Work. Not Work.
Spring was late this year; the garden’s not going to have time to fill in properly, I told myself. The instructions to plant things 10 inches apart can’t possibly take into consideration this heavy, clay soil, I told myself.
She really just wanted to play in the dirt, you’re saying to yourself.
Yep.
Last Sunday, I decided my place needed a few more flowers. And so, like an indulgent granny, I slipped myself a 20 and drove back to the local nursery for the third (maybe fourth?) time this year. Returned home and spent the entire day outside. Planting, weeding, fertilizing, moving this plant here and that plant there, wheeling around the wheel barrow, and generally just futzing around in a state of dippy bliss.
Smiles relax every worry line. I hum involuntarily. I stop and smell roses, literally. When I’m out there in the garden, it’s like someone turns on the auto focus. Or turns down the gravity. Or gives me a peek behind stage. And in that little glimpse of Real, I am as certain as Mary Poppins, as graceful as Ginger Rogers, as wise as Obi-Wan, as content as Baloo.
All is well.
I was finishing up with the watering as one of my neighbors was bringing his garbage to the opposite curb. “You’re working too hard,” he called out.
What went through my mind was, Work?! This isn’t work! Sitting at a desk is work. Editing a novel is work. An old dog learning the tricks of publishing is work. Drying dishes is work. Folding laundry is work. Raising cage-free dust bunnies is work. Grocery shopping is work. Driving in the South Hills of Pittsburgh is work. Scooping the litter box is work. But this? This is lovely. This is playtime.
This is filthy, sweaty, smelly, sunburnt, life-preserving awesome!
Ginger Rogers wanted to do a rousing number with lots of brass and some Busby Berkeley chorus girl flower arrangements. But I just smile-chuckle-nod-waved because that’s how you communicate in a brief, holler-across-the-street sort of way. And he was already heading back inside anyway.
And now, I’m back in the midst of the work week. As I look over my to-do list here at my desk, which faces the window, which overlooks the front garden, I . . . uh . . . you know? I think I see some weeds. Maybe I should get out there and check on that.
Growing Older but Not Up
Today, I took this T-shirt out of the dryer and realized it was ready for the rag pile. Overdue. Long overdue.
Frayed edges. Holes. Paint stains. Discoloration. Fading. So worn in places that it’s practically see-through. No self-respecting person would keep this shirt. No sane person would think twice about this shirt. No normal person would write a blog about this shirt.
But then.
I bought this shirt for five bucks at a Jimmy Buffett concert. Got it from one of those wily parking lot guys. Yeah, I buy unlicensed apparel while keeping an eye out for security. Do you think me a scallywag? Yo ho!
As it turns out, this five-buck shirt was an exceptional bargain. Before shoving this tattered bit of cotton into the rag pile, I checked the date.
1998. Seventeen years ago. Jinkies!
1998 was the Don’t Stop the Carnival tour. Day before the concert, I got to shake Jimmy Buffett’s hand on 6th Avenue in downtown Pittsburgh. (But that’s another story.)
Nine. Teen. Nine. Tee. Eight. I was in my 30s. My favorite decade. Every happy possibility lay ahead. The 9 to 5 was a temporary gig. Working in advertising seemed fun. Happy Hours lasted as long as the work day. I played volleyball three or four times a week and could dive and roll across a volleyball court with less effort than it now takes me to stand up when it’s my turn to bowl. I drove a Mustang. I had a great hair cut and a closet full of high heeled shoes. I went sleeveless.
{Now, I’m not saying the present isn’t fun. But, kiddos, there ain’t no fun like being in your 20s and 30s fun. Never has been. Never will be. Live it up.}
In 1998, Buffett tickets were cheap, and it didn’t take 14 hours to drive the last 50 feet into (or out of) Star Lake. The eccentric tradition of a Buffett concert had not yet attracted mainstream attention. Hawaiian shirts, mini beaches, and brilliantly rigged blenders had not yet been replaced with a guy in a thong doing keg stands, busloads of one-up-man-ship, and teenage boys saying, “Show us your tits.” People didn’t steal other people’s party decorations. And drunken shenanigans had not transmuted into people throwing up and even urinating amidst the lawn seating. (Directly behind us. On a hillside sloping down.)
