sueeeus

BHAG

Bee-hag. Best pronounced with a southern drawl.

Big Hairy Audacious Goal

Go ahead, look it up. Google or Wikipedia will do fine.

It’s not actually the acronym of this day, but it was used in a recent meeting, and struck me at the time. I most likely rolled my eyes. There was a time when I’d get more worked up, but after 21 years, I just roll my eyes. And get back to work.

I will say, though, that in theory, it’s a good thing. I’m all for efficiency, progress, doing the impossible and striving for perfection.  I could just do without the abundance of acronyms and buzz words.

Lest I forget what is important, in the ongoing quest of my most authentic self…

…I DO have a beautiful, sweet family, and a beautiful, sweet life.

Guilt. Blame. Fear of confrontation, to name a few. None of which are particularly admirable.

Good morning, The Worm, Your Honour,
The Crown will plainly show,
The prisoner who now stands before you,
Was caught red-handed showing feelings.
Showing feelings of an almost human nature.
This will not do.

I have always loved Pink Floyd, even though I am such a prude at heart.

A crisp autumn morning, a nice cup of tea, and a warmed bran muffin. I love a crisp autumn morning. It feels so good to deeply breathe the fresh cold air and see the sun sparkle on the turning leaves. Autumn is my favorite time of year. Days like this inspire hope and my thoughts turn to pondering the meaning of life and happiness, and invariably I find myself thinking back to when I was the most full of vim and vigor. When I was sueeeus maximus, the embodiment of vivacity. Those days seem so far distant. So what do I do? Why, peruse the world wide web for death reports of spurned former loves, of course.

The decline in my health and erosion of my vivacity is clearly marked by what I call the D-years. Years in which I immersed my self, body, mind, soul and spirit, in a man. A mere mortal, 17 years my senior. Of course I blame him for everything. Even though I know that I am somewhat to blame as well. It’s so much easier to blame someone else than acknowledge one’s own shortcomings. I do acknowledge, though. Which is partially why I tend to harbor feelings of guilt. I should never have jumped, hook, line and sinker. Ultimately, then, it’s completely my own fault. My foundationless sense of optimism that allowed me to believe that he was so much more of a man than he was or ever could be. To my credit, I did see a spark of the better man that he could be, only he never chose to nurture that spark. So much for believing in people. The D-years. In that span of six years, my frustrations and disappointments manifested themselves as 60 lbs that I’ve not since been able to shed.

I sometimes wonder what ever became of him. When I told him it was over, he told me I was pulling the plug on his life. I was his retirement plan. I wonder if he ever regretted actually saying that out loud. It only made me all the more relieved to be pulling that plug. I half expect to see him one of these days, standing on a street corner, holding a sign. Either a Mattress Warehouse Going Out of Business Sale sign (why is there always someone on some corner wearing such a sign?) or a Viet Nam Vet, Homeless, Hungry, God Bless sign. The former because his job qualifications aren’t particularly impressive; the latter because it’s hard to imagine he could become gainfully employed at this stage of life. I would never hire him, if I were an employer. But then I’m a hard-nosed biddy. Oh, then comes more guilt. Guilt that he has no job, no savings, no retirement. I encouraged him to leave his job, the job he detested, the job for which he was most likely next on the chopping block during that year of corporate downsizing, to try a new life in a new town. Building on the hope of the future and the belief in an individual, that he could pull through and hold up his end. Only he couldn’t. Is it my fault for believing in him? Can he blame me for having nothing now? I often think he does blame me for his predicament. Imagined predicament, because I certainly don’t know what his true predicament is, or if he’s even alive. He might think that he’d be gainfully retired from his cushy corporate job, if it weren’t for me. He wouldn’t take into consideration that he’d likely be fired, if random drug testing were in use. He wouldn’t take into consideration that he’d have been laid off in the downsizing. Honestly, I should harbor no guilt, now that I think of it. When we were together, I got him into a new corporate job, similar to the job he left behind, so we were square. After that, it was up to him to hold up, but after we split, I learned he had been fired from that job. So he didn’t hold up, and that’s on him, not me.

Today, I did a little internet searching. Death records. There are some limited searches that can be done for free. I’m fairly sure that he, and his mother, are still alive. The last I’d heard, he had moved back in with her. So I assume that he has been living off of her all of these years. She was losing her sight. Perhaps he is her caretaker, and justifies his existence as such. He could tell himself that he’s not a loser, after all.

