The Bering Blog

I Missed My Workout For THIS?

In late March, I got a letter from the PayPal Plus credit card company telling me they decided to close my account and were not sending me a replacement card when it expired in April. Their explanation was vague, so I called the number on my statement and talked to a service representative in, of course, India. She explained that PayPal reviewed my account and decided that since I hadn’t used the card in a few years and I still owed them money, they would close my account. It didn’t matter that I NEVER missed a payment or that I NEVER went over my credit limit, which was much more than what I owe them, I was apparently dragging down their bottom line and they dumped me like a bad mortgage.

I was concerned how this would appear on my credit report and she assured me, in a tone that suggested I’d done something wrong, that as long as I paid my account on time every month (I reminded her that was never an issue), there would be nothing negative posted to the credit bureaus.

Right. Like I trust that.

But I made my peace with their stupid decision and did what they told me to do in the letter which was to shred my credit card because I wasn’t supposed to use it anymore. Fine. I did that.

Fast forward to today. My PayPal credit card payment is due in two days. No problem. I’d pay it online like I always do. Only, I no longer have access to the card’s website through PayPal. It’s been taken away, vanished, whoosh! It’s gone.

Mildly ticked off, I decided to make a payment by phone since for me to send them a payment by check would take longer than two days to get there and then technically my payment would be late. After five minutes of answering the voice activated questions, I was told this transaction would COST me $10! The voice said, “Do you accept these charges?” to which I screamed in the phone, “HELL NO!” Funny how the voice activation understood that.

“Would you like to speak with a customer service representative?”

“HELL YES!”

“She” understood that, too.

Pretty soon I was talking to “George” in India. I explained to George my problem. He said he would extend my payment date and charge me no late fee if I mailed my payment today. Thank you, I appreciate that, I said, and I went on to explain that I want to continue making my payments online.

“How can you make that happen for me, George?"

He replied, and this is my FAVORITE part:

“You’ll need your statement AND YOUR CREDIT CARD to access our site.”

“Um….George?” I say to him calmly, believe it or not. “Let me explain something to you. The letter your company sent to me said I had to SHRED my card. I DID that. I played by your rules. And now you’re telling me I can’t pay my account online because I don’t have the credit card you guys told me to shred? Do you HEAR how ridiculous that is? I want to pay my account online. Now how will you make that happen?”

“Ma’am, you’ll need your credit card…” he insisted.

“I get that part, George. Who can I talk to who will at least ACKNOWLEDGE how ludicrous this situation is? I don’t want much, George. I just want someone at PayPal to admit PayPal is wrong,” I said, a little more agitated than before, but still not raising my voice, at least not too high.

He transferred me over to his manager and I explained the same thing to her. I didn’t yell, although I admit I was sarcastic, but she would not – no, she REFUSED – to acknowledge how backassward this whole thing was.

I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish, what kind of satisfaction I hoped to glean by asking one company representative to take responsibility for a problem the company created, not me, but all I got was her assurance that she’d “take it up with her managers” so something like this wouldn’t happen again.

Right. And I won’t be charged a late fee for mailing in my payment this month and nothing negative will be reported to the credit bureau. What was I? Born last week?

I’m sure she was doodling on a notepad the whole time I was on the phone, probably making faces into the phone, maybe sticking her tongue out at me when I said, “Do you see what a Catch-22 this is?” Then I wondered if she understood the literary reference. Not sure if they read Joseph Heller in New Delhi.

I hung up the phone and went upstairs to get an envelope because I threw away the one in the billing statement because I ALWAYS pay them (on time) online. I went to the post office to buy a 1-cent stamp to accompany my 41-cent stamp I bought last month and I stuck the envelope in the mail box.

Yadda yadda yadda…I’m keeping a close eye on my statement next month, and on my credit report for that matter. I really hope I don’t have to go rounds with another George in Dubai. It’s really not worth missing another workout for.

I Love Being a Mom Better Than Anything

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you who mother or care for children, family members, pets and gardens. I don’t mind the commerciality (is that a word?) of the day and it’s rendered some pretty neat gifts from my kids throughout the years.

