sueeeus

I find corporate buzzspeak so wearisome.  What does it actually mean?  Drives me nuts.  So, enough of that.

Today I woke up feeling happy.  Not that I don’t usually wake up happy, because I tend to be a morning person, but today I awoke in better spirits than usual.  Which is quite nice.  And to add to an already pleasant morning, BamBam (I’m thinking that I will begin referring to them as Pebbles and BamBam, assuming the peanut really is a girl!) actually woke up on his own.  Which meant that we didn’t have the normal get dressed and ready and out the door struggle. 

I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that, for the first time in I can’t remember when, I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to attend to a child or my own bladder that can no longer be ignored.  Or, perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I actually exercised yesterday.  Yes, stop the presses.  We joined a gym, and I’m loving the aqua aerobics.  Especially because the pool is full of real people with real shapes and sizes, and not super models and beach bunnies.  I feel so much more comfortable in this gym environment than I’ve ever felt in the past.  I think it’s part of why I’ve hated gyms for so many years.  The gyms I belonged to in years past tended to be filled with vain and superficial people for which the external appearance was paramount to anything.  Not my scene.  And I even looked good back then! 

Now, I don’t usually do this, but I feel compelled to share a link to an amazing talk given by an amazing woman.  My sister has written a book (and I hope she publishes it soon, because I just know it’s incredible, and want to buy a bazillion copies to send to all my friends –okay, several copies, because I don’t actually have a bazillion friends) and found this link, which she says describes some of the characters in her book.  It’s really great, because it’s science that corroborates her art.  It thrills me!  I listened to it at work — multi-tasking, of course — and ended up needing tissue to dab away tears.  It was that good.

Now, to take some of that insight and do something with it.  Translation:  I really, really, really need to tap into my right hemisphere more.  The question is, how?

Happy Birthday to Me. Look. Snow. In March. I love cherry blossoms. They’re so pretty, yet they cause so much misery. That is, to those with pollen allergies. Like me. Claritin at night, Zyrtec in the morning. Oh joy. Plus fish oil and a handful of other things. My current prenatal vitamins have a DHA supplement that leaves a horrible aftertaste. I’ll be glad when they’re gone, and I can switch back to a different prenatal vitamin.

Yes, a very exciting 43rd birthday. Up at 4:30 a.m. to attend a 4-hour class in the city, that started at 6 a.m. What kind of people set hours like that? Excruciating. We did venture out to a Chinese restaurant for dinner that was very good! The busy body loved the fish tank, and wanted to get in. He makes dining out a challenge and an adventure. Needless to say, we don’t dine out often. We could work on our parenting skills and establish some discipline. Or put it off for another day when we have more patience and energy. I know, wrong answer. Meanwhile, the wild child grows wilder still. Seriously. I AM trying to teach him to be considerate. Three year old’s, I’ve discovered, haven’t much attention span with which to work.

Daffodils are such a happy sight in spring. So cheerful. Not as cheerful when snowflakes are falling on them.

My leeks survived my garden and winter, both! I ventured into the realm of gardening last year, planted too late, and didn’t make the wisest choices for my garden box. The broccoli overpowered everything, and got infested with some gross larvae stuff from what I originally thought were pretty white butterflies or moths. They left a horrible wake, and I ended up yanking all the broccoli up and throwing it in the compost. The snap peas, string beans, and tomatoes choked out the poor leeks, but when all was said and done, I pulled them all and left the leeks for the winter. They are surprisingly hardy. This season I may just stick to herbs. And leeks.

For the lack of anything better to write about. Actually, I have 6 drafts in work, but am just not in the mood to finish them. I have other posts whirring about in my head too, but I feel more like just jotting down a few things that I find annoying word quirks for now.

