Weekly Affirmations

July 31, 2011

This will probably come as a surprise to many of you. Others of you – not so much!

I have been accused of being wound too tight. Hence, I love hanging out with people wound a bit tighter than me.

Like the woman at work who is the energizer bunny. This woman never stops! Not only is she awesome to work with since she gets so much time in so little time which means I have to do less, but she makes me feel like I am the serene one. Like I’m Buddha or something – all meditative and calm. Of course, there is the fact that when I do accomplish something at work, she comes right behind me, is amazed how easily she got the thing done, when in actuality I had already done it, but apparently not good enough for her to realize I’d already accomplished the task.

Or the friend who is louder than me. When we are together I am the quiet one, despite the fact that the only person who has ever told me I have a small mouth is my dental hygienist.

There are advantages to being wound too tight.

Did you know that baseballs that are wound too tight actually travel further when hit?

And clocks that are wound too tight… they actually make time go by faster. Then again, at my age, that could be a bad thing. And there is the potential for breaking the clock from winding too tight.

Usually, I just mostly feel like a telephone cord. Sure I’m wound but in a good way, like in the way that saves space but is flexible enough to unwind when needed. Unfortunately, there are those times when the telephone cord has been twisted and tightened so that when I try to answer the phone, the base lifts from the table and falls to the floor, threatening to take the handset with it. (Yes, I still have phone with telephone cords, but that is another blog!)

It’s important to take the time to relax the telephone cord so being wound is a good thing.

Otherwise, you end up like the woman who keep waving me forward the other day in traffic and when I explained to her through the open windows of our cars that it was safer for her to pull forward and let me follow her and she began yelling at me “GOD BLESS YOU! GOD BLESS YOU!” her use of the word god did not hide the fact that she was sprung.

Like a jack in the box. If you keep winding me up (or this lady in the car who wants God to bless people she’s pissed off at) I may just jump out at you at in unexpected way. Sure, there may be some entertaining music before and I may have an entertaining look on my face, what with my make-up slightly smeared from being wound so tight, but it will not be pretty, what with my small mouth but big voice and my propensity for cussing.

This week I will be sure to take the time to unwind the telephone cord as appropriate.

July 24, 2011

Where I live a person doesn’t worry too much about the neighbors. As a matter of fact, our neighbor to our west worries so little about us that we routinely ask each other, “Is Joe naked again?” Lucky for us, Joe lives so far away that he may just have a fondness for flesh colored tight underwear which may be stained a bit in front and we can’t really tell from a distance and are jumping to the wrong conclusion. That is why we ask each other. Reality check.

But I digress.

So, when it became obvious in the last few weeks that a new family had moved in, I was excited. Mostly because the family was a mother and three baby red-tailed hawks.

I met them first as they peered down at me from the telephone wire. They were sizing me up, so much so that all but mom swooped down for a closer look. Then I came home and one of the children had taken it upon himself to use my wall as his perch. I was delighted. He even left me a huge, gorgeous feather as a gift.

These are neighbors  I am happy to welcome to the zip code.

But, the skunks are another story. They need to stay out of the yard. Good fences make good neighbors, but only when the neighbors respect the fences and don’t come trouncing into the yard during the dead of night to entice the dogs into a stinky tango. I was born way past the use of smelling salts to arouse someone from being unconscious, but I defintely know the sensation.

I began to wonder if the new neighbors would keep the old neighbors in check.  I mean, the hawks have to eat, right?

Then I remembered the story about the woman in her yard with her small dog, which was snatched by a hawk. The woman beat the hawk until it released her slightly wounded pup, and was soon after cited for cruelty to animals.

I have only big dogs. Still, the next time I walked down the street, I puffed up a bit, and tried to make it very clear that my head was part of a larger animal, not a frizzy-haired offering from the neighborhood.

One of the hawks swooped near me, and I greeted him with a loud hello.

I read somewhere that seeing a great bird means that something great is going to happen.

Now, I’m just hoping that the great thing about to happen is great to me, not the hungry looking hawk.

That hawk may not be wondering about Joe’s clothing. He may be wondering if my frizzy hair has enough meat under it to make it worth his time and effort. I can hear him now. “Is that edible?”

Where I live, I don’t worry too much about the neighbors, at least not the human ones.

This week I will remember I am the ne kid on the block in my neighborhood

July 17, 2011

This week the President told his cohorts that they needed to “eat your peas.”

I knew a woman once who, when she decided her clothes were too tight because she had gained some weight, ate only peas until she had lost the weight.

