes the fact that my friends are more familiar with where cooking utensils are in my kitchen than I am.

My failure as a cook has never bothered me. Even when I got married and the dear hubby poked his form tentatively at a piece of chicken and refused to eat it, I was nonplussed because I saw my way out of ever trying to compete with his mother in the cooking front.

Mr. Braxton, my ninth grade English teacher, said once, “There are people who eat to live and those who live to eat.” He was implying that my 90 pounds of budding womanhood ate to live, and I suppose it’s true. My camp mates at the river trip in Blythe went along with my plan to eat everything cold out of cans for the week or out of a cereal box, but weren’t too happy when they caught me being fed pancakes by the other group of campers.

A bowl of cereal, Raisin Nut Bran to be exact, is my idea of a perfect meal. My husband, who happens to be a lives-to-eat kinda’ guy, also is happy with a bowl of cereal because he is forever on a diet. But the kid, now that is where this smooth sailing of an eating plan gets a bit choppy.

As a baby, he didn’t cause too much trouble, pop out a boob or open a jar of mushed sweet potatoes and feed the darling with that cute little spoon covered in plastic padding. Even mixing cereal and producing crackers I did well. Then the toddler went off to a swank preschool with catered lunches and we had “sack lunch” for dinner. Public schools even feed the kiddies hot lunch and I was happy to pay months in advance to be sure my darling was getting at least one hot meal a day.

He can drive now. The cookie jar is full of fives and tens so he can eat anywhere he wants – from Del Taco to TGI Friday’s – fine by me as long as I don’t have to cook.

So count me surprised when he came home a few months ago and pleaded for me to cook for him. “I’m an athlete. I can’t eat out all the time.”

So I went to work preparing the three things I know how to make – chili, shit on a shingle, and macaroni and cheese with toasted sandwiches. This got us by for a few weeks. Then one night he came into the kitchen and said, “This again?”

So I conferred with his dad. What else could we cook? The darling happened to be in the room eavesdropping.

“It’s not that hard,” he muttered.

“Then you cook for us,” I retorted.

“My life is perfect. I live in a great house. I have great friends. School is good. You guys are good. The only thing I would improve in my life is dinner time. When I’m a dad….”

I half-listened, letting him wind himself down with his reverie. When he finally grew quiet, I simply pointed out that sometimes beauty is only recognizable because of the flaws.

“What?” he grumbled.

“Tuna casserole tomorrow,” I said loudly, with conviction. “With potato chips sprinkled on top!”

This week I will remember that beauty is in the flaws.