359 Days to the big 50

Irony: A paradox between what happens and what might be expected to happen.
Paradox: A statement that seems contradictory, but that may nevertheless be true. an enigma, as a person or thing that possesses contradictory qualities

I needed to look up the definitions of the words Irony and Paradox because even though I use those words often I feel there is a complexity involving and surrounding them I have not yet fully grasped. I think knowing how they are defined by Webster's Pocket Dictionary (I stole it from my 13 year old son's bedroom) should help me understand the reason I accidentaly knocked a little cast iron Rhino figure sitting on the second shelf of the hutch on the desk I am working at onto my Laptop computer at which point the tiny horn bounced off the number 5 taking the little number pad with it to the ground.

The Rhinoceros has become a motivational symbol in my house ever since one of my husband's friends gave us a book entitled Rhinoceros Success by Scott Alexander. My husband and I are both on the same quest to live up to our potential and that means reading and learning from a wide variety of motivational, and inspirational sources. Soon after reading the book, I was buying every Rhino figurine I could find. We took pictures of ourselves with Rhinos at a wide variety of museums and zoos. I am far more superstitious than my husband. So I need to know if there is a connection between our belief in the power of Rhinos and the fact that one of them fell off from the middle of the Hutch sitting on the desk and the only damage done was to the number STOP! Pull out extra keyboard....5 key. Let me say right now, we are not Rhino worshipping cult figures. We simply use it as a type of good luck charm, or perhaps as a way to motivate ouselves into being the best we can be.

You see, now I am now forced to pull out the little extra key board I keep hooked on the sliding shelf in the desk whenever I want to type the number STOP! Pull out extra keyboard... 5. Otherwise I have gotten use to resting my wrists on my lap top while using the laptop's keyboard for everything but the number STOP! Pull out the extra keyboard...5 (and that little per cent figure which is on the Capital portion of that key). Are you bored reading this yet? I am bored writing it. But I need to get this out so I can continue to move forward with my life and my blog. I do not want to take the time or the money to get the number STOP! Pull out the extra keyboard...5 fixed on my laptop. I would have to send it into Dell. I think Dell should offer House Calls the way doctor's use to. I cannot be without this laptop right now. Yet, this is the time I have chosen to start a blog about turning STOP! Pull out the extra keyboard... 50

See it is disruptive to the writing process and I just made it disruptive to the reading process. So you will never hear/read me talk about this annoying lack of a number STOP! Pull out extra keyboard ....5 key on my laptop ever again. But please know I am willing to go to any lengths to continue on this mission. Perhaps I should reward myself when it is all said and done by having the number STOP! Pull out extra keyboard....5 key fixed once I have successfully completed the countdown. Is that irony?

a poem?

Do all writers start out as poets? I remember the first time I wrote creatively (not as an answer to a question like "what did you do on your summer vacation). It was a poem. I may even have it somewhere in a tiny spiral notepad. "Roses are Red, Violets are Blue blah blah blah. And you are too." Dear Lord, perhaps we all start out as plagarists. Who was the first person to come up with the "Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue" line? It has been used so much I cannot even recall where it started. I would love to know.

I have not written a poem since high school. Yet, one just popped into my head. I think it was prompted by a gift my brother and sister-in-law gave me. A beautfil leather bound journal. Whenever I get journals as gifts I consider them an invitation to write. My sister-in-law is always encouraging and supporting me. I wonder how I will be able to thank her one day. Perhaps I will write her a poem.


A Poem, July 17th

Blank pages
Silence rages
A Dried out pen
What, Why, When
Drooping Eyes
Sad Surprise
Stories untold
Mysteries unfold
Finding my place
Is an empty space

How can I fill the pages?
Quietly sooth the rages
Fill up the pen
Discover the why and when
Open my eyes
Uncover the lies
Tell the stories
The pain, the glories

Where are the words?
Why are they hiding?
Could it be they are there?
Waiting to be shared
I will never know
Without the necessary energy flow.

Pass the box, forget the milk...

My husband bought a box of Honey Nut Cheerios the other night during a routine stop at the grocery store. Usually he is like the main character in Jack and the Bean stalk (and a little like the goose who laid the Golden Egg – not that I am calling myself a golden egg, I mean he also is the only source of income in our family. I usually send my hunter man out with an easy to follow list of 1-2 items and he returns with bags and bags of all sorts of goodies, none of which are on the original request list. I was thrilled the other night when I asked him if he could stop and get some Diet Coke . It was a rare and wonderful sight when he showed up with the actual requested item. But he still had bags and bags of things I had not requested. But how could I complain, I got what I wanted. I will tell you how I can complain. I got more than I wanted which is not always a good thing. Even after 15 years of marriage I had kept a dark secret. I had a terrible addiction. My husband knew about the Diet Coke addiction. Everyone who knows me is aware that I sleep with an IV hooked up to help with a continuous 24 hour delivery of Diet Coke into my system. But there is another addiction and it is one I have been hiding for a long time. My favorite food is not Carson’s Ribs, Fettuchini Alfredo or the Salmon and Sweet Potato combo at Wildfire. No, I can be totally turned upside down and into a slobbering fool by a box of cereal. So, what possessed my husband to buy a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. He usually buys himself a wide variety of food, but never cereal. When we first got married he made fun of the fact that I considered cereal a snack. I don’t care for milk. I just ate it “dry” like potato chips. His idea of a snack was a food product that was actually found in the snack aisle. But lately I think he has been picking up some of my bad habits and he has been snacking on cereal. I know which cereals to buy so I will be able to control myself and not fall off the wagon into the sea of consumption, and Honey Nut Cheerios is NOT one of them.

