Passwords...Constant Changes...Computer Confusion

Every time anyone wants to "do" anything on a computer site they must sign in and give their password.  For example, I want to add a post to my overly neglected Blog.  In order to post, I must sign in and give my password.  I want to make a comment on HuffPost, I must sign in and give my password.  I want to apply for a job on Snagajob.  I must sign in and give my password.  I understand the need to make sure the person doing all these things is really me and the only way to know that is if I create a password only I know.  And here in lies the problem.

I can never remember the damn passwords.  I write them down on a slip of paper and put it somewhere.  Then I lose the piece of paper and the password and need to re-set my password by coming up with another password I will write down somewhere and lose.  Then one day I thought why not just have ONE password for everything.  I tell this brilliant idea to my husband and he yells "NO! That is very dangerous.  Don't do that."   My lack of understanding computers and technology never ceases to amaze him.

So I made a red folder and promised myself to log and keep every site along with its password in one place next to my desk.  So how come I tried to sign in today to write a post and found myself "locked out?"  I had the password in my own messy handwriting right there in front of me, and still I got it wrong?!

Maybe it wasn't my fault.  The format for this Blogger site was changed and it no longer looks anything like the way it did when I first started putting my wonderful words out there for all the world to see. Okay, no delusions of grandeur, I think maybe 5 people read some of my posts.  I am sure after my many prolonged absences even those few dedicated readers gave up and went their merry way onto other Blogs better at posting new material on a more prodigious scale. But change is not my thing and I am easily confused. I learn something one way and I simply cannot "unlearn" it and learn a new way.
How dare they change the templates and format!  And who the hell are "they?"

I have no idea if this post will show up on my Blog.

But if it does, I need help coming up with a Name for my New Blog....

Any ideas?  Is anyone out there?  Can you hear/see me?

Walking the Dog

“You have to learn to live with your mistakes, but you certainly should not allow yourself to live in your mistakes.”

I hope I remember that one, I think to myself as my dog squats for her morning bowel movement.  I must admit, I am jealous of the little mutt.  Besides being adorable, she is regular.  I am neither.  Yet, we walk along the same path.  Her bathroom needs give my days purpose.  What else would I be doing?  Writing, reading, sleeping, eating, and on rare occasions moving my own blasted barricaded bowels. 

My mind wanders.  Her nose seeks out scents only a four-legged animal can smell.  Along the lawns, in the bushes and up the trees her nose leads her diligently and I follow using my other more reliable senses, sight and sound.  The birds, and the cars mix together, and other dogs voice their discontent from behind the windows when my pooch stops to pee on their grass.  This is the stroll.  My dog and I are walking along life, not in it, not of it, not owning it.  Just walking.  "Keep walking" I tell myself. 

Sonnets In Questions?

My 15 and 3/4 years old son is a sophomore in high school and his literature class (what we called "English" in my day) is studying Julius Caesar. Recently, one of his assignments was to write a sonnet. Of course, he was going to wait until the night before. Did I mention how old he is? I told him he could not write a quality sonnet in such a short time. Then I realized he had no concerns regarding quality. I decided to write a sonnet and share it with him. First I had to read "Sonnets for Dummies" in order to know how to write a sonnet. Then I needed to place the rhyming scheme required on the page so I would be following all the rules. It took me about 5 hours to write my sonnet. My son wrote his in 10 minutes. He would never allow me to share his work, but I thought mine came out okay and here it is.

Soulful sounds sing out from his black guitar.

His homework lays untouched beneath his bed.

Escaping notes rise to a falling star.

A sonnet slowly forming in his head

Magically music takes form in words

Parents pray he will complete it on time

Accompaniment provided by birds

The difficult thing is to work in rhyme.

The answer must be a video game.

Call of Duty starring William Shakespeare?

Associate violence with his name?

After all he’s the man who wrote King Lear!

Will the sonnet be done on time or late?

Are these questions of desire or of fate?

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions....

It all boils down to one thing:

Making the Decision.

Let me rephrase that:

MAKING THE DECISIONS!

It does not matter what it is:

Becoming Thinner aka dieting.

Getting a New Job.

Writing a Novel.

Being Nicer.

Getting in Shape.

Staying Married.

Getting Divorced.

Reading a Book.

Having an affair.