There was the nearly bionic spider plant that wouldn’t die and I swear produced little baby spider plants overnight. I got that from Cassie when she was in second or third grade. Carlene brought home a pumpkin plant one year that we planted in our tiny little yard and we learned a few months later why you don’t grow pumpkins in tiny little yards.

I’ve received hand prints in plaster, hand prints in finger paint, and a wind chime made of a small clay pot and a washer. I looked forward to the Friday before Mother’s Day every year my kids were in grade school because I knew they would have been working on some gift project in school and would be so excited to give it to me. Their anticipation and excitement was the true gift.

Two years ago my daughters gave me a picture frame montage of 10 photos of them dressed in “I (heart) Mom” shirts. I’m not sure what’s up this year, but I have strict instructions not to look in Carlene’s car. She’s upstairs sleeping, having come up to Clarion last night to visit a friend and to see me today. It’s like the Friday before Mother’s Day all over. I’m sure Cassie will call this afternoon after her shift at the hospital and ask if I like their gift. I can already say I do and I have no idea what it is.

I know in Buddhist thought nothing is permanent and certainty is an illusion, and in most contexts that is true, but I am certain I love my children more than anything or anyone and I always will, in life and death. I love mothering more than chocolate or mountains or money or sex. It will always be my favorite thing.

A close second favorite thing is being Emily’s sister, who was born this day, Mother’s Day, May 11, 1975. Happy birthday, Em! Last year’s Mother’s Day blog was about my sister and how my mother had her when she was 43, which caught her completely by surprise (my mom, not Emily). You can read it here: My Favorite Mother’s Day – 1975.

One other note, I know Wikipedia isn’t always a reliable source for facts, but the information they have about Mother’s Day origins around the world is very interesting and, with the little research I’ve done, seems solid. Click here to read it.

I hope you get some time today to reflect on the ways you mother the people and things in your life, and how they satisfy you in return. I truly wish you a very happy Mother’s Day, even if you’re a guy or you don’t get a card or flowers or go out to brunch because you haven’t birthed something. Mothering and nurturing should never be limited to the womb.

The Claire Poop Club

Nothing says “I love you” like being pooped on by your grandkid. I’m now an official member of the Claire Poop Club, a exclusive club of people who’ve been pooped on while holding and playing with the baby. They don’t make diapers strong enough for what comes out of that kid’s bum sometimes, especially now that she’s eating prunes and green beans and sweet potatoes.

It happened Tuesday just as we were about to leave Cassie’s house and go to Carlene’s for dinner. I stood up, handed over baby Claire to her mother, and Cassie said, “What’s that?” I looked down and saw a 3- by 1/2-inch rectangular yellow stain on my (white, of course) pant leg, the same thigh Claire had been bouncing on the last 15 minutes.

“It’s poop!” I said proudly.

Claire has peed and spit up on most of her family members, but up until then she’s only pooped on her daddy.

I know better than to wear white when I’m visiting Claire, but earlier I’d nicked my knee shaving and got dressed before the wound cauterized so I figured nothing the baby could do would be any worse. Poop, blood, spit up, pee – that’s why God invented Clorox.

We got to Carlene’s and Claire wasn’t done with Grammy Lynn. While Cassie ate her dinner, I held Claire and fed her a rice/bananas/apricots concoction straight up out of the jar. She must have gotten an itch on her nose because before I had a chance to wipe up the excess around her mouth, she leaned in and wiped her face all over my shirt. Then she gave me a big old grin, showing off her two little pearly whites sitting on her lower gums, and I laughed. Never mind the paper towel, I told Carlene. The food was ground into my shirt and Claire’s face was clean.

On to the floor to play. Claire likes things that tie – shoes, belts, the bottoms of Capri pants. She had me untied faster than my junior prom date. Before I could stand up, I had to tie my clothes back up so they wouldn’t fall down. She drooled on my knees, chewed my shoes, and patted my face and said “bah bah bah,” which I interpret as “I love you Grammy. You’re the coolest grandma ever.”