If I could snap my fingers and be there again (with a shade tree, a bottle of Captain Morgan, a bottle of idiot repellant, and a private driveway) I’d be there in a snap. Otherwise, these days, I don’t much feel like going to see Buffett in anything less than a time machine.
But I have been there. And I have done that. I haven’t always been a middle-aged fuddy duddy. The shirt is proof.
Oh, ratty old shirt. You’re a raggedy old life preserver. Threadbare as my dreams. As worn as an over-dramatic analogy. I should have put you in the rag pile. But, I have, apparently, folded you with care and carried you upstairs in the laundry basket.
So I guess I’ll put you in the drawer and keep you a bit longer. Who knows? Tomorrow, I might even show you my tits.
Happy Easter!
Decorating Easter eggs, one of my favorite traditions. This year I tried “egg-white decopage,” with thanks to instructions from La Receta de la Felicidad blog. This is one of those things that looks crafty or artsy but is ridiculously simple. All you need are egg whites (in lieu of decopage glue), paper napkins with a pretty pattern, and a small paint brush. Voila. Fun and easy. The solid-color eggs were dyed with the good ol’ Paas kit. Honestly, I think the decopage eggs were easier and faster, especially considering the following.
A Few Thoughts on the Paas Kit:
• How come if you buy the kit that comes with the cups, it includes 5 cups, but every Paas kit you buy after that comes with 6 color tablets?
• Why is the color of the dye tablet different from the color of the dye it creates?
• How long does it take for a dye tablet to dissolve in a Tablespoon of vinegar? (Shy of an eon; longer than it takes to get to the center of a TootsiePop.)
• Based on progression to date, I predict that next year, the egg dipper contraption will be made out of leftover Christmas tree tinsel.
• Didn’t you used to have to boil the water? I swear I thought you had to boil the water.
• Where does the magic crayon get it powers?
• Wait a minute. Isn’t this just a lump of wax shaped like a crayon? I paid extra for this?
• Do the manufacturers of the Paas kit think that there are people out there in the world who, while trying to dye eggs with children in a kitchen recently cleaned for company, while dealing with drips and spills, while refereeing who gets to use the crappy stickers, while struggling against the growing ennui triggered by the magic crayon’s lack of enchantment, find themselves thinking, “Oh, if only there was a family activity we could do right now, something tedious and time-consuming that would require the use of needle and thread. Oh, I know! Let’s have ‘Fun Time with Silly Circles’! (i.e., make a necklace from soggy, ragged bits of cardboard perforated on the back of the Paas box).”
• They have actually titled it “Fun Time with Silly Circles.” (In Spanish, Diversion con Circulos Bobos.)
• Has anyone ever used any of the “extras” like the Eggarounds or the “egg stands” that won’t hold an egg or the “drying tray” (back of the box minus Silly Circles) that is too shallow to hold an egg? Couldn’t they just skip all that crap and have a decent egg dipper?
• Lastly, and perhaps the winning sentence on a box crammed to capacity with superfluous text: On the front of the box, beneath the cover art, there is fine print that notes: “Enlarged to show detail.” While I appreciate their honesty, I am curious to know which part of the scene they are referring to. Is it the bunny in overalls? The duck who is just about to dunk an egg into a hot tub full of dye? Or, do you think they are referring to the egg pals with their big smiles and raised eyebrows? Which of these is actually smaller — in real life? I may never know.
Happy Easter, everybody.
Dear Peter Jackson
Dear Peter Jackson,
Have you ever read the book by J.R.R. Tolkein called The Hobbit?
With your imagination, vision, and love of the genre, I bet you could turn it into a wonderful movie.
I know you just recently finished some preposterous video game, CGI experimental something-or-other that turned out rather dumbfoundingly ridiculous. But, hey, at least people paid three times to see it! So, I’m thinking, you should have plenty of money to do something wonderful with The Hobbit.