Everything except who you love. Let's face it some people are just totally lovable and some people are not. Some people will get on your nerves no matter what they do or say. There is nothing you can do about it. You cannot force yourself to like someone you find unlikable. The solution to that problem is to just let someone else love them. This acceptance of your own limitations as well as theirs seems to be the only viable answer. After all each one of us is THAT person for someone else. Yet, most of us manage to find individuals and groups where we are welcomed, appreciated, and loved. However, what happens if a particular "group" grows into a political party. Which I believe is what has happened in our current society. No matter what the Democrats say or do, the Republicans "cannot stand" them and visa versa. The idea of being in a work place/country where we all have to get along for the greater good is becoming more and more difficult since we cannot "decide" to just get on with it and get along.

As hard as I tried, I cannot and will not ever appreciate George W. Bush. And on the other side of the fence is a large group that will never ever appreciate Bill Clinton. So where does that leave "our company of the United States of America?" Some of us will decide to cheat (on our taxes or our spouses), some of us will decide to stick it out for the sake of the children, some of us will decide to burn off the energy created by all this animosity by exercising, or avoiding the newspapers and focusing on reality shows. A whole a bunch of decisions, some good, some bad and all because there is one thing we cannot decide to do, tolerate our diversity. I do not mean our racial or ethnic diversity. I mean our moral and emotional diversities.

Perhaps the polarization we see in our political lives is this one element of human nature magnified, and multiplied. Now it is metastatic and no one is looking for a cure. Can we, liberals and conservatives, make a joint decision to at least look for a cure?

Roberta's Reality

Once a routine becomes old it becomes useless by virtue of its age. It becomes so automatic the energy driving it naturally reduces over time and the routine that initially motivated us to engage in a a healthy new habit, begins to self destruct when it turns into a mindless activity. Suddenly, without warning we are simply going through the motions. Effectiveness is destroyed by mindlessness. This is basically how I interpreted what Roberta was trying to tell me. I hope I got it right. It was her way of explaining to me why I needed to change something I had been doing for years but was no longer helping me the way it once did.

"Stop judging something on the merit of how long it lasts and start appreciating it only as long as it is effective." Roberta said. Once it is not longer effective then change becomes necessary for survival. No wonder she is so smart in the sciences. It was beginning to make sense.

I always saw change as bad but that would mean adaptation , survival of the fittest is bogus. Who the hell am I to disqualify Darwin’s theories based on my fears.

But when it comes to reality, then suddenly Roberta and I must part ways once again. I wonder if she will ever get me to come around to her way of thinking. I call her to tell her something really sad on a weekly basis lately. Stories of women around our age, late 40's, early 50's becoming widowed or dying themselves. Cancer, aneurysms, suicide, botched surgeries, foreclosures, bankruptcy, and of course, job losses were just some causes for the tragedies I would hear about whether through numerous grapevines including other parents at one of the schools my kids attend, our temple condolence email, or by reading the local suburban newspapers or facebook.

"Do not check your email! And stop reading the Daily Herald." Roberta said in an effort to cut off my sources of sorrowful information. "That is the problem with our society today. We hear about everything. When your father died we were in fourth grade and the only people who knew were our classmates, your relatives and the neighbors on your block. Now, someone dies and we hear about it in every suburb within a 50 miles radius. " It is too much. You can't fill your days with other people's problems."*

Then Roberta tells me I should watch "The Housewives of Beverly Hills." I hate reality television. Why does she watch reality shows which she admits to being addicted to, but does not want me calling her up with "real" reality? I am so confused.

*Editor's note: There is no editor. And I am paraphrasing Roberta because I do not have a good enough memory to recall exactly how she says things. I hope she does not sue me.

Walking the Dog in the Rain

Walking the dog.

I stop in front of a 96 Forest Drive.

I linger on their lawn.

The shades are drawn.

The house is quiet.

The light rain drifts lazily down from the bleak sky.

I find myself in a staring contest with an White Pine tree,

My eyes are unblinking before its naked branches.

The bark is worn a way in certain places

Exposing the brighter beige wood laying beneath the trunk’s outer surface.

A few lonely skinny branches extend out above the sidewalk,

And tiny tears are dripping slowly from them.

It makes me sad.

I blink.

The tree does not.

It sits on Forest Drive among the lawns, houses and driveways that replaced their namesake long ago.

Watch This! It is fabulous!

http://www.ted.com/talks/view/lang///id/1042

Who stole my Purpose and how can I get it back?