• effect and affect – so many people botch the use of these words. Simply appalling, especially in published articles.
• irregardless – it’s a double negative and negates itself. Just stick with regardless. Please!
• Suzy – not that I have anything against anybody with this name, but it’s just not my name, and I don’t like it for me. I don’t know what it is about that zy, but it makes my skin hurt.
• Suzy-Q – see Suzy, above.
• Susie – forgivable if you’re either my mother or my grandmother in an Alzheimer’s moment, but otherwise, please, no.
• Sue-C – see Susie, above.
• lol – how I loathe this so-called word. Actually, I sort of loathe all things cell-phone/text messaging (and yes, I have a cell phone, so I am a hypocrite, but I use it for 33 second calls about three times a week in which I ask the Mr. if he’s able to collect the boy from daycare or if he can think of anything we need from the store, and that’s about it). I do get a kick out of the acronym ROTFLMAO, though. And I like emoticons. So go figure.
• alls – as in “alls I want is…” What’s with that extra s? Come on. I ask you.
• like – it gets inserted in everything, and has completely lost its meaning. Again, I’m a hypocrite. I mean, like, I use it all the time. Even so. Hate it. Can’t seem to stop it before it’s out of my mouth though.
• there, they’re, their – they’re NOT interchangeable. Please!
• here, hear – see there, they’re, their, above. I just saw some graffiti that said “<some name that I can’t remember> was hear.”
• Italian (EYE-talian) – why do people say this? Is there a place called EYE-taly?

That’s enough for now. Surely I can come up with something more cheerful, enlightening, or healing to blog about. Perhaps I need to kick up the Zoloft dosage a bit, no?

Only I’ve just now thought of some word quirks in which I have manifested myself as an idiot.

• awry – I didn’t know it was pronounced \É™-ˈrÄ«\ until I heard it used in The Division Bell album (Pink Floyd). Which was in the 90’s. When I was in my 30’s. So.
  
• segue – I didn’t know how to pronounce it until I heard it grossly overused during some seminar (\ˈse-(ËŒ)gwā, ˈsā-\) a few years ago.

Which leads me to recall other manifestations of idiocy.

• geographical faux pas – What? Alaska and Hawaii are not next to each other? They look that way on all the US maps I’ve seen. (If geography was of any interest to me, I might have taken a moment to consider the differing climates between Alaska and Hawaii, and figured out their flat map representation was just that, a representation. Alas, that inclination never occurred to me until I was quite soundly into adulthood.) And Georgia is a coastal state? I embarrassed myself last weekend whilst playing Pictionary. I put Georgia in the generally south-eastern region, but not on a coast.

Which leads me to ponder the origins of one’s interests. Why do I have little to no interest in geography, history, and a multitude of other things? They are interesting. Just not enough for me to immerse myself in.

So what does interest me? Family. Friends. Children. Words. Language. Art. Beauty. Design. I’m glad I took a moment to think of these things. I was beginning to suspect I was even more woefully dull than I had ever previously imagined!

Sometimes I wonder if I might have been Irish in a former life.   Not that I believe in past lives.  I don’t disbelieve it, but it’s just one of those things that I don’t know for certain, one way or another, so I don’t hold an opinion.  The Irish thing…  It’s hard to explain.  Sort of a sense of home and understanding or a kinship of sorts.  Who knows   Maybe I was just hormonal when I took in some Irish tale years ago, and it made such a deep and lasting impact within my mind that it got tangled up with bonafide memories and impressions. 

In a similar manner, I sometimes wonder if I had tribal origins in another past life.  There are times when I have such a strong yearning for that simple tribal life in which one lives to survive.  There is no eight-to-five slogging through a day job followed by a mad frenzy to fit life into the  remaining  hours before doing it all over again.  There is just life.  Just survival.  One’s work makes sense.  Food, water, shelter.  The basic necessities of life.  One lives from day to day to meet these needs.  Somehow there seems to be meaning in this.  There is no television.  There are no shopping malls.  At the end of the day, they rest.  I don’t suppose it’s all that different from the modern life, but the meaning can sometimes be so elusive.  Where is the sense of content   I think that might be more of what I’m truly yearning. 

I must also take care not to romanticize these tribal yearnings, and acknowledge the savage side.  It’s not idyllic.  What of the uprisings and slaughter   People have been killing people since the dawn of time, with little or no provocation or grounds.  It’s senseless.  So senseless.

MG manages the movie queue.  We’ve seen three difficult films recently.  Blood Diamond, the Constant Gardener, and Syriana.  All films depicting the tragic plight of people.  It’s hard to see things like this, in which the films are based on true historical events.  It’ s hard to acknowledge the plight of people, and feel helpless as to what to do.  I was convinced I  should adopt an orphan, and pored through the internet reading about orphan adoptions.  It was so sobering.  It’s hard to take in all the pain and need that there is in the world, and know that there is very little I can do about it.  It’s hard to know what, if anything, I can or should do.  Perhaps one day I will adopt a child to grow up with my Boo Boy. 