It was Claire’s smile, her drool, her puke and her poo that I meditated on as I strapped on my wrist splints this morning and worked through some nauseating arthritis pain (for the lowdown on my “condition,” here are the blogs: Bad Wrists and A Car Wreck and My Lunates Are Dying). I had held Claire’s 17-pound, 7-month old wiggly body too long and I was paying the price. I don’t have that balance down yet, that place of holding Claire and looking on as other people hold Claire because I shouldn’t any longer. When I’m with her, I want to hold her and kiss her neck and whisper secrets in her ear. It’s like breathing and eating. If I can’t hold her I will die. And so I must make some decisions or compromises.

Here’s my dilemma. I’m 44 years old and feel stuffed in a box when I wear my wrist splints. I can have two surgeries that will fuse my wrists stiff like a mannequin and will take me months to recover, all the while I can’t hold Claire even for a few moments. In those months, she’ll get older, less wiggly, although heavier. Do I sacrifice the time now or wait? A few days in my splints, some Advil, and my wrists are back to “normal,” at least Lynn normal. The surgery is permanent. Fused, unbendable wrists. I’ll still have arthritis and tendonitis in my elbows…..ERGH! Back and forth and back and forth my thoughts go.

In a perfect world….

Deep breath, Lynn. Time to go wash my pants. Time to apply a little Clorox to the stain and think about how Claire banged a wooden spoon on the counter and laughed as she secretly pooped out her diaper and on to my pants. What’s the right thing to do? I don’t know right now. But thanks for letting me say it out loud here.

 

A Story Of A Man In Women's Clothing In My Bathroom

It’s raining pollen, kicked up by the mower the boy next door is running over his lawn. Tiny yellow flecks are resting on my computer, my apple, the dogs and my glasses, settling in my eyes and up my nose. The “Tommy” soundtrack’s been running through my head all afternoon while I vacuumed behind the stove, washed down the back of a neglected counter, threw mulch on the gardens and walkway, and now as I sit watching pollen drift and stick, drift and stick.

I should be writing. I should wash the car, too. Instead, I want to share a weird story with you that I woke up thinking about this morning. Hopefully by telling it, I won't think about it anymore.

The first summer I owned my antique store, back in 2002, a man came in looking for vintage clothing. He was dressed in a suit, it was around noon, and my dad was eating lunch in his shop in the back. I told him we didn’t have much in the way of men’s period clothing or jewelry and he said that was OK, he was looking for women’s items. Oh, I said, will this be a gift? He said no, that he was going to a “party,” wink wink. An “adult” costume party.

It was like standing in the middle of a back issue of Penthouse Forum. I didn’t press him for details, although I asked him what he was looking for specifically.

A delicate ladies shirt or jacket, he said. I sized up his shoulders and it looked like he could fit in some of the items I had, so I showed him a pink feathery waist-length opened jacket and a teal blouse with eyelet closures in the front. Perfect, he said, and he asked if he could try them on.

I was dying of laughter inside, wondering what my dad would think if he saw this guy bringing women’s clothing into the bathroom. I told the man to give me a second to see where my dad was. The man looked a little nervous, but I assured him I could keep my dad busy. I wasn’t going to lose a customer just because he wanted to dress like a woman!

With the coast clear, the man went into the bathroom and tried on the clothes. He peeked his head out the door and asked if I minded rendering an opinion. Sure, I said. No problem. I walked over to the door, looked in, and there he was, buck naked in my bathroom wearing only the pink jacket and checking himself out in the mirror. He asked me, with a serious look on his face, “Does this look alright?”

I clenched my toes to keep from laughing (or looking down). He turned around and checked out the back in the mirror. I admit I looked down.

“Why don’t you try the teal blouse,” I suggested. “Maybe you’ll like that one better.”

OK, he said, and I shut the door.

I wasn’t sure if he was serious or if he was just some flasher who got off shocking antique store owners by wearing women’s clothing in their bathroom, but that seemed preposterous since I had the upper hand. He was naked in my store, and my dad and my .22 were in the back room. This guy really did have a party to go to.