This will be the hardest thing I have ever done. I have to commit to everyday being filled with purpose and meaning. I can no longer waste time.

Here is my problem. I am supposed to find a passion, a life’s purpose. Every article, book, discussion, documentary and website leads to the same answer:

Do what you love and the money will follow.

This can be turned around into “What do you love to do?”

When you answer this question it is like winning the lottery. Now this is where I run into problems. I want to be comfortable financially but I don’t want to have to earn it. I want it to fall into my lap. I know. This is a common problem amongst humans, especially American humans.

Obviously the lottery is not a safe bet. Even with my crappy math skills, I can figure that one out. Marriage to the wealthy usually only happens for other wealthy people, so that was never an option. If I want a lot of money I will need to find a way to “earn” it. This is where finding my “passion” or “purpose” comes into play. If I find this all consuming “passion/purpose” then it will not feel like work and it will magically manifest itself into financial security for me and all my children and grandchildren. This leads to my second big problem:

I love doing nothing!

I can meander through life happily for days, weeks, months, years, even decades without accomplishing a thing.

Here is what I LOVE to do:

Watch television

Eat Cereal

Walk my dog

Read

Hang out with my girl friends

Surf the web (especially Huffington Post)

Sleep

So I need someone to tell me how in the hell I can make a living doing any of the things I love.

My Thoughts on Talent and Life

Talent without desire is a waste, an empty space. It doesn’t matter how smart you are, how clever you are, or how naturally talented you are. Unless you want something with all your heart and soul and are willing to be disciplined and determined about living the dream or achieving the goals then your talents no matter how great will simply evaporate.

We all get the same 24 hours in every day. How we choose to spend them will determine whether or not we get a return on our investment. Spend the time productively and see your personal profits rise like a sunflower reaching to the light. Spend the time like I do, wallowing in wishful thinking, and you will wilt in the shadows of other people’s sunshine.

Fallen

I have fallen in love with the barren trees

Leaving me an unfettered view of the birds.

Sitting on the Naked Branches and singing

Their voices sound clearer without the leaves surrounding and softening their songs.

I hear ghosts long gone from this earth.

When the trees are full and green is everywhere

I can only see the birds in my mind.

Are these phantom sounds seeping through the foliage?

The songs of lost loved ones reaching back to comfort me?

Is my mother a Ruby-throated humming bird, my father a sparrow, and my aunt a meadowlark?

Summer's warm air and thick foliage act as a fortress through which I cannot see.

In the fall the Truth appears clear as the cool blue sky returns.

The birds, their voices, their beauty in stillness staring back at me as I walk on the fallen leaves.

I am strangely aware these birds are the lost pieces of my soul.

The trees rooted into the earth where my loved ones have been encased for eternity, a resting place.

The earth is the source for the trees just as my mother was the source for me, and now they are one in the same.

Soon winter winds will blow the birds far from my ears and eyes.

I lay on top of her grave trying to feel closer to her and the earth.

The ground seals in my sorrow as I cry,

Listening to the birds bringing their last songs before heading south.

An Encore as another season slips by and my soul seems unearthed.

Salami

One of my most vivid memories of the week my father died is all the food that came pouring into our two bedroom apartment within a day of when the news had reached our extended family. My mother had dozens of cousins when I was little. And it was all those cousins along with my mother's two remaining brothers who flooded our lives that week. When my father died, my mom was already down to having only 2 of her 4 siblings. Her only sister died exactly one year before my dad died. The first week of March would become “the week” in our family. As I grew I realized every family has a “week” or a “month” that stands out in the calendar because all their tragedies seem to miraculously fall in the same short space of time during a calendar year.

My dad and my aunt were both born in the first week of March in 1911 and they both died in the first week of March, my Aunt in1969 and my dad in 1970. My mom’s oldest brother died when I was just a first grader, but I cannot recall what month. My dad died when I was a little more than half way through the 4^th Grade. All time is connected to Grades when you are growing up. It is the only reliable way to measure time and who you are in the world when you are a child. Your grade is a significant part of your identity. So in 1970 when I had just past the half way mark through 4^th Gradde I got to take an entire week off from school to be with my family as we observed a period of mourning known as sitting Shiva. I do not remember a lot of sitting. What I remember is a lot of eating.