Relatively, it wouldn’t take you very long. It’s a short book, under 300 pages. (I re-read it yesterday in a few hours.) So, it could never be a trilogy, but it’s a charming tale.
It’s an adventure story, with villains and good guys and magic and talking animals. It’s not another Lord of the Rings. Galadriel isn’t in it. Saruman isn’t in it. Legolas isn’t in it. Michael Myers isn’t in it. Aragorn isn’t born yet. Gandalf hasn’t yet met Radagast. Sauron hasn’t revealed himself. There’s no slapstick cross-dressing.
There is a stubborn and proud (but kindhearted and quite sane) dwarf named Thorin. And, most important, there’s this little fellow in his 50s? He’s the lead. His name is Bilbo. He’s not as fierce as a dwarf or as experienced as Gandalf . . . but, well, that’s kind of the point.
Oh! Bilbo is a thief! That should appeal to you, right? haha jk
Consider it for your next project: The Hobbit. It’s a clever, enchanting tale about courage and luck and friendship.
It’s about not sitting back and getting too comfortable as one gets older. It’s about surrounding yourself with the right people. It’s about stepping outside your comfort zone while still being true to who you are. It’s about doing what’s right even when you are very tired, very stressed, and very lost. It’s about the importance of treating your fellow man fairly.
It also demonstrates how much a creature will begin to stink if he lies around for too long on big piles of gold.
So, okay, it’s called The Hobbit. You should read it.
I Decided Not to Get a Tree This Year
Christmas is easier when you’re a kid. Naughty and nice is pretty uncomplicated. The fondest desires of your heart fit in a short letter. Reindeer can fly. And, after your Dad purchases, carries, and puts up the tree, you hang ornaments on it.
As an adult, Christmas can be a bit more complicated. There’s a whole lot of extra stuff to do in December—in addition to getting through a month with a balanced bank account, food in the ‘fridge, and pants on whenever you leave the house.
It’s not that grown-ups dislike Christmas. It’s just that, as you get older, you gain a better understanding of the villainous perspective. In the midst of shopping, baking, greeting cards, get-togethers, grab bag coordination, extreme calendar juggling, extension cord quests, and multiple runs to the state store, it’s possible to see a certain allure to the idea of tossing it all off Mt. Crumpit.
For me, when all else fails, Christmas comes when I’m decorating the tree. It’s the first time I play Christmas carols, the perfect soundtrack for reviewing ornaments. Little balls of time travel wrapped in tissue. I smile. I tear up. I handle bits of molded plastic as if they were Faberge eggs. It’s about the only time I sing something besides Happy Birthday. And it sometimes leads to dancing.
Putting up the tree is the most Christmasy thing I know. It’s more Christmasy than Christmas Day. It’s more moving than a church service. It’s transformative. It’s peaceful. It’s magic.
If that kid from Polar Express came in and shook the bell while I was decorating my tree, I would absolutely hear it jingle.
So, it may come as a surprise to hear that, this year, I decided not to get a tree. It seemed the sane thing. I was feeling overwhelmed. I was running out of time. And, it’s silly really, for me to go through all of that effort when, most years, I’m the only one who even sees my tree. (Really, who would even know if I decided to not get a tree?)
And, so, last week, being a mature adult who knows how to prioritize and get things done, I decided not to get a tree. And I felt relieved. And kind of sad.
And I told a good friend, “I’m not getting a tree.” And then, a bit surprised and a little annoyed, I heard myself add, “Well, maybe. I’m not sure. I might get a tree.”
And I decided to get a tree.
Then I wrenched my knee. There was no way I’d be able to get up and down the attic steps 432 times, let alone drag and lift a tree into the stand. And, so, last week, I decided not to get a tree. And I felt relieved. And kind of sad. And kind of old.
Then I heard my nephew was coming for a visit, and I knew: I have to have a tree! But the week got crazy. And windows of opportunity kept slipping shut. And, all of the sudden, the debate was over. Time was up. I was kind of stunned, really, but, at that point, I could allow that it wasn’t my decision. There simply wasn’t time left.