I pondered these things heavily for several days, filled with anxiety and anguish.  In a moment of deep anxiety I cast my eyes about my home, and noticed my wilting violets, which sparked a stream of thoughts that jolted me back to reality.   Wilting violets, wilting body.  How qualified am I to reach out and try to tend the world’s garden when I neglect the care of my own body, my own home, my own garden  

I have work to do, here and now.  That is what I should be doing. 

Wake up, girl.

I distinctly remember when my own mother was 42, and how old I thought she was. She had announced her 9th pregnancy and I remember being so upset with her for being so irresponsible, bringing another child into the world and at that age. I was 17, graduating from high school and on my way to university, and was certain that I was quite adult enough to know and say these things. How awful of me, and that phrase ‘never say never’ has so many times reared its head and forced me to swallow an ounce or two of pride. Now I’m 42. I don’t feel anything like the age I projected on my mother, all those years ago.

We had a long weekend trip to Reno which turned out to be fun, apart from the cacophany of slot machines and persistent wafting cigarette smoke. There is a pretty river a few blocks from the hotel with a very nice walking path. We had all four seasons in just one weekend – sun, wind, rain, and snow. I gambled 20 cents in a penny slot machine and decided it was an entirely stupid waste of time. I am not a gambler at heart, and just. don’t. get. it. At the airport MG plugged a $5 bill into a machine for me, to increase the thrill, you know. That took all of two minutes to disappear. The wheel of fortune granted me some winnings, but quickly took them right back. The inlaws, self-labelled casino experts, explain that you don’t win big unless you play big. That’s why the front street is lined with pawn shops bursting with merchandise that people trade for that one next chance to make it big. That’s why those multi-bazillion-dollar casino monstrosities are dripping with stained glass masterpieces, fountains, and other architectural details. There are so many more losers than winners, but that bait certainly draws many. Granted, it would feel good to put down a bet and walk away with a bundle, but the flip side isn’t appealing at all. I’m a firm believer in earning. Work. Get paid. It makes sense. There’s balance. Equilibrium in the universe. The in-laws are some of those people who park themselves in front of a slot machine and push that button for hours on end. They seem to eventually ‘win’. They have these ‘comps’ — credits that accrue with each push of the button, that can be redeemed for casino amenities such as room and board. Somehow they were able to stay in a whirlpool tub suite, the kind you see in movies, and treat us to several lush meals, and walk away from the entire weekend with a net payment of less than a hundred dollars. They kept insisting ‘it’s all free’ and I just couldn’t grasp it. My mind whirls over the amount of money they had to have plugged into those machines in order to accrue that many ‘comps’. They insist that they walk away in the plus, but I just can’t quite believe it. We walked away from that weekend with a net minus of about a thousand dollars, after airfare and hotel. They shake their heads at me, because I don’t take those big risks. But I just don’t have it in me. And thank GOD, neither does MG. He did spend several hours in the casino, hanging out with his brother and sometimes playing on his brother’s card. When he came back to the hotel room, he told me he’d lost $400. I was a bit sick over that. We had a $100 mad money budget, for the whole weekend. I didn’t rail, though. We were there to visit his brother – Brother Gadget (BG). BG has recently recovered from cancer, and he’s only 44. We are all grateful that he’s alive and with us. His hair is growing back and he’s putting on a little weight, but he’s still very weak and very thin. MG was gambling on BG’s card, after losing his $100, and BG didn’t seem to mind a bit that MG had lost $300 of his. He kept saying it was just comps, and not to worry about it. On the last night MG went to spend a little more time with BG and a winning streak ensued, so MG got a little bit back and BG and wife walked away with $3000. So they were happy and I was relieved. Still. I don’t thing they fess up to how much they lost, and I don’t think they do a net tally. They just sort of ignore the losses and accentuate the wins.

Reno, the complete den of iniquity that it is, has a casino for kids. Circus Circus. That was more my speed. They have arcade booths with winnable prizes. We let Boo play some of the coin toss and ball toss games. I played a cork gun game and won him a nice stuffed animal, for only $1. We spent around $15 there, much of which was thrown promptly away, but we also won seven stuffed animals. Boo has a menagerie of fluffy stuffies to snuggle with now. I dread the day when he’s old enough to want to play at things like that on his own. I will have to instill the work ethic before that day comes.