I rather expect that he imagines that I ruined his life and screwed him over financially. We invested all we had in a property and a dream. He didn’t have much, so when it came down to it, he had 10% in to my 90%. When I wanted to buy him out, how hard he tried to claim 50%. I stood firm and eventually he signed the quit claim deed, although he ended up with much more than I thought he deserved. The property value was stagnant for nearly ten years, and then, finally, a boom year. I sold at the near peak and made a tidy profit. I know he would think he’s entitled to some of that profit, thus the assumption that I screwed him over. Am I crazy with all this imagined guilt? And that, dear internets, is why today I am debt free. Years of sacrifice and an investment in a life and a dream that went sour*. I tell myself that the profit makes up for the heartbreak and disappointments of all those years. Even so, I’m still carrying that extra 60 lbs, so something still isn’t right in Dodge.

I think, to break it down to the heart of the matter, that I need to forgive myself for giving myself up, all those years ago, to a mere mortal. Something tells me that’s probably what it all boils down to. Forgiveness is a very powerful thing. There is such freedom in forgiveness.

And now, only, to do it. I find it very hard to forgive myself (this pertains to most things), because I should know better. If I could answer myself why I expect that I should know better, then perhaps I could convince myself that I am worthy of forgiveness after all. Riddle me this, Batman. Oh the folly of expectations! From whence do they come?

*A quarter century of working my ass off might also have something to do with it.

Lest there be an explosion in Australia.

Continuing with the season of indulgence for which there is no end on the horizon, I, sueeeus maximus, do hereby make this most auspicious announcement, oh Internets, of my intent to sojourn to the vast and glorious land of Oz, to visit my friend of many many years, the famous and well-beloved of many bloggers far and anon, Suse In The Soup. Yes, I must experience first hand a glimpse of life in a mud-brick house.

February, 2008.

Lack of courage notwithstanding, I might venture forth to meet and greet some of the fine bloggers of the southern hemisphere. I am much more timid in the flesh, so this may take some coaxing.

Meanwhile, I have from now until then to, uh, let me see…

• plan
• gather courage
  • courage to leave my BBC
  • courage to fly (it is, statistically speaking, one of the safest forms of transportation)
  • courage to visit a foreign land
  • courage to interact with people away from the safety of my computer screen
  • courage to meet new people, real people, alive, in the flesh. Oh dear Lord. Real people.
  • courage to leave my BBC
  • courage to leave my BBC
  • courage to leave my BBC
• dispel guilt
  • guilt over leaving my BBC
  • guilt over wanting to do this alone, without bringing Mr. Gadget
  • guilt over leaving my BBC
  • guilt over leaving my BBC
  • guilt over leaving my BBC
  • guilt over leaving my BBC
• plan
  • plan, plan, plan
  • where to go, what to see, what to pack, what to wear, what to bring, electrical considerations, customs considerations, etc etc etc

I leave this post, oh dear Internets, trembling and quaking in excitement, fear, and trepidation all.

Upon waking, the beautiful boy child (BBC) announced, “I go pay in my woom.” Shall wonders never cease? A morning to myself?

First things first. Go to the computer to log my temp. Quickly peruse some blogs and check for comments. While making my first (and thus far only comment), a small voice calls from atop the stairs. “Mohhhhhhhhh-meeeeeee, where arrrrrrrre you? You in da kitchin? You in da kitchen, Mommy? You in da offish? You in da offish Mommy?”

“I’m in the office, Honey.”

“You in da offish, Honey?” A little person appears by my side, Star Bellied Sneetch (Star) in one hand, humongous stuffed bull in the other. It appears to be a ‘play with stuffed animals’ morning. He disappears, dragging his friends along.

“Star’s in twuh-bbbble,” announces the small blonde boy, who has reappeared by my side. There is a distinct tone of sympathy in his little boy voice. I follow him to the living room, and sure enough, there is Star, seated in the Time Out Chair. “Star’s in teeeem-oww. He gawt in twuh-bbbble.”

“Oh? What did Star do that was naughty?” Most transgressions Chez Sueeeus involve not listening, disobeying, and the throwing of things. Oh. And playing with faucets and running water. And writing in books that are not coloring books. And tearing pages from books. Especially pop-up books.

“He gawt in twuh-bbbble.”

Poor Star. A few minutes later, a small blonde boy picks up a sock and hurls with all his might, slinging it across the room.

“Why did you throw your sock?”

“Becuzz.”

“Because why?”

“Becuzz.”

“Because is not an answer. It’s the beginning of an answer.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the way language works.” I could see I was beginning to lose ground.

“Why?”

“Because.” Defeated. By a two-and-two-thirds-year-old.

Mii aand Gaadget. Sometimes wii haave fuun. Here wii are. I don’t know why Gaadget haas hiis 80’s mullet. Glory daays, Ii guess.

Look aat mii plaay tennis! Ii’m not haalf baad.

Gaadget was quite pleased thaat Ii authorized the acquisition of a Wii. I must say, wii’ve been haaving fuun wiith iit! It’s been a season of indulgence for mii (with no end on the horizon), but Ii caan aactually work uup a sweat, so Ii’m going to count iit aas exercise. Doctor’s orders!!