I actually sat across from her at lunch for over a week watching her eat her bowl of peas, amazed.

I would rather – no, not starve - be fat. Let’s face it, I don’t have the fortitude to starve, but I can afford to buy bigger clothes.

I grew up in household relatively similar to that of the President and the First Lady in that we were forced to eat a little bit of everything on the table, and were not allowed seconds until we had cleared our plate.

I clearly remember the last time this rule applied to me. It was the time my parents forced me to eat my peas and I promptly threw up all over.

I clearly remember this, but I am not sure it actually happened. What I am sure of – forcing someone to eat something they don’t like might have dire consequences for all involved.

As a writer, I have been trained to be careful to use an appropriate metaphor for the situation. I worry that President Obama has not had this training in choosing one’s metaphor carefully. I worry that by encouraging everyone to eat their peas so we can get closer to a balanced budget to carry us through the next few years he may actually make someone gag then make someone have to clean up an unintended mess.

I would have suggested that everyone put some elbow grease behind the efforts to compromise. Or maybe that everyone should give an inch rather than take a mile.

Maybe I would have suggested that we “go big or go home.”

It amazes me - all the people in government suggesting that government be smaller, but none of these people resign from their jobs, or even do their jobs for free since many politicians are millionaires a few times over.

So, yes, I think they should go big – as in fix the big problems with big solutions – or go home. Showing your weiner shouldn’t be the only reason a person has to resign from government. Having your cake and eating it too should be reason enough.

I will not be eating peas anytime soon, thank you Mr. President. I will be ready and willing to make sacrifices – in my tax bracket that means paying more taxes – in order to help the greater good.

No good can come from forcing people to eat what they don’t like.

On the other hand, at the ripe old age of 26, I wondered what cottage cheese tasted like. A dear friend convinced me to try it, of my own free will, and lo and behold, I liked it. I really liked it, especially with pork and beans drizzled over the top or with barbeque potatoe chips .

We maybe should try something that looks disqusting, like curdled milk. Who knows, it just might be the ticket, the golden ticket.

This week I will pass the peas to my neighbor.

July 11. 2011

I believe that we are all connected on some level, uh, like the karma level.

But I also believe that we all have more in common than we think. For instance, I have never met anyone who doesn’t like music. Never.

I remember a child musician from Cuba on Sixty Minutes describing music as “the voice of God.”

Yeah, I think that pretty much sums it up.

Although, I’m afraid there are a few of us who are tone deaf. You know who you are. Those of you who like “music” I don’t like.

Early in my teaching career I was invited to a Country music (oxymoron?) concert by my colleagues. I told them, “I would rather be home throwing up than listen to country music.” It got a good laugh. I was never invited again.

My husband didn’t like country music when we met and married. I have these strange rules about who I can be friends with, let alone be married to, and when I was younger, people who liked country music was a dis-qualifier. Well, over the years, hubby has acquired a taste for country, and keeps buying me country albums, convinced that if I just listen to the right band singing about their drunk escapades with their dead dog while they are lovin’ America, I will like it.

It’s sweet how hopeful he is after all these years. It’s good I’ve relaxed my rules about friendship and marriage over the years.

Sure, I do listen to some cross over bands. Train is very close to country, as is Counting Crows. But cross overs are not the same. It’s like they scraped off the chocolate frosting on a white cake and only ate that. Now that is a good idea.

So, I do think we are all connected in our need for music. I also believe music is the voice of God or beauty or whatever you want to call that pulsing energy which brings us all to moments of bliss. But, I do think that we are each tuned to a different frequency. And that is what makes the world a chaotic, beautiful, synergistic experience.

What is music to my ears may be cacophony to yours. I just try to remember that we are all connected and take pleasure in my free will, my ability to change the station, to smile politely when I open yet another CD of country music while my husband exclaims, “You’ll like this one, trust me,” and my choice to see how we are each alike rather than dwell on our differences.

 This week I will focus on what connects us rather than what separates us.

July 4, 2011

I am a professed feminist! Not the bra-burning kind because I need support in all the right places.

Which means, I suppose, that I am not a hardcore feminist.

One day at work, we were moving banquet tables. I folded them up and scooted them to along the wall and waited patiently for someone to help me load them in the truck. Someone showed up, my boss who was my age and, I believed, in worse shape than I. She walked past me, picked up a table by herself and put it in the truck by herself.

“Oh, I guess I didn’t need to wait for you…” I said as I gingerly attempted the same, successfully. Who knew after over 20 years of bossing my man around I could still move large and somewhat heavy objects.