We got home the day before my birthday, so we could rest up. It feels so. good. to. be. home. For my birthday, MG and I dropped off Boo with his babysitter, so we could go to the movies. We’ve been twice in two years. It’s just not something we can do with a toddler in tow. We saw The Last Mimsy. It was adorable. I like family films. After that we went shoe shopping. All three of us now have a pair of sandals for the warm weather days ahead. We collected Boo and went out for Chinese dinner. My Boo loves Chinese noodles, and slurps happily away.

MG presented me with a beautiful cake, and my new hard drive arrived in the mail. It’s very compact (see mouse for perspective of scale). I am pleased. It’s a NAS (Network Access Storage) – a mini-server. It has 500GB of storage and an ethernet port so I plan to offload all my photos and music to this device, to free up the memory in my computer so that hopefully it will run better. It’s supposed to work as a print server also, so perhaps we can clean up our PC and network configurations as well.

All in all, it was a very good day.

Let’s try that again, shall we

• 5:15 – 5:35 a.m. wake up (4 mins)
• 5:19 – 5:39 a.m. prepare for work
• necessary hygiene
• bathe (20 mins)
• brush teeth (3 mins)
• get dressed (5 mins)
• apply warpaint (5 mins)
• pack lunch bag (5 mins)
• 5:57 a.m. prepare for daycare
• dress the munchkin (5 mins)
• pack diaper bag (5 mins)
• snuggles and cuddles (5-10 mins)
• 6:12 – 6:17 a.m. make the bed (ha ha, as if that will happen) (3 mins) 
• 6:15 -6:20 a.m. drive to work (35-40 mins)
• 7:00 a.m. – 3:30 p.m. work (8.5 hrs)
• 3:30 – 4:15 p.m. drive to daycare (45-50 mins)
• 4:15 – 4:25 p.m. daycare pickup (10 mins)
• 4:25 – 4:35 p.m. drive home (10-15 mins)
• 4:35 – 5:05/5:35 p.m. prepare dinner (30-60 mins)
• 5:05/5:35 – 5:35/6:05 p.m. feed the munchkin (30 mins)
• 5:35/6:05 – 5:50/6:20 p.m. feed myself (15 mins)
• 5:50/6:20 – 6:10/6:40 p.m. clean the kitchen (20 mins)
• 6:10/6:40 – 7:05 p.m. exercise (25-55 mins)
• 7:05 p.m. miscellaneous household chores (30 mins)
• 7:35 p.m. bathe the boy (20 mins)
• 7:55 p.m. change into jammies (5 mins)
• 8:00 p.m. put him to bed (15 mins)
• 8:15 – 8:20/9:00 p.m. get him to sleep (5-45 mins)
• 8:20/9:00 – 9:00/9:40 p.m. marriage maintenance (40 mins)
• 9:00/9:40 p.m. – 10:00 p.m. me time (20-60 mins)
• 10:00 p.m. prepare myself for bed (5 mins)
• 10:05 p.m. – 5:15/5:35 a.m. sleep

I don’t know why I was complaining.  According to this schedule, there is not only room in my life for exercise, housecleaning, and marriage maintenance, but there is me time as well.  Except, I just realized, that apart from the 5-10 minutes of morning snuggles and cuddles, I am completely ignoring my child.  This will never do.

This is more what honesty looks like.