The week of the Shiva, is really a mandatory 7 days of feasting and welcoming people into your home at all hours of the day and night. It is the Jewish Way to help postpone the grief for the family until they gain enough strength to deal with the enormity of losing a loved one. The Shiva was one long week of chaos. The doorbell was always ringing with noisy and nosy neighbors waiting to come in and eat while expressing their shock and disbelief to my mother. Relatives arrived from near and far finding ways to fill up our days with family stories, and the phone never stopped ringing. The traffic was coming in from both ends of our apartment, the back door in the kitchen and the front door in the living room. Since we had an open floor plan it was easy to stand in the dining room and either look to the left to see who was coming in the back way or straight ahead at the big picture window in the living room where the half drawn shade only allowed me to view people from the knees down as they made their way toward our front door.

The food arrived in all shapes and sizes, some brought in by the actual giver and some by way of professional delivery. There were enough boxes of Fannie May Chocolates to feed a starving nation. The deli trays were always covered in tinted cellophane with a bow on top. Who would not want a wrapped gift of corned beef, tongue, turkey, and roast beef surrounding a giant container of chopped liver? Fruit baskets were more like fruit bushels, crates overflowing with apples, oranges, bananas and grapes. Coffee Cakes seemed to be multiplying over night while we slept. I remember thinking people were sneaking in while we dozed and leaving more and more food.

I cannot recall which day it was on during that long week but when it arrived I remember everyone gasping at it. It was huge. I tried imagining it hanging from the ceiling with the other salami’s I was use to seeing at the Kosher butcher, but I think it would have gotten in the way of the workers as they prance behind the meat counter trying to keep up with patrons pointing out which cut of meat they wanted. The salami was so long it extended far over our small round kitchen table. Like all the other salamis I had seen in my life it was tightly wrapped inside plastic with the words “Best” on it. It had a small looped rope at the top and a silver clasp to keep the plastic tightly sealed.

“I bet that salami is taller than you!” someone said as they came in through the back door and saw me standing by the counter that jutted out from the wall and separated our kitchen from our dining room. It was the spot I had chosen to make sure I could see people coming in from either door. I don’t remember who said it, I just remember being compared to the salami. Back then I was still short and skinny. But it would not take long for the people to disappear and what was left of my family to grow exponentially from grief fueled by fattening foods like fried chicken, French fries, smoked fish, brisket, sour cream mixed with bananas, and of course, salami.

Reinventing the Wheel, and the Blog, and the Purpose

Can I reinvent my blog? Can people reinvent themselves? Isn't that what Jay Gatsby was trying to do? It did not work out so well for him, but then again he was a fictional character and I think both my Blog and I are REAL. I was going to start from scratch with a new name, a new design, and a catchy new Mission Statement etc. but then I realized there is not such thing as "reinventing". There is only evolving. This is the entire reason for the saying "let's not reinvent the wheel." If it already exists we can change it anyway we need to but that is not reinventing, it is modifying. So, I should just continue down the path in this House of Mirrors where I keep bumping into myself. I never seem to find my way "out."

And what if I did finally find the Exit Door. I am not sure I would like what I found upon exiting. Would I be in some smelly carnival where the ground is littered with sticky food, and the air is filled with noisy children being screamed at by their parents, rowdy teen agers swearing at each other in an effort to feel cool, and the smell of beer and cigarettes? Or perhaps I would be in an amusement park from long ago where a House of Mirrors was part of a larger landscape including a tunnel of love, a haunted house, and a fun house with moving floors and a spinning drum exit. Would I just get on another ride, a merry go round or a ferris wheel? Either way I would simply be spinning my wheels. At least in the House of Mirrors I can check to see if my lip stick is still on. So, I will see me and hopefully you (a reader or two) as I once again try to fill the Internet Galaxy with the tiny stars we call words.

I was going to name my new blog "Shooting Stars" and then googled that phrase and found it was a rather common name for Blogs. I am not someone who is accustomed to having a common name, and neither should my blog. So, "Here's looking at you kid." (I am just speaking to myself in the mirror - of course).

I wanted to be unique in my naming of a new blog

Experimenting

d

Hello World. I am experimenting. Way cool. I bet a monkey could do this faster than me (and better). Can you hear me now??

Really??

Soon our world will be divided into two groups:

1. Those “starring” in reality television shows.

2. Those watching reality television shows. (Aka the audience).

Recently, I was channel surfing which does not burn up nearly as many calories as real surfing but I am hydrophobic and a girl has got to get exercise anyway she can. I fell into the abyss of the “The Bachelor.” It was scary in a Ray Bradbury kind of way. No giant monsters or mad slashers, just an insidious descent into a self induced trance. My brain was being destroyed while my eyes were feasting on Brad’s good looks. I heard later on he is a schmuck from a regular watcher, but hey Reality TV is a lot like college. We are pretending to go for knowledge but it is really just an excuse to look for the next party.