I ate the entire thing in less than 36 hours. It is my cereal addiction rearing its ugly head. I guess that makes me a cereal killer. I know what cocaine and heroine can do so I guess I should be thankful my drug of choice is a carbohydrate laced in some sweet tasting sugary combination. I even have my top ten list of all time favorite cereals. If anyone ever creates a fancy restaurant where all they serve are bowls of cereal I bet it will be impossible to get a reservation. When I go to the grocery store the Cereal Aisle is like the walk of temptation for me. My top ten list, oh it changes from time to time when a new kid on the block comes out of nowhere and takes my taste buds and seemingly bottomless belly by surprise, but here goes:

Puffins (original FLAVOR)
Honey Nut Cheerios
Cinnamon Life
Lucky Charms
Frosted Flakes
Golden Grahams
Go Lean (regular, NOT crunch)
Coco Puffs
Fiber One (any of them) (have added value in departments other than just taste)
Good Friends by Kashi

360 Days until the Big 50

I Suck. I did not even make it an entire week and I already missed one day. Am I a prisoner of my childhood? NO! I cannot let this early mishap derail my initial goal. What does this have to do with my childhood, you may ask. Well that is a long story and this is a short blog. So suffice it to say originally I was going to lie and post a 362 days until the Big 50 and no one would have been the wiser. Especially since I realize no one is actually reading all this. Yet, I cannot tell a lie, even to myself. I want to, and normally I would have except I am trying to escape from my childhood by breaking out of all those old familiar habits I have so successfully employed over the last 49 years. Usually I would try to cover up the mistake, and then forget about it rather than admit to it and use it as a learning tool. Learning to fail and then to keep on trying might be the most difficult lesson I never learned. Perhaps that will all change when I turn 50. I will fail and push forward and fail again and again until I learn to love failure at which point I will then consider myself a great success. None of this is making any sense to me either if that is any consolation.

So, here is my excuse for why I missed a day. (I will try to avoid letting that happen again):

I had to help my mother celebrate her 90th birthday. That is a good thing. I had to be with my oldest brother who I rarely see. That is a bad thing. Thus, my childhood comes rearing its ugly head. Oh, I have conquered all those demons a hundred times over and yet.....there they are staring me in the face again. Tough little buggers those demons. He does not frighten me. I am just pissed off that I let it distract me from my noble goals of succeeding in life. I consider this blog and my daily entry to be a living testament to my children that one should never give up. Yet, knowing I was going to have to see him was enough to plant some subliminal energy sucker outer of my day. I was distracted, and disorganized. I cannot blame him because that is what he does, he blames everyone else. I refuse to go there. I am going to take responsibility for my own life. I will not get angry that I bust my ass helping my special needs cousins, raise two somewhat functional children, oversee the care of my 90 year old mother and then have to look at him acting like a weirdo lamenting how difficult his life is all because we had a crazy childhood. I have moved on, damn it. I know he cannot, but why the hell does it bother him that I have? But bother him it does. It bothers him to the point of acting like some poor pathetic misanthrope when in the presence of our entire family. He cannot think of anyone else and he wants all of us to sit and think about him too. Well this is what I have to say about that...

Narcissism is a terrible thing to waste......

Especially on other people!!!

So go ahead, self obsess all you want. I know you got dealt a bad hand bro but I was not the dealer and I got a lot of the same cards. You don't see me sitting in a puddle of self pity. I had enough sense to get out...of our childhood. If you want to stay there. Go right ahead. But I know the truth. That 90 year old woman you cannot even spend 10 minutes thinking about made sure you got a great college education and became a successful business man. You did not even bother to buy her a card or a gift or send her flowers. Your selfishness is what irritates me. I know you think I hate you because you made my life miserable when we were growing up, but I assure you I have left all that behind me. It is the way you are acting in the HERE and NOW that I cannot stand. But NOW I am going to have to abandon that anger as well, because once again, I am going to move forward while you will be stuck in the rear view mirror of my life. I know your back there, but I have already passed you by...bye bye

I can't wait to turn 50. I imagine a whole bunch of new opportunities and experiences just waiting for me. So if anyone is out there reading this, I will see you tomorrow.