• 2:30 a.m. wake up for diaper change, put toddler back to bed (10 mins)
• 2:40 a.m. back to sleep
• 5:00 a.m. wake up for another diaper change and hungry boy, give in and feed him something (20 mins)
• 5:20 a.m back to sleep
• 6:30 a.m. wake up exhausted, realize we’re late again, wonder to self, “what’s the point “, try to get up, fail, go back to sleep, drag self out of bed, finally, after a ten minute struggle
• 6:40 a.m. prepare for daycare
• dress the munchkin (5 mins)
• pack diaper bag (5 mins)
• snuggles and cuddles (5-10 mins)
• 7:00 a.m. prepare for work
• necessary hygiene
• bathe (20 mins)
• brush teeth (3 mins)
• get dressed (5 mins)
• apply warpaint (5 mins)
• pack lunch bag (5 mins)
• 6:12 – 6:17 a.m. make the bed (ha ha, as if that will happen) (3 mins) 
• 7:20 – 8:00 a.m. drive to work (35-40 mins)
• 8:00 a.m. – 4:30 p.m. work (8.5 hrs)
• 4:30 – 5:15 p.m. drive to daycare (45-50 mins)
• 5:15 – 5:25 p.m. daycare pickup (10 mins)
• 5:25 – 5:35 p.m. drive home (10-15 mins)
• 5:35 – 6:05/6:35 p.m. prepare dinner (30-60 mins)
• 6:05/6:35 – 6:35/7:05 p.m. feed the munchkin (30 mins)
• 6:35/7:05 – 6:50/7:20 p.m. feed myself (15 mins)
• 5:50/6:20 – 6:10/6:40 p.m. clean the kitchen (20 mins)
• 6:10/6:40 – 7:05 p.m. exercise (25-55 mins)
• 7:05 p.m. miscellaneous household chores (30 mins)
• 7:35 p.m. bathe the boy (20 mins)
• 6:50/7:20 – 7:55 p.m. play with beloved child, pay bills, misc. household chores, delete spam, waste time
• 7:55 p.m. change into jammies (5 mins)
• 8:00 p.m. put him to bed (15 mins)
• 8:15 – 8:20/9:00 p.m. get him to sleep (5-45 mins)
• 8:20 – 9:00 p.m. delete spam, blog
• 9:00 – 10:00 p.m. marriage maintenance (i.e., watch tv together)
• 10:00 p.m. prepare myself for bed but get distracted by an assortment of distractions, including but not limited to: blogs, tv, arguments, chores, daydreams, internet research, projects, and so on, and so forth.
• 11:00 p.m. – 2:30 a.m. sleep

And… somewhere in there I manage to shop for groceries, fuel the car, do some banking, and so on and so forth. 

It’s been exhausting, just trying to sort out where my day goes!  However, I think that I shan’t berate myself quite so much for not making more time for exercise.   

If I were a better daughter, I’d put a card in the mail.  I thought about it, and thought about what I’d say.  I’m always careful to get the blank write-your-own-note kind, or the kind that wishes well without undue emotion.  It would be laughable to send something that said “World’s Greatest Dad.”

Usually I do send something.  I write a brief note comprised of small talk, and enclose a picture of his grandson, in the off chance that he might think, “Oh lookie here.  What a fine lad.  Now isn’t that nice ”  As if that would ever happen.  Ever.

Sometimes I call.  It’s not usually unpleasant, but there’s not much warmth or genuine interest, on his part.  Or mine, if I’m to be completely honest.

“You will RESPECT me!  Because I’m your father!”  I can still hear those words, thundered at me, so many years ago.  And my impassioned reply, “Respect is EARNED!  It. Doesn’t. Happen. Automatically.”  (I quite possibly may have shrieked that retort.)

Teenagers.  The things they say.

I recently learned that he doesn’t trust me.  It came as quite a surprise.  He thinks that I am in “cahoots with my mother”.  I’m not sure what designs she has, but apparently, I share them.

I do love him.  Because he’s my dad.  I admire him, even, for many things.  Intellectual accomplishments and pursuits.  Sense of style.  Culinary finesse.  I just wish that he knew how to be impartial in loving his children.  I wish that he had been kind.  To all of us.  Not just the fair-headed ones. 

They don’t quite understand.  (The fair-headed ones.)  They resent(ed) him too, for showing favoritism.  Even as small children they could recognize the blatancy.  They hated the unfairness and despised the doting.  Even so, they didn’t (and don’t) really know what it’s like to be one of the others.  One of the unfavored ones.  Like me.  Like my departed brother.  Like most of my brothers.

Some might say that I was a favored one.  Mom’s favorite one.  I admit that there was a time when I tried, valiantly, to befriend her.  I gave it my best effort.  In my idealistic and impassioned youth, aforementioned, I arrived at the thought that it was important for parents to know their kids, and finding it an impossibility with my dad, I tried with my mom.  I don’t think anybody else tried, and if, for that, I’m considered a favorite…  …Then perhaps I am.  Or was.  I don’t think so, though.  She was heroic in her efforts to run damage control over my dad’s blatant favoritism.  She tried so hard to make things as fair as she could, as fair as she knew how.  I admire her for that, and for other things as well.  Creative accomplishments and pursuits.  Ability to make ends meet that couldn’t possibly meet.  Somehow she managed. 