As I watched Brad on a couch with his choice I kept wondering why does the guy get to choose? Later on I learned there is the same format for a reality show where the woman gets to choose. Is this true? Is this for real? I mean really, this seems like a rather difficult way to find a mate. Can’t these people go to a bar like I did? Hey, I have been married for almost 17 years. The bar scene works. Ahhh, but alas, no audience was there to watch me go on thousands (I am not exaggerating) bad blind dates, or sappy singles events organized by strangers. The only one watching my silly life unfolding was my mom and I assure you she never found it entertaining.

But Brad and the bevy of beauties begging for his narcissistic ass to be theirs for the kissing had a loyal audience. Millions of Americans watched as Brad and bimbo after bimbo, oops I mean bathing beauty after bathing beauty, soaked up the sun and experienced fabulous adventures called “dates”. I am guessing most of the audience was female, and I would feel perfectly safe in assuming (yes another dangerous sport that does not help with weight loss) that no one watching the show ever went on a “date” where they get to fly to another continent and ride on an elephant. Who would not feel wooed? How does Brad afford it all? Oh, wait, he doesn’t. It is the newest version of “Dutch Treat”, a major television network foots the bill for the dates and all you have to do is be very good looking to go.

Why exactly was Brad “chosen” to be “the bachelor”? He is movie star handsome. You see men are not the only ones who like to gaze upon physically superior beings with whom they will never be able to copulate. Hip Hip Hooray for Women’s Liberation. Brad is the male equivalent of a Playboy Bunny. In the good old days one never heard the Bunnies speaking. Their silence was as much a part of their costume as their cottontails and ears. Now we get to hear Bunnies thanks to Hugh Hefner sharing his life (reality hits again). This is why we have shows like the Bachelor. Male Bunnies are demanding equal time and pay.

Oh how I miss the good old days where the picture perfect people lay their one-dimensional lives in between the pages of magazines. Really, I do.

The Bitch is Back

I am at the apple store with Steve for a one on one, not that kind of one on one. It is the kind of one on one where a 25 year old tells an old lady how to maneuver on a computer. It is sad but true, I used a reference to an old Elton John song for the title of this post and Steve had no idea what I was referencing. He also let me know WordPerfect is no longer available and I am actually using Microsoft word. Next thing you know he will be helping me cross the street.

See you tomorrow. I am going to learn how to take this out of Microsoft Word (aka Wordperfect for those of us over 50) and put it on my blog!

Just my luck

Hello World,

I am typing on an Apple Mac. And I just found out Steve Jobs is happily married, damn it.

Elephants, Part I

I have a friend who keeps reminding me I have not written on my Blog since July 8th. I have been writing a lot actually, inside my head. I just don’t bother writing it down or typing it in the computer. The words are always floating around. They string themselves together like strands of pearls and I turn them into imaginary necklaces only I can see hanging (around my neck, like a noose).

I am not really inside my own body. I have written about this before. I may be repeating myself. I may be repeating myself. I am definitely repeating myself. I don’t want to go back and search through all my old blog entries to see if I have written and posted this material before. Besides, even if I did, who is going to remember? The two or three real people who read this blog or my imaginary friends (they last a life time) who are talking to me right now: “Oh, good lord, we have heard this one before. Yada Yada Yada, tell me something new.” I guess my imaginary friends watched Seinfeld. I would respond to my many imaginary friends (I am very popular inside and outside of my imagination)
“Don’t Yada Yada Yada me! I need motivation, I need spiritual guidance. I need Yoda Yoda Yoda.”

So, when Paul (a real person) threw out an idea, “write about Facebook,” while I appreciated the prompt I was hoping for something more. I wasn’t sure what or how to ask for it. Facebook has been overdone, to say the least. I am trying to stand out, write something unique and profound that will get me energized to produce even more.

Then I remembered, all Roads Lead to Rome! I just saw “Eat, Pray, Love”. I thought the movie was okay. I thought the men in it were really hot. Oh yeah, the meaning of the movie, I almost forgot…(now you can see why writing is so difficult for me. I am all over the place mentally). If I can’t follow a train of thought, how can I construct a piece of writing someone else will be able to follow? Are you still with me?