This is yesterday’s news, so to speak, so the wind has sort of gone out of the sail… …all the same, the kindly tech support guy, Jacob, knower of all things, has re-propagated file permissions so I can now upload photos again. I am pleased.

I have been toying with the idea of hiring a house cleaner. Eeegads, is that frivolous or what? The thing is, there are times when I enjoy a mad house-cleaning frenzy, but those times are few and far between. During the far between times, I often lack the oomph and wherewithal to commence the scouring of basins, tubs, and tiles, or to even bother with the vacuum. I know. I’m so lame that way. I heard recently that something on the order of 60% of women (or more) vacuum every day. I am N.O.T. in that class of women. Every day! Imagine it. The Kirby man would probably like that, because my vacuum cleaner might wear out sooner than 50 years.

This was one of those weekends in which I took a moment to sit in a corner chair to enjoy a soothing Saturday morning cappuccino. No sooner than settling in to my comfy chair did the splatters and stains and particles of things otherwise unknown in and on the carpet and flooring as far as the eye could see –and from that corner vantage, I could survey quite a lot– invade and overpower my sense of vision such that there was nothing to do but surrender. I glanced at the clock, noted the time, and commenced the frenzy. I’ve been thinking that if I were to hire a house cleaner, I would probably like a 3-hr service, twice a month. Surely the house would sparkle after three hours of cleaning. So, after three hours, what did I have to show? Three sparkling bathrooms (2-1/2 actually), a clean kitchen, dusted surfaces, mopped floors, and steam cleaned carpets (main floor only). Woot! I think I ran 16 loads of water through my trusty Bissell. Mercy, some of the high traffic areas yielded some frightening spoils. I managed to drop and spill one entire load of soiled water all over myself and the bathroom floor, but I didn’t let it stop me (although I might possibly have cursed just a little).

The reward? The beauty of clean carpet streaks. And I imagine that a house cleaner should be able to very thoroughly clean the house, both upstairs and down, in three hours. Because the carpet cleaning was the time consuming part, and that wouldn’t be included in a normal cleaning service.

After the frenzy, I prepared a lunch for my growing boy and decided to make use of some aging bananas. There is quite a collection of brown skinned bananas accumulating in the freezer, and rather than add to it, I decided to make some muffins. Bran, whole wheat, carrots, bananas, raisins, applesauce, cinnamon, and walnuts. No sugar added (what with all the natural sugar in the applesauce, bananas, carrots and raisins). No added fat either. I decided to skip the butter and see what happens. Rock muffins, my husband calls them. I sprinkled some granola on the tops before baking, and I think they turned out quite nice.

In fact, moist after all.

And not long for this world.

The little man liked them too!

Oh, how I loathe computer changes. Why do things suddenly stop working, with no warning or explanation? Grrrrrr. No photos are uploading. So the first thing to fix was upgrade to the latest WordPress, to cover any potential security flaws. Okay. Did that. Still not working. Next? Check folder permissions. Can’t do that on a shared server. Need to contact server support. Are they in? No. It is Saturday, but host providers should really provide 24×7 support, shouldn’t they? Yes. I know. You get what you pay for. I submitted a ticket and we’ll see what comes of it. Meanwhile… …will this post?

Isn’t it something how a passing expression or comment can turn an upside-down day right-side-up?

An invitation for a hike put a spring in my step for a few days last year.  It was a hike for parents and children, and we ultimately declined, but the delivery of the invitation itself, although benign, spawned a fun diversion in my imagination, where I supposed that I was (much) younger and single, and this was an invitation for a date.  All these imaginings set me all a twitter and a flutter.  It was fun to think that somebody was interested in me.  It was so exciting!  Possibly because I dated very little in my lifetime.  I never got the hang of it, and when there was a window of opportunity, I was so terrified of men and their expectations that I simply closed the window.  Sigh.  I wish I had learned how to date, rather than get deeply entwined with the beau du jour, wasting away so many years of my life.

A recent comment, with regard to my work.  “I think you’re fantastic.”  Now that made my day.  I knew better than to fabricate anything fanciful in my imagination over that comment.  It packed enough punch on its own, and I am grateful to have received it.

Most recently, though, is my chiropractic experience.  The chiropractor is an Indian man, possibly around my age.  He seems always to be blushing or flushed.  It could be that he runs laps around the block in between appointments to maintain the level of fitness his profession espouses.  It could be that I’ve daunted  him with my belligerent questions (seeking to uncover whether there is truth or quackery –aha!– in chiropractics).  Or, it could be that he secretly has a crush on me, what with me being so gorgeous, smart, and sassy, and he can’t help but flush and turn rosy when in my presence.  And no, I have not been eating (much) garlic.