And so, yesterday, I sadly, glumly, sullenly, horribly, despairingly, finally decided that I would not get a tree this year.
I left the house with a pretty long to-do list. By late in the day, I had finished off the Christmas shopping, stocking stuffers included, and met a friend for lunch. The packages that had to be mailed were at the Post Office. Groceries for cookie baking and various get-togethers were in the trunk. All I had left to do was deposit checks, which I had been carrying around in my purse — endorsed! — for weeks. Walking into that bank felt like breaking the tape at the end of a very long marathon. Not that I have any idea what running a marathon actually feels like, but I was feeling like I might just make it through the holidays. I felt very grown-up and responsible and on top of things. I slipped the checks — which would cover the mortgage, car, lights, etc. — to the teller. She said, “Okay, you’re all set to deposit. Do you want anything back?” The answer was No.
But, then. I decided to get a tree.
Good luck, everyone. I hope you find your own life-preserving moment when it all comes back to you.
Dear Younger Self
I’d like to invent a time machine and take this note back to 1980. I would sneak into Shaler Area High School and put it in my locker. (Believe it or not, I still know the combination.)
Dear Younger Self,
There are so many things I wish I could tell you, but a blog can’t be overly long. (Oh, yeah, you’ll have a blog someday. And you write it in your own house, using a thing called a computer!) Anyway I hope this helps you survive the sucking sucktacular suck-fest that is your senior year of high school.
Hang in there, Weirdo!
Trust me. The things that make you different are the things that make you cool. Or, if they don’t make you cool exactly, they make you you, and when you figure that out, cool doesn’t matter.
Sail on!
If rough winds throw you off course, it only means you’re moving in a new direction. Might be a worse one, might be a better one. You won’t know for a while. No matter. The world is round. Sail on.
Sh*t Happens
Walk past it. Work around it. Light it on fire, ring a doorbell, and run. Just don’t carry it with you.
The Cute Boy
One sunny day, about five years after you’ve graduated from Shaler, you’ll run into The Cute Boy. You’ll be sweaty and wearing the ugliest outfit you’ll ever wear (an orange and brown polyester uniform), so maybe work on your sparkling conversation skills? Or learn how to flirt? Try not to be as dorky as your outfit.
F*** Sports
You have 20-plus years of ridiculously awesome fun volleyball in your future with some of the best people you will ever meet in your lifetime. When the strike ends, walk away from high school sports.
My recommended exit line is a phrase you don’t use. (Yet.)
It’s a Trap!
There are gazillions of jobs that exist in the world that may or may not correlate to knowing something about algebra, English lit, the dissection of small dead animals, and/or murder ball. Aptitude tests are, at best, useless; at worst, perilous confusion.
I can’t remember if they were mandatory. If not, skip them. If so, give crazy answers. Then, go do what you love.
Back-up Plan
I know that you are going to be a wife and mother and all that and it will be fabulous and happy with a great guy who loves you, but, just in case, um, crazy talk, haha, maybe consider having a back-up plan of something you might enjoy doing for a living for, oh, say, 30 or 40 years. No, no, don’t worry. I’m just messing with you, hahahaha.
But, um, just in case.
Show Up
Many years from now, late in November, fourteen years into a new millenium, there’s going to be a Shaler get-together called a Show Up. You won’t be sure you want to go. You’ll worry you don’t really have much to show for having been out in the world doing stuff for over 30 years. You don’t really like the idea of a room full of strangers. You dread the possibility of ending up standing in a corner by yourself, feeling awkward and socially inept. You’re afraid there just might be giant flashing spotlights and a monster truck announcer at the front door who will grab a microphone and yell, “Older! Fatter! Grayer! And stillllllll without a date to the prom — iiiiiiiit’s Beth!” as you walk into the bar.
Go to the party. Show up. You’ll have a blast. (There’s no announcer.)
Yes, young self, it’s true, even when you’re a middle-aged grown-up, there’ll be times when you have to find a way to be brave.
But, don’t worry, by then, you’ll be old enough to buy vodka.
Eye Carumba
I need new glasses. But I am bad at picking out frames.