Okay, back to the movie, “Eat Pray Love”, and the lessons it was supposedly sharing with the rest of the world. I think the main lesson was about deep breathing. I deep breath, usually when I am making obscene phone calls, but it has yet to provide me with the keys to the doors of knowledge Julia Roberts as Elizabeth Gilbert is finding all over the globe. So much for breathing, but I will continue to breathe anyway because even if it doesn’t enlighten or motivate me, it does allow me to keep tapping these keys.

Another key element in the movie spoke to me on a more personal level. Yes, more personal than heavy breathing during obscene phone calls. I think I am procrastinating. I am doing things, just not the things I think I should be doing. I think I should be writing a book of short stories or a novel, or essays to mail to magazines. But instead, I took a stand up comedy class (YouTube: StandUpShowcase7). I agreed to teach some children’s classes for a local business. I started obsessively playing Banangram with my 11 year old daughter. I wish Banagram had a solitaire version for the hours when my daughter is in school. I never develop a strategic plan because I cannot choose a goal. No goal, no plan. It is simple. I hop from goal to goal like a hooker hops in and out of cars on a busy night.

In the opening scene of the movie, it shows the main character married to a man who just can’t find himself. He is thinking about all these different professions he could be pursuing, but he can’t commit to any one of them. I feel his pain. I think the movie and its author/lead character had three main points to share.


l. Deep Breathing – yeah I do it all the time. Hasn’t helped.

2. Can’t find myself or choose a clear path for a profession. I am so glad I did not marry Elizabeth Gilbert, the woman who wrote “Eat Pray Love”. She dumped her indecisive husband like a hot potato. My dedicated husband encourages every New Adventure I come up with and there have been many:

A business to help care givers
Writing
Stand up comedy
Selling things (don’t ask, don’t tell).

So here we are still married and living off only his income (I have no idea how we are going to pay for college for two kids – next job idea: “would you like fries with that?”) But the truth is, eventually I need to find a way to pitch in financially. I am done producing humans/children and now I need to produce an income. My timing could not be better. We are knee deep in a recession and America is on the road to becoming a third world country. Hopefully our desire for fries will be unabated. I guess I can always learn to clean the grill. I am more worried about how I will get along with my co-workers and the customers. I never did win any congeniality contests when I had to work in an office environment. Perhaps that is why I am determined to find a way to make money without having to deal with the politics of being in public. Which leads me to the third and most important point of the movie.

3. Wait a Minute! There is an Elephant in the Room:

In the movie Julie Roberts as Elizabeth Gilbert buys a Ganesh Elephant icon at an idol store. It is part of the Hindu religion which is not monotheistic. I have no business thinking about icons since in my religious background, they were nothing but trouble! No idols allowed. I don’t even watch American Idol. That is how afraid I am of worshiping anything I can actually visualize. Keep it blurry – cloudy. The lord is around us and within us. Do Not attempt imagining or personifying G-d in any way or someone is going to throw two big stone tablets on top of your head!

Okay, but my religion does not prevent me from attributing deep meaning to symbols and signs that pop up, does it? I am wearing a Jewish Star. I tied a red ribbon around the cribs where my babies slept and I even tied one around my mom’s hospital bed. I kiss the Torah as it is passing me by on High Holidays. And my own mother said if you “want your prayers answered, say them while the ark is open and your prayers will be answered. I got a husband by sticking a note in the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem (it is TRUE). So I am back to the premise presented in the book the Celestine Prophecy. There are no such things as coincidences. Pay attention. Everything means something. You just have to look a little deeper, between the lines, under the layers, and inside the molecules. A writing instructor once told me the key to good story telling was in the details. And remember, I am looking for the keys. So come back tomorrow for part II of my version of Eat, Pray, Love. I have decided if I cannot come up with a unique idea on my own, I will just steal someone else’s and customize it so it is no longer recognizable to the viewing public (real and imaginary). And that is my final decision. I think. Good thing I wasn’t watching the Godfather over the weekend. Who knows what this post would have looked like.

For Paul

This is dedicated to Paul. No, not my favorite Beatle, my friend!