So I went back to the rack and picked out a few other tops I thought would look good on him. He  appreciated the effort, and found one he liked – a white lacy high-neck number that a school teacher would have worn with a long black skirt, only he didn’t want the skirt.

Just when I didn’t think things could get more weird, he asked me (while still naked in my bathroom), “Do you have any jewelry that would, you know, fit around ‘it’?” Apparently they dressed their Johnsons and hoo-haas for the party, too. Alrighty then.

I wasn’t about to take out the measuring tape, but at quick glance I could tell a small bracelet might actually work, so I told him to give me a minute and I’d go see what I had. I found a thick metal clasp bracelet with a tiny sword dangling from a chain that I thought might work. Strangely enough it did. Fit him like a glove. Its previous owner was surely rolling in her grave.

The man got dressed and met me at the counter. My dad emerged from the back and greeted the man. “Found something for your girlfriend?” Dad asked. The man turned several shades of red (funny he didn’t blush when he was showing off his bejeweled bishop in the bathroom) and I said yes, he found just the right things. “Well good,” said my dad, and he went back to his shop.

The man thanked me for my discretion and I told him he could come back anytime. And he did, sometime around Halloween, and he bought some dangling earrings and a black fur cape. I never saw him again, though, and I sold the store in 2006.

I sometimes wonder about those parties. Maybe that’s what was in my subconscious this morning that woke me up. I figured a whole lot of sex was going on, but that’s not what intrigues me. It’s actually the aesthetics. What was everyone wearing? Did every man dress up his jimmy, every woman her v-jay? I feel so naïve when I think about this! Naïve and amused.

Ah, the mower is off. The pollen is everywhere and I have to sneeze again. Thanks for listening and letting me share my weird tale of the jewelry sporting, party-going customer. Aren't you glad you read all the way to the end? LOL I'll probably think about it still from time to time, but at least I'm not the only one who knows it now, lucky you. I can only imagine what your thoughts are. Share!

What I Know About 'Shrooms I Learned on NPR

Why it that when I hear about something that happened 20 years ago, I think of the late 1970s and not the ‘80s? It’s like I lost a decade somewhere.

I can’t blame LSD because I never did it, although I had a high school boyfriend who did and liked it. A lot.

His name was Brian and the last time I saw him was about 12 years ago. I was in Minnesota visiting my high school friends Pam and Mike, who Brian and I introduced during our 4-month courtship back in 1980. They got married a year after graduation and are still together. Anyway, I was over at their house when Mike called Brian and told him to come over. He did, and I was surprised to see he was missing a few teeth. His hair was still wildly curly, though, and his eyes that same pale blue. He asked me what I’d been up to and I told him about my work at the university and how my girls were growing and doing well in school. Then I asked him what he’d been up to, and with his familiar shit-eating grin he said, “Well, yesterday I dropped acid and went cat fishin’. Hee, hee.”

Thirty-two years old and he was still trippin’. I guess that would explain the missing teeth in some roundabout way.

On my way home from Pittsburgh this morning, I was listening to National Public Radio and my favorite radio newscaster, the man whose voice I want on my answering machine if I ever get on (and win) the show “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me!”, Carl Kassel, announced that Albert Huffman, the “father of LSD,” died in Switzerland yesterday at 102. That’s when I thought about Brian and tried to remember when we dated and I came up with 20 years ago, even though it’s closer to 30. Where did the ‘80s go?

After the news, I switched over to another NPR station and listened to the Bryant Park Project.

It must be drug day because the story they were discussing was Denmark’s proposal to ban hallucinogenic mushrooms. They interviewed an American who owns a “smartshop” in Amsterdam called Mushroom Galaxy. Having never done ‘shrooms (or dropped acid or snorted coke or licked toads), I wanted to know more about this particular high and so with a quick Google search, I found Mushroom Galaxy’s homepage.

Oh my. It’s quite a site. They not only sell mushrooms, but also “love herbs” and other aphrodisiacs, snuff kits, absinthe, hemp products, pipes, marijuana seeds, and other psychedelics. Unfortunately, everything is available in their Amsterdam store only and not through mail order. Damn. Some of their gift items would knock off a good quarter of my Christmas gift list!