No, really, I am. A very dear friend said so behind my back shortly after I got to school wearing glasses for the very first time in my life. I doubt she reads my blog. But, if so, I should say, Hey, no hard feelings and I’m just being funny when I mention that I heard what you said about my glasses and how everybody laughed at what you said even though I never told you that I knew. So, please don’t worry that you did permanent damage to my self-esteem or gave me trust issues. I mean, it was 30-some years ago, right? And as a confident, wise woman, I am, pfft, so over it. It totally does not come back to haunt me every time I need to get new glasses. Really.
So, anyway, for some reason, I always wait until it’s an absolute necessity before going to get new glasses. The current pair has one fogged lens, one scratched lens, and a broken nose guard. I would go back to my even-older pair if I could only ever manage to have the right sort of super glue and all of the pieces in the same place at the same time. But I can’t count on that happening before my current vision coverage expires, so all right, I’ll go get new glasses.
I can do this.
I’ll be organized and have a positive attitude. I’ll do online research and try frames on virtually, here at my desk, so I won’t feel dorky and awkward while looking in a mirror in public to oh-so-carefully check to see if I resemble “a giant bug.” If I’m looking online, no one will say, “They look great!” when I’ve inadvertently picked out (and they have already made the lenses for) frames from the children’s section.
Okay. I have a notebook, and I’ve taken tidy little notes. I have brand names and style codes, including one pair with a color and a shape that, dare I say, actually look kind of fabulous?
Oh, chair dance and an exclamation of Awesome! I love these glasses! That was easy! All I have to do now is call and make an appointment.
Ahem.
Republicans are not the problem; democrats are not the problem; doctors are not the problem; insurance companies are not the problem. The problem with navigating health insurance coverage of any kind is a complete and utter lack of synchronization. (And really bad web design.)
7,302 windows open in the browser and 3 hours later . . . I remain mostly baffled as to which company would accept my insurance, where the doctors listed by my insurance company actually do their work, what services are offered where, and whether or not anyone who accepts my insurance also carries those groovy frames that I liked so much.
So, I thought, “Well, maybe I should just go back to the store where I got my last pair.”
Sure, I went in there to get frames repaired, and they said I had to have a full eye exam first. Sure, after the exam, they said I needed a new prescription (which I still don’t like as much as the old one) and I said I wanted the new lenses put into the old frames, and they said that was impossible. Sure, they misadjusted my new frames so badly that I had crippling headaches for days. Sure, they talked me into restocking on contacts, even though I didn’t need them. And, sure, they assured me that they were experts on insurance coverage and that my contacts wouldn’t cost me a dime . . . until they called back a few weeks later to say, “You owe us hundreds of dollars!” and “No! You can’t return contacts!” And sure, the coating they added to the lenses (which I said I didn’t want but they said was vital and mandatory) crackled and fogged over on one side and people just kind of stare for a second and then glance away as if there is nothing weird about my face.
Sure, the place where I got my last pair of glasses does not deserve repeat business . . . but . . . I know without banging my head against a wall for 3 more hours that they accept my insurance.
So, I’m all set. By tomorrow, I’ll have new glasses.
They’ll probably look ridiculous.
Peanut Butter Fishes
There is nothing quite like the smell of toast on a chilly morning. I like it better than raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. It makes me think of peanut butter fishes.
Have you ever had peanut butter fishes?
My Grampap Daugherty made them best. I believe it was his own recipe. And, by recipe, I mean something he thought up on the spur of the moment one morning long, long ago.
In the ’60s, more so than now, meals were handled almost exclusively by the womenfolk and mealtime was a structured thing: A time to behave, a time to eat your vegetables and clear your plate, a time to mind your manners, a time when it might be your turn to stop playing and come set the table.
But, sometimes, Grampap made breakfast.
It is an inexplicable, wonderful bit of magic how some memories can pop out clear and whole. My desk feels like a table cloth, and I am small and young. I can hear my brother and sister and I being rowdy and greedy and silly. I can hear my grandfather’s chuckle. I smell toast. Grampap is making us peanut butter fishes. And we are gobbling them up.