Okay Paul, I hope you are happy. I have just spent 3 hours writing. I will have to edit and re- write and add a lot more later, but now I have to get on with my day. So I am unable to put anything up of substance at this time. I hope to have a better entry later but

I tried. I really tried. I sat and typed the whole morning stopping only long enough to put loads of laundry in and out of the washer and to reload my cereal bowl (one box of Cheerios and one box of Fiber One have bought the dust – or should I say recycle bin). But, I have other obligations. I am overweight and out of shape. I should be exercising. I have errands to run and bills to pay. This writing thing takes forever! I have been sitting here and the only parts of my body getting any exercise are my fingers. I guess I would save time and be more productive if I stopped eating dry cereal throughout the process, but I firmly believe every writer should be allowed one vice. I mean Hemingway and Williams had alcohol. Hey, now I know where I am going wrong! Damn it! I picked the wrong addiction. No wonder my writing sucks. I will write more later, now I have to jog over to the liquor store.

Love Benita

Last Comic Talking

I use to be good at memorizing and telling jokes. I always had good delivery. I guess I was the Dominoes of joke telling in my younger days. Yet, as time rolled on, my ability to memorize deteriorated and a sense of chaos overtook my neural pathways. Thus, whenever I am funny, it occurs like a car accident after a very long road trip. First, I am completely incapable of being succinct. Brevity is my enemy and I shall fight it to the very last word. Perhaps this is a genetic condition, a progressive incurable disease since it seems to be getting worse and worse with age. I take longer and longer to tell a story. It drives my husband crazy. I actually can see his eyes darting up and down, right and left trying to physically follow what I am saying. I bet my talking makes him dizzy.

“I thought I was going to hear about: FILL IN BLANK”. I can tell he is beginning to feel sick (the dizziness). I began speaking about one thing and then slowly shifted into twenty other unrelated details. “I am getting there I assure him.” All of a sudden we have switched roles and now I am the stubborn MALE who refuses to ask for directions even though I know I am as lost as Alice in Wonderland. “I will get to IT” I assure him. “Just wait, there details are important even if they don’t seem related.” Perhaps I tell stories this way because I have a poor sense of direction and cannot tell North from South or East from West, or North from West for that matter. So I need landmarks. I wish all McDonalds didn’t look alike. That would really help. Also, saying “take a left at the Gas Station” can easily become confusing if you are heading in the wrong direction to begin with. Where was I?

Oh, yeah, I signed up for a class. I am going “Back to School.” Hello Rodney!!! I need to find a way to make money and I don’t want to re-enter the work force in a “job”. I want to create a new way of “making a living” for myself. I just want to be able to make enough money to send two reasonably intelligent children through 8 years of college (I am thinking Graduate Degrees are going to be necessary).

I am not going to try and go back to my “previous profession” in fundraising simply because I never really “chose” that profession. It just found me after I couldn’t find myself after college. (Another Long Story – tune it tomorrow for what I think about “finding your passion ). And while being a full time mother has allowed me the luxury of shaping and nurturing (okay, sustaining) two children, it has turned into a zero sum/gain gig. What goes in, goes out, pocket book and otherwise. I guess I just summed up my marriage. Okay, so the alternatives are work in a regular job at a book store or some office somewhere (did I mention I have no computer skills other writing in word perfect) or going back to school to become an English Teacher or a Social Worker or….

A Comic! Yeah! Way more fun to have homework that tells you to watch comics on YouTube so you can see how they do it then it would be to go register at CLC or Harper . Why stay up reading books on how to teach and sit in lecture halls surrounded by people half my age (less than half if I am going to be honest about my age) who have been out partying half the night and still have better retention for facts and figures than I do. In the end, I would be job hunting for a teaching position in an economy that has caused all Stated and Local Governments to dramatically slash their budgets. I might get lucky and get a job, with insurance and benefits and the bull crap political tensions that accompany all work places. Or I can delude myself into thinking I could produce an income by standing up in front of a bunch of strangers talking endlessly while they drink and hope that on occasion I can make them laugh or drink more (after all that is how these clubs make their money, isn’t it?)

Where was I? Oh yeah. I signed up for a class on How to be a Stand Up Comic. One of the homework assignments was to post a joke on Facebook each day. But I don’t do jokes anymore. I can only do “stories” and hope people find something funny in them along the way. You see “the Long and Winding Road” the Beatles put me on in 1970 when I was only 10 years old did not lead me to just One Door, It is that long never ending door after door after door I find myself standing in front of… It went from being the Long and Winding Road I was on to the Long Winded Story I was always trying to spit out.