We had a falling out of sorts.  I was still a teenager, but I was in college, and had decided I was an adult, and was therefore ready.  For.  Sex.  That was the end of our closeness, our hours and hours of talks.  There’s more to that chapter, but this isn’t the time.  I’ve been thinking much lately of starting an entry that I will call “Chapters of my life”.  Maybe later, or possibly sooner, I’ll garner the courage to open that book.  It’s all so narcissistic, isn’t it

I write this only for myself.  To get it out.  It’s my own form of therapy.  I don’t want to offend my siblings, my parents, my family.  Any of them.  I love them.  Desperately.  All of them.  I mean no disrespect to anyone.  I seek no consolation.  Nor sympathy.  I want simply to voice these thoughts, so that I can eventually find my way out of the mire of emotions and neuroses and issues and memories and ideas and thoughts and attitudes that make me me.  And hopefully, one day, I will wake up and find the new and improved me, a loving, thoughtful, wise, centered, compassionate, together, and mentally sound mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend.

I am trying.

I was expressing a little frustration to my sister the other day regarding Mr. Gadget’s ideas of happiness, which seem to be centered around the accumulation of material things.  He seems to be always wanting something, and it’s usually expensive.  I think he’s remembering snippets of fun that he had during childhood that he’d like to resurrect and make part of his adult lifestyle.  That, and overcompensating for the years of being poor.  He was dirt poor when he was married before, and here I am, Sugar Mama.  It seems far too easy to let the burden of responsibility fall on my shoulders.  It seems like what I make is for the family, and what he makes is for himself.   I want him to understand the principal of the matter, in my eyes, is that family obligations come first, before self.  He’ll bring up the child support card, which is fine.  He needs to support his other child.  Absolutely.  I think he should do more to support our child as well.  It doesn’t make sense to him, somehow.  Because I make bucketfuls in comparison to him, the onus should be on me   I am where I am because I got an education and went to work, have worked hard and made sacrifices, my entire life.  He is where he is because he didn’t.  Those years drift by quickly, and if you don’t dig in and commit to change your path, nothing will change, and another decade will go by and you will not be anywhere different.  It’s just the way it is. 

After that long-winded vent, my sister pointed out that it’s human nature to seek one’s bliss, and he’s just very good at finding his own bliss.  She told me that I should try to find my own bliss. 

But I feel guilty, I said.  I feel guilty buying something, because then it would seem like he should get to buy something, too, and that puts me right back to where I was, wanting him to be more focused on investing in our family rather than himself.  So I feel tied down by that.  I don’t want him to spend on himself, so I can’t spend on myself.

Such a fine, communicative marriage.

Guilt, she said, is all on me.  Something I need to work out.  He’s not doing it to me.  I’m doing it to myself.  So here I go.  Looking for my bliss.  My guilt free bliss.

I’ve reached a stage in life where I’m much less drawn to material things and the accumulation thereof.  I’m wanting more to cleanse and purify.  Simplify.  All that said, I have to admit that I’ve just discovered bliss in 500 threadcount sheets.  Goodness gracious!  I’ve been missing out.  They are divine!  So cool and smooth to the touch.  Fabulous!  It was a Costco splurge, prompted in part by my recent diagnosis of dust mite allergy.  I never knew I had this particular allergy, and I was quite surprised at how sensitive I am.  I had a prick test on my arms and the dust mite test swelled and stayed raised for two days.  Countermeasures include ridding the home and especially the sleeping environment of dust.  The doctor even said I shouldn’t vacuum!  Honey   Oh Mr. Gadget   You will have to be vacuuming twice a week now.  For my health. 

I can imagine how well that one will fly. 

Now that I have confirmed this sensitivity, I am dreaming of hardwoods and Zen decor.  Oh how I’d love to rip out the carpeting and replace with wood.  I’m not prepared for the cash outlay though.  If only I had a magic wand!  (A working one, that is.)

Did I say something about being less materialistic in my ripened age   I think I’ve only replaced my youthful insatiable hunger for clothes, trinkets, and chotchkies (how on earth is that word spelled ) with a mid-life yearning for tranquility in the home.  Tranquility that is acquired through hardwoods, furniture with clean lines, crisp linens, stone countertops.  I would very much like an apron sink in my kitchen.  No good reason.  I just like them.  I had no idea they were so expensive.  Do I drop money into this house, and if I do, will I ever recover it   Or do I dream and wait   I think I’ll try a little of both.

I think I know my bliss (besides my Boo boy).  My bliss is my home.