RECIPE FOR PEANUT BUTTER FISHES
Make toast. Spread peanut butter on toast. Cut once horizontally and multiple times vertically. 
We’d yell for more. And he’d make more. I think he would have made peanut butter fishes for us all day long.
It wasn’t that we loved toast. Or fish. And I seriously doubt that peanut butter tastes good on any sort of fish except the imaginary ones. The wonderful thing about peanut butter fishes was the novelty of having our grandfather do the cooking. It was a break from the rules, a diversion from the norm. It was silly and fun and joyful and a thing we can only fully understand in retrospect: those glimpses of grown-ups acting like kids.
Being a grown-up isn’t easy. Sure you choose your own bed time and you can drive a car and you can kiss a boy without getting into great big trouble with the kindergarten teacher. But you have to pay taxes and buy groceries and clean an entire house. You don’t get three months off every summer. There is no Santa. The homework is a lot more complicated. Your allowance is, relatively, smaller. Your stresses are bigger. You have to cut grass and rake leaves and shovel snow. And you still have to get a bath and brush your teeth every day.
With all of that going on, some days, it can be hard to get out of bed. Some days, you wake up feeling tired and defeated and overwhelmed by grown-up life. And you just know it’s going to be a bad day.
That’s when I make peanut butter fishes for breakfast.
I can hear my Grampap chuckle. And I remember not to take it all too seriously. I smell toast. And I know everything is going to be okay.
Name 10 Books
Bless me father, for I have coveted books. And I am likely to continue to do so.
I love books. I love to read books. Sometimes I hug books. I have a fair number of books. I want more books.
You may look at my books. I may even let you touch my books. You may not borrow my books.
In short, I love books more than I hate chain letters. So having been tagged via facebook to name 10 books that stayed with me, I wanted to do it. Although, as you will see, I failed miserably at the game’s rule to “not give it much thought.”
Asking me to name books is like asking a kid in a candy store to name candy. And, like M&Ms and my hips, more than 10 have stayed with me.
I did not begin reading with Dick and Jane. I began reading with Al and Kay. Snuggled on the couch or tucked in bed, being read to is one of my very earliest memories, binding forever the concepts of love and comfort to bits of paper and board.
(i.e., Dammit, I could pick 10 books that have stayed with me since before I could even read them.)
When I was seven years old, doctors still made house calls, and I was diagnosed as “reading too much.” The word dismay was not yet in my vocabulary, but I felt its meaning. I also felt it ease when Mom and the doctor left the room without noticing the book on my nightstand.
I got better. But I was not cured.
A few years later, I had a friend over for a play date. When she asked me what we should do, I suggested “reading.”
Reading is a most excellent past time. But it is important to also interact with real people. Else, you might go through life saying dis-heave’ld when you mean to say disheveled.
Aside from vocabulary, books will expand your soul. Books can make you laugh out loud. Books can make you sigh. Books will ping your heart with truth. Books are life preservers. The good books I have read, as much as my Daugherty hair and my Schmidt nose, are a part of who I am.
I have often thought it would be a great idea to get a book journal and keep track of what I’ve read, to capture where these bits and pieces of me came from.
I wish I’d done it long ago. But I finally ordered one from amazon.com — at 2 a.m. last night when my list of 10 books was stuck firmly at 47 and I gave up for the night.
So, finally, agonizingly, and with a ridiculous amount of self-inflicted, painstaking consideration, here is my list of 10 books that have stayed with me.
The Mystery at the Lilac Inn, Carolyn Keene
A Wizard of Earthsea, Ursula K. Le Guin
Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
Illusions, Richard Bach
Touch Not the Cat, Mary Stewart
Coyote Blue, Christopher Moore
Herb & Lorna, Eric Kraft
Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury
The Shipping News, E. Annie Proulx
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
I tag Tracy D., Valerie G., and Dan T. Good luck.
Life Preservers 
The Five Stages
The Five Stages of . . . being sick and out of ginger ale.
Continue Reading April 21, 2015 at 12:40 am 1 comment