Scraps of Paper

The flyer says April 2010 Public Skate at the very top and the days of the week across with boxes below for each date from April 1st to April 30th. I am scribbling my thoughts around the preprinted information and so many words are tumbling out I flipped to the back and feel the freedom of the blank white space. I cannot sit here while my daughter skates and simply watch her. I need to feel some movement in my own body even if it is just the pen in my hand moving from left to right. The physical movement helps keep the mental movement from spiraling downward. I forgot to bring in my journal which is why I had to take one of the flyers to use.

I have been doing this for decades, grabbing scraps of available paper to write on when I don’t have my own spiral notebook handy. I would write around the margins of the newspapers, magazine ads or on the outside of envelope and then store the writing in a pocket or my purse. Sometimes I would lose them or inadvertently leave them to drown in a load of laundry. But when I managed to hang on to one, I dutifully placed it in a file folder labeled “writing scraps”. I guess they are like leftovers from a meal I never really finished eating. Every once in a while I will open the folder and look back at what I have written as if searching for the lost key that will open up the safety deposit box where my unwritten novel is stored in its entirety. Sometimes it is difficult to decipher my own writing either due to poor penmanship or the thoughts being so disjointed it is hard to tell why they began flowing from my mind to my hand gripping the pen in the first place. Yet, I save the scraps. It would be a crime to throw away perfectly good words. Unlike food, words never spoil.

I almost accidentally threw away the Ice Rink Flyer when I found it tucked into the visor of my Van along with directions I print out from map quest every time I travel somewhere. Then I noticed my own handwriting and started to read. I was surprised to find both the front and back of the flyer filled with my usual messy penmanship but I was easily able to follow the train of thought and could almost feel the cold air from the ice rink as I read the words I wrote not that long ago. Yet, I did not remember actually writing it. That is one of the things I like about writing. I can go back and read something I wrote and it will feel brand new to me since I have a horrible memory. While I sat and read my own words this afternoon I thought, “Wow, I really can connect with this person” which is a good thing since “I” am “this person.” At least I am still connecting with myself even if I feel I am in the process of disconnecting from the rest of the world. So, here are those words I wrote on one hot day in April while sitting in the lobby at Glacier Ice Rink, while waiting for my daughter and missing my mother.


I bet I appear normal to the outside world. Well, okay, maybe not normal, but unchanged. They cannot possibly hear this internal running conversation I am having with my deceased mother. I want to say out loud “I see dead people” as a way of explaining what I am imagining. To me the running dialogue represents an obvious disconnection to this world but I am not sure the world sees it in the same way because there is only silence surrounding me as I scribble away. My conversations with Becky are between my own two ears and exist only in the secret world where daughters and mothers no longer breathe the same air. The other parents and skaters and hockey players don’t hear my “crazy” thoughts. Luckily I am staying silent and just try to look normal by busily writing on this flyer I found with the Ice rinks’ monthly schedule.

What if I am like that little boy in the blockbuster movie “The Sixth Sense” who can see and communicate with dead people. The movie featuring Bruce Willis was far more suspenseful then the fable I am weaving from the loose strands of my shared life with Becky. The movie contained numerous surprises and plot twists. There is no surprise here in my mind. I am following a well worn path. My mother talked incessantly to her relatives who died too soon for her own mental health to go unscathed. She spent the remainder of her life crying out to them and asking for assistance in all matters from health to business to child rearing.

My mother spent a great deal of time in hospitals whether it was due to urinary tract infections going septic, cardiac issues, arthritis related problems or simply the wear and tear of age and stress. So going back as much as 20 or 30 years, my mother would spend days or sometimes weeks worth of hospital visits talking to her sister Ruthie, her mother Rose and her father Ben. When I was younger it frightened me. As years passed by it became less frightening and more irritating. Finally, it was neither. I just accepted that her communications with the dearly departed were no different then the fortune tellers at carnivals, harmless entertainment, and a necessary distraction from the scary and boring life found in hospitals.

These days I cannot wait for my kids to get on the bus for school so I can have the house all to myself and begin speaking to Becky about all the unfinished business of our life together. If the door bell rings and it is Bruce Willis, I am in big trouble!

SPOILER ALERT

At the end of the movie we realize the character Bruce Willis is playing is actually “one of the dead people.” Is it possible just a part of me died with Becky? Of course it is. What else would explain all these strange sensations of being disconnected that only I seem to be noticing?