In a small town, the difference between Us and Them is very clear.’ How I wanted to be one of Us.’ Not one of Them.’ We teetered on the brink of the dividing line, and toppled over to join Them.’ Even so, I did’nt want to accept it.’ Or believe it. So I went out and made my own way.’ And I did okay.’ I am the Empress.’ And I’m wearing new clothes.

A tired, dilapidated old town.’ Depressed and weary.’ Shanties and shacks.’ How different it is to look through grown up eyes.’ How near sighted I was as a youth.’ I only saw that we were the poor people; the ragged band of barbarians that we were.’ No running water.’ Filth.’ I was so ashamed of so many things.’ I didn’t notice that we weren’t the only ones.’ (We probably were the only ones without water.)’ We were not the only shack dwellers.’ We were not alone in poverty.’

I have alot to say about Us and Them.’ Most of the time I’m not one of Them anymore.’ Sometimes when I’m melancholy, I find myself back on the other side of the tracks.’ I have to remind myself that it’s my choice, who I am, in my heart of hearts.’ I can be who I want to be.’ I can be who I choose to be. I am who I choose to be.’ I need to choose to be cheerful and bright, light and kind, gracious and loving.’ Those are all daily choices, moment by moment.’

Time spans the distance between Us and Them.’ Sometimes the Usses become Thems and the Thems become Usses.’ It mystifies me, when an Us become a Them.’ I wonder how they could let it happen, when it looked like they were the ones with the easy path.

I think it was (Amanda) Soule Mama who started a corners of my home theme.  I like the idea, and the phrase.  I think it’s a flickr group, but I haven’t joined.  I get chastised enough for the amount of time I spend blogging.  Which heralds in the far too easy to assume tidings of guilt.  I was raised Catholic, after all.  Actually, I was pondering guilt in general, and thinking of writing something in the Sunday Confessions theme, while sitting in a chair that I recently placed in the corner of what used to be the dining room, gazing at the photos on the far wall, and that led me to want to talk about the corners of my home.  It’s all related.  I find rearranging furniture and rooms to be quite cathartic.  I’ve been participating in the office pool weight loss challenge and have only lost 5 pounds.  My doctor suggested that I exercise at least 45 minutes, 5 days a week, and don’t eat anything after 5:30 p.m.  I don’t even get home before 5:30, so this is not the easiest thing for me.  My coworker, who is charting the group’s progress, also pointed out that his trend analysis shows that I won’t meet my goal.  Nice of him, wasn’t it   My life and lifestyle being what it is, I don’t want to give up watching TV.  To compromise, the treadmill is now center stage in the dining room, along with my reading chair.  From the treadmill I have an excellent view of the television.  From the chair, I have a view of my photo wall.  (It’s not hard to see which ones are within reach of a certain very busy and curious one-year-old.)  Which brings me to the corners of my home.  Like I said, all related (in a very convoluted way).

In my home there is a wall of photos. Photos of family and friends.  Photos that bring back memories of life experiences.  I see Pea Soup in bloom with number one.  She is radiant.  I see my brother, the young sailor with hopes and dreams of family and fatherhood, of happily ever after.  A young man who lost hope.  I see brothers and sisters, parents and grandparents.  Children.  I see myself in times of love before love went sour.  Only three of the photos are new (Mr. Gadget’s kids, and my Boo, not visible in this image).  The others span about forty years, between 1956 and 1996.  I see a high school photo of my mother, a young beauty with hopes and dreams, so different from the woman I grew up with.  I see a brother as an infant, an innocent babe with a sparkle in his eyes.  Before life changed him.  Changed us all, with its ripples. My heart cries for the people in these pictures, wishing none of them had ever suffered any pain.  Wishing they could all have kept the sparkle, the twinkle, the effervescence of youth, of hope, of life, of love.  Wishing all their best dreams had come true.  “Life is pain, Princess.”  That’s what the Dread Pirate Roberts said to Buttercup.  He’s right, and it’s not all bad.  Pain brings with it lessons.  Lessons that open us up to the possibility of bigger and better things.  Had my own path not been what it was, with all its bumps, bends, turns, and sorrows, I wouldn’t have my precious Boo.  I can’t even imagine a life without him, and I wouldn’t change a single thing about the road that I have walked, if it meant I couldn’t have my Boo.  But my heart still cries for the sorrows of the people I love.  I wish that I could wish their sorrows away.  I wish that I could rain love down on them.