I also rarely open doors for myself. I conveniently have my hands full or hover ever-so-slightly until the other person reaches the door before me then I glide right through. I know this about myself, and catch myself doing it even after swearing off such behavior, which leads me to rushing in front of the other person, pushing the door when I should be pulling, then bumping into the other person while I pull and stepping on their feet. The grand finale? I open the door and wave my hand in the doorway, pronouncing, “After you.”

I rarely get thanked for such behavior. Mostly I get baffled stares.

But I do enjoy my independence. I have been on vacation for two weeks and have cooked no meals. Not that cooking means a lack of independence, but it is a typical female behavior which I don’t enjoy and am independent from.

So, I suppose my independence is rather convenient. I am independent when it suits me, like when I’m deciding how to spend my money, and my husband’s. But I am rather dependent when the dog has thrown up in the middle of the living room.

I used to tell people that I have my strengths and I have surrounded myself with others who make up for my weaknesses. Except, I think I may have cultivated certain weaknesses to avoid doing things I don’t like.

At a potluck, a friend was exclaiming how great a dish was.

“Who made this?”

“I did,” I told her thinking she would tell me how much she liked it and then maybe even suggest to others they might want to try it. Instead I spent the rest of the evening hearing her tell everyone, “Diane made this and it’s so good.”

Finally I reminded her, “I can hear you. You don’t have to act so surprised.”

But, I guess I brought that on myself. When Susan Boyle sang, no one expected recluse-cat woman to have a voice.

Still, recently we had several parties and I watched politely as the big strong men moved the tables. I knew I was strong enough to move them. I was more afraid of breaking a nail.

This week I will relish my independence from those chores I find distasteful.

June 26,2011

I was aschool teacher for 18 years. When I decided to leave the classroom, it had little to do with Principal Artigue’s observation: “I could hear you from across campus.”

I stared at him, befuddled. Was he complimenting me or criticizing?

“Yeah, isn’t it great!” I responded as I breezed into class.

No, I left teaching because I was bossing around the bagger at the grocery store. Teaching middle school had made me, well, assertive about how I wanted things done. But this was going overboard.

So, it wasn’t until I was chatting with my colleagues at the county office of education and one of them shushed me that I realized, my voice was on full-volume even when speaking.

It was been five years since I left the classroom and I have re-calibrated the volume on my voice to normal conversation volume.

Unfortunately, my ears have recalibrated too. They expect soft tones and soothing volumes. This has nothing to do with my age or the years of dancing next to speakers at dance clubs or listening to earphones on full blast. It was to do with my evolving sensibilities. I have learned to like the more subtle things in life.

I also am a bit hard of hearing. It has nothing to do with my age, but probably lots to do with the rest of the above list. So when spoken to in a subtle tone, I only catch half of what you say.

I have found that this is fine, because most people really only want you to smile, nod, and laugh when they laugh when they are talking to you and I am great at that.

Unless the person talking to you is your husband, who happens to be not just a classroom teacher, but a coach.

The smiling and nodding and laughing thing does work with him when he’s talking baseball or gambling or boating. Except, because he is sitting so extremely close and is so incredibly loud, mostly I am grimacing.

“Turn down your voice,” I ask politely.

“More ….more… more… good. Now what were you saying?”

I am beginning to wonder if my “assertiveness” had less to do with bossing around eighth graders and more to do with my how dizzy I am because the world is revolving around me and what I expect from it.

Lucky for me, like attracts like.

“You’re awfully loud,” I told my husband while we were out to dinner.

“I know, isn’t it great,” he responded with gusto.

This week I will recognize that close and loud often travel as companions.

June 19, 2011

Guest Blogger, LeAnn, shares a bit about herself:

 For 10 years,  I wrote for a school and city newspaper, and wanted to be a rock journalist.  I spent a lot of weekends in Hollywood, interviewing and seeing upcoming rock bands, until I took a Literature class in college that I loved.  After this, I changed my major to English Literature and read a lot.  When I graduated, I got a job as an English teacher, which I had for 10 years.  I considered myself super-lucky to get a job as a Creative Writing teacher at a high school because I had brilliant students (for the most part- ha!) and was proud to be the advisor for the school’s literary magazine, which earned high praise.  Since staying home with my two daughters, I’ve subbed a lot, ran several creative writing clubs and classes, and keep writing for myself.  Now that my girls are older, I’ve taken some UC Extension Writing courses, have joined a writing critique group, and will try to publish a novel I’ve been working on for 20 years…

                For many reasons, I am a clutter-y person.  I love to save and see memories. My life coach said I have to create chaos for myself when there is none because that is the environment I grew up used to – I would rather read and write than clean. Plus, I have no idea how to organize my crap. 