It’s much more fun to think there’s a secret crush.  Because that reminds me of a crush I had many years ago; a crush on an Indian guy, which was, oh, so thrilling (at the time).  It was unrequited (for the most part) because he was my boyfriend’s best friend.  I should have just been born with a scarlet letter emblazoned across my forehead and be done with it.  That was a thrilling, albeit confusing time.  I felt as though I was stuck with the boyfriend, what with the words of my mother and grandmother before her, “You’ve made your bed, now sleep in it.”  (He was my first, and Catholic guilt dictated that he therefore be my only, and I had not yet unyoked myself from the Catholic upbringing.)  He was cold and distant, and I needed warmth and emotional interest.  His friend, bless his heart, was rich in both.  Summer lovin’,  had me a bla-ast, summer lovin’, happened so fa-ast…  Well, there was nothing more than some stolen kisses, but how sweet they were.  How thrilling; how delicious.  To this day, I think that ranks as the all-time best kissing experienced in this lifetime.  Ah, but the summer ended, we returned to our respective universities, and closed that ever-so-brief chapter.

So, when I see le chiropractor du jour, I am briefly transported to a sweet memory of days gone by.

Yesterday, all flushed, he remarked that I look just like his cousin.  Now how’s that for confusing my memory transport.  I asked if she was of mixed race, since my distinctive features have something to do with my own mixed heritage (or so I assume).  No, she’s fully Indian.  Oh, I wonder if anthropologically there is some similarity in the peoples of Asia and India, I posed.  No, Indians are actually more closely caucasian, and he went on to explain something about the peoples of Europe and parts of the Middle East, and something else about differences in peoples from Northern vs. Southern parts of India.  And so the conversation ended.  (I still think that it’s entirely plausible for people of Indian descent to have Asian characteristics, what with plate tectonics and all.  And, ummmm, I’m no geography expert, but isn’t India sort of located in the southern reaches of the Asian continent?  I’ve met people from one of the ‘Stans (Kazakhstan) who were very Asian in feature.  Don’t the ‘Stans share European and Asian geography?  I think I’m going to hold my ground here –ignorant as it may be– !!)  Anyway.  I do so like it when he blushes, because then I can pretend I have some power over him.  And then I can easily flash forward the memories of those clandestine kisses that summer, so many years ago.  And how much fun is that, to remember what it felt like to be all a twitter and a flutter.

Summer is turning to fall, children are returning to school, and I?  I am waiting for my shows to return.  Yes, I know.  Television is a drug, and I need a fix (hangs her head in shame) .

I need to drool over House, as he viciously scorns and spurns one and all.  How can anyone be so delicious?  I want to see what happens to Hiro and the un-special Ando.  Will they be back?  What about my beautiful Michael Scofield and his yummy brother Lincoln Burrows?  I want to see forensic anthropology at its finest with Bones, the ever-so-yummy Seeley Booth and the rest of that super-smart Jeffersonian team.  I’ll take a side of CSI while I’m at it, because I love me some dry, erudite and nerdy Gil Grissom.  And a weekly dose of Denny Crane and Alan Shore I cannot do without.  I want to cringe at Michael Scott’s latest inappropriateness, and laugh out loud at Dwight’s antics.  I love tv.  It soothes me.  (How I hate to admit both of those things, the love, and the solace.)

I am not quite ready for the 12-step program.  Because it’s not all mindless drivel.  There are lessons to be learned.  Illuminations.  Life lessons.

For instance.

We watched some of the American Idol auditions last year.  The contestants came in all shapes and sizes, and so many had a remarkable lack of musical ability, yet nearly all of these fine people have something I admire.  They believe in themselves and their abilities with a fierce and defiant passion.  They put themselves out there on national tv, and they told the world face on that they believed they have what it takes to be the next American Idol.  And then they began to sing.  As painful and entertaining as it was to see these people humiliate themselves in global proportions, I couldn’t help but stand in awe at the level of self-esteem and self-confidence they flaunted.  And they weren’t alone.  They had people.  People who believed in them. People who supported them. It was a beautiful thing. I was envious.

Once in a while we watched Beauty and the Geek. I love the geeks! Of course.  I mean, come on, these are my people!  Those beauties, though? I assume they find the most vacuous people they can, in order to maximize the benefit of the show.  The general lesson that comes to light is that the beauties get a lesson in the beauty of true character, of which the geeks are rich, and the geeks get a lesson in self-confidence, of which the beauties are rich.  How great it is to see those geeks grow in confidence.  I cheer them on.  They are my people.

Mostly, though, I love the diversion that tv provides.  The humor.  The antics.  The laughs.  So yes, I am ready for my shows to return.  It’s been a long summer of prohibition, and I’m ready to whet my whistle, jump off the wagon and start my fall/winter bender.