362 Days until the Big 50

One of my favorite things to do is to read. I guess it started when I memorized my first book while sitting perched on a kitchen table in Humboldt Park. Someone, I am assuming it was my mother's sister, read the same book to me so often I was able to repeat it back word for word corresponding perfectly with the pictures on the pages. In my mind, I was reading and not just memorizing. Eventually I learned how to actually read, and had to move off the kitchen table and sit in a chair. I have always found great comfort in words whether they are written in the form of a novel, a short story, a poem, an essay, or the lyrics to songs. I think of words as keys and I use them to unlock my thoughts, and feelings so I can make sense of the world and my place in it.

When I had my own children and re-entered the world of children's books it did not take long to see what first drew me to my love for words. For a long time my favorite book was The Great Gatsby, then it was Great Expectations and then the Prince of Tides. When my son was born my favorite book became Oh the Places You'll Go by Dr. Seuss. Then when my son turned 3 my best friend gave him the book, The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein and I had a new idol. Move over Fitzgerald, Dickens and Conroy, Mr. Silverstein has just waltzed into the room and into my heart. His poem Where the Sidewalk Ends spins the idea of childhood dreams into a tapestry of a never ending chalk filled paradise. So, it was the idea of Sidewalks that made me go back and re-read the poem.

I have started riding my bicycle again, another passion that usually starts in childhood. Some passions have to wait until we are old enough or coordinated enough or strong enough, but not reading or bike riding. Those are love affairs that can begin with one word picture books and tricycles. Yet, while I never stopped reading, I did stop riding after I moved from the city to the suburbs 12 years ago. Growing up I needed my bicycle for so many reasons, the most important being as a mode of transportation since I grew up in a family that did not have a car. But in the Big City you don't need 4 wheels to get around. Two will do. So I rode and rode and rode. Then I realized all that riding was also a great way to lose the extra weight I tended to gain every 2-3 years. And even better, riding my bike along the Chicago lake front from Hollywood to Oak Street Beach was a great way to meditate and day dream about books I might write one day.

When I moved out to Buffalo Grove with my one year old son I put my bike in the garage and forgot about it. Growing up in the suburbs has made it easy to live a life without bicycles. My kids need to be driven everywhere. Some suburbs have no sidewalks at all. Even more dangerous are all the main avenues with 4 to 6 lanes of traffic. I realize there are bike trails but you have to drive to a lot of them just in order to start which means hooking the bike up to a carrier on the car and THEN going somewhere suitable for a bike ride. It just takes all the romance out of it for me. So I started riding around my neighborhood out here in Suburbville USA.

I am here to say, it is not true that you never forget how to ride a bike. I have fallen numerous times. I seem to have loss my sense of balance and/or confidence. I am quite nervous as I maneuver through streets to get to the one accessible bike path in my neighborhood. Suddenly everything seems so narrow. I am only about 20 pounds more than I use to be yet I feel like sidewalks and the bike paths are made for well coordinated stick figures. I have developed a horrible fear that I will run into another bike rider when I see one heading towards me. Then it dawns on me. I am not that much larger and uncoordinated than I was 20 years ago. I am not the problem.

Our culture has alloted space for the things it worships, cars, big cars. If we had been truly intelligent during all this urban/suburban planning we would have made much wider sidewalks and big fat bicyle trails running along every street and highway. Just think of how skinny we would all be from the walking and riding. Obesity epidemic? There would not be one. We could even break out the old grocery carts we all pulled along Devon Avenue when I was growing up. I wonder how that might help with firming up my flabby arms? And think of the stories a kid with a box of chalk could come up with along Sidewalks that never END?? Oh Shel, I miss you.

363 Days Until the Big 50

I use to run after guys on motorcycles the way little kids chase the sounds of the bells on the ice cream truck. The summer of my 19th birthday I fell for a life guard who had a motorcycle (cause enough for a multiple orgasm even before any physical contact). I would take the Devon bus going away from my house and towards the beach so I could then get a ride home on his motocycle. I would never wear a helmet. It just wasn't sexy. Years later when MTV was born I would watch Videos filled with young tan people on beaches, on motorcycles, tempting each other in short shorts and would think, "that was me once." Oh, I knew my youth and all the wonder it held was slowly slipping away. Now I see a motorcycle and think, "No way would I get on one of those. Why aren't those people wearing helmets, don't they know how dangerous it is to ride without a helmet?"

364 More Days Until The Big 50

The countdown begins..... I must post at least one thing a day until I turn 50. I am not allowing myself to skip one day. Not ONE. No matter how short or stupid the Post Might Be, it Must still BE.

Okay, I was out to dinner the other night with two friends. One of the friends is a Jewish Girl married to a Jewish Guy. The other friend is a Catholic girl married to a Jewish Guy. As we were joking around the Catholic girl started to explain what prevented her from doing bad things in her youth, Guilt. Her mother would tell her not to do things like drinking and sex because if she did then G-d would punish her. Ooooohhhhh I am so scared I said. Your catholic guilt cannot hold a candle (no pun intended) to my Jewish guilt. My mother told me if I did anything bad it would give her a heart attack and kill her and I would have to live with that hanging over my head for the rest of my life. Well tomorrow my mother turns 90. I guess she was lieing to me because by my recollections she should not have gotten past my senior year in high school. Happy Birthday Mom.