I read the articles about filing, about keeping memories in my head instead yada, yada, yada, but it doesn’t help.  And I do want to clarify that I’m not a dirty person.  There are no crumbs or dirty laundry lying around my house- there are papers and mementos and kid artwork and girl scout forms and – you get the point.  So, through the years, I’ve learned to put stuff I need to deal with immediately in my calendar but then that starts overflowing and so I make the usual pile on the dining room table and then company is coming so I hide that stuff in a box in a closet so I can clean the surface of my table, living room and visible house.  My family and I have a joke – we refer to our “table” or “house”  in quotes because too often they are virtually unusable as a table or even house, unless a house is meant to hold clutter.  Isn’t this embarrassing?

                Well, I was having a major spring cleaning moment one weekend because I was hosting my sister’s baby shower.  I frequently volunteer to host events or parties because this is the only time I clear up all the clutter.  These “moments” are not enjoyable – I am more manic than usual and go around our house like a crazy momma with five heads and ten hands.  Why can’t I mop the kitchen floor, straighten up my closet, and assign the girls tasks to do with follow up supervision all in the same three minutes of time, after all? 

                So, in the middle of all of this, my hubby Dave (who deserves a medal of honor, by the way) sat me down and made me eat, take a breath, think things through, when I have my sanity-saving idea.  By this time, I had gotten the clutter that stands between my normal living standard and my standard of a perfectly clean house to one pile of stuff in the corner of the dining room when I noticed that if this one pile was gone, I could finish polishing the wood floor and pretend that my house was clean inside and out.  Yes, I was enabling myself. 

The last time we had a big party, I hid everything in my RV and that worked well for a long time.  My family referred to the RV as my clutter office. But, wouldn’t you know it, one of the shower attendees was coming from out of town and had to stay in the RV.  Yikes!  I then recognized the downside of hiding crap in a place that is supposed to be usable – there will eventually come a time when  it all had to be dealt with.

                Panicky, I told Dave that if he would buy me a big storage box that happened to be on sale at Target, it could temporarily house the offending pile and bring me peace of mind, end the cleaning frenzy taking over our abode, and restore our marital tranquility.   He was skeptical but he did it because who doesn’t want marital tranquility?!?  He was probably wondering, “How will this large box be different than the several smaller boxes that are full of stuff in the attic, carriage house and every closet in the house?” Believe me, I would have thought the same thing, if I hadn’t been temporarily incapacitated by my need to clean.

I’ve often thought that all the boxes full of stuff could be thrown away or set on fire with no consequences whatsoever, but it’s not actually true.  Just last week, I had to find a creative writing assignment I used 12 years ago in the box upstairs so I could use it in a class I was subbing.   Yesterday, I found a paper my daughter needed for girl scouts on the right side of the 3^rd box that was being temporarily stored in the RV, and I could go on and on with examples  because, this is the really amazing thing… even though I have lots of stuff in lots of different places,  I know what’s where.  With time, I can find any picture, video, paper  that anyone needs.  It’s freaky and frightening… it really is.

                After putting everything in the box that Dave bought and finishing the inside cleaning, my house looked great.  Of course, the family knows that the house will stay like this until the party and then slowly slide into chaos again.  But, it’s a good chaos. I console myself knowing that our girls are creative and imaginative because I focus on them and family “museum” walls and life adventures more than cleaning my house and throwing everything out. 

I didn’t leave the working world to be a maid… I left teaching to be a mom who taught my own kids and this involves a lot of paperwork and pictures and plans and, well, stuff. 

I thanked Dave for my box and told him when stuff is “outta sight, outta mind”, it makes me so happy.  When it dawns on me that “osom” can be phonetically pronounced as awesome. 

How appropriate.

Suddenly, I had an OSOM/awesome box.

 Three months later, it still houses various family treasures outside and outta sight for me.  I say I’ll clean it out this summer to use it for swimming pool storage instead, but who knows?  Just last week I dug out a PTA roster from and yesterday I retrieved a paper needed for my dog’s registration. Yes, it’s in a box stored in the backyard, but I know exactly where everything is.

 Who says a clutter-y person can’t be efficient? 

This Week I will rejoice in my efficient clutter.