The floating mushroom mouse pointer is a bit irritating, but maybe after a few ‘shrooms it becomes fascinating. Mom, if you’re reading this, I don’t recommend you click on their link. Everyone else, though, especially those of you who grew up in the 70s and remember being able to buy a bong in the same place you bought an LP, give the site a look. If nothing else, it’s interesting to contemplate the vast cultural differences between the Dutch and Americans, or Europeans in general and Americans. Imagine if the Puritans hadn’t settled in our country and instead were able to establish their beliefs in Europe. Would a Mushroom Galaxy be possible here?

I won’t drop acid, but maybe in honor of Mr. Huffman, I’ll dig out my “Hair” soundtrack and listen to “Walking in Space.”

I’m still wondering where that decade went. I was pretty sober when I lost it. Maybe there was more to that high school gunja than just the munchies.

Farewell To Another Balladeer: Paul Davis

I heard the news while driving the winding backroad to my granddaughter’s house on Wednesday. Singer Paul Davis died April 22 of a heart attack, one day after his 60th birthday. My heart sank.

His music is part of my personal history of the late 70s and early 80s, and his song “I Go Crazy” (1978) is one of my all-time favorites. When he sings, “Hello girl, it’s been awhile,” I’m transfixed and transported. I’m that angst-ridden teenage girl who dreams of having a boy love her so much that when she breaks his heart and they run into each other a few years later, his face would pale and his heart would skip a beat and she would know she still had “it.”

I’m a drama queen. I admit it. But the lyrics…ah…they feel sadistically redemptive, and the music is slow and sad. It’s every Jane Eyre-loving girls perfect song:

“Hello girl it's been awhile
Guess you'll be glad to know
That I've learned how to laugh and smile
Getting over you was slow
They say old lovers can be good friends
But I never thought I'd really see you
I'd really see you again

“I go crazy
When I look in your eyes
I still go crazy
No my heart just can't hide
That old feelin' inside
Way deep down inside
Oh baby, you know when I look in your eyes
I go crazy

You say he satisfies your mind
Tells you all of his dreams
I know how much that means to you
I realize that I was blind
Just when I thought I was over you
I see your face and it just ain't true
No it just ain't true…”

Even at 44 that song still makes me sardonically happy. It’s one of my cool-down songs in my workout mix on my iPod.

“Cool Night” (1981) doesn’t have quite the same effect as “I Go Crazy,” but it still fed my heartbreak fantasies back in the day.

“Come on over tonight, come on over.
It’s gonna be a cool night, just let me hold you by the firelight.
If it don’t feel right you can go.

“Oh and the cool night, brings back memories of a good life.
When this love was not so old.”

“Sweet Life” (1978) brought out Happy Housewife Lynn, especially when I heard it after I married Bruce and we lived a sweet life and we made a daughter who had his eyes and my nose. After he died, it became our bittersweet anthem, and hearing it today for the first time in probably 20 years, I choked up a little.

“She's got your eyes, she's got my nose
And I get high just watching her grow
We always dreamed we'd live in a castle
Oh, but we're in the same old shack
Sometimes we get into a hassle
But we always take each other back
This old world seems to be in a hurry
But darlin' we'll just keep on takin' our time

“'Cause we're livin' such a sweet life
Oh what a neat life
Sharin' my love with you
We're livin' such a sweet life
Oh what a neat life
Makin' our dreams come true
We're makin' our dreams come true…”

I don’t care for “65 Love Affair” (1982) since I’m not a big do-wop, 50s be-bop fan, AND because for the two weeks it was a big hit it was always played right after, right before or at least in the same hour as the all-time suckiest song ever, “Bette Davis Eyes.” Longest two weeks of my life. Of course, now that I’ve thought about it and written it down, “Bette Davis Eyes” will be playing in my head all day. Ugh.

I totally forgot Paul Davis sang a song called “Do Right” (1980) until I researched this blog this morning. It always felt a little preachy to me (probably because it is preachy) and it always seemed to come on the radio when I was smoking or drinking or otherwise immorally engaged. It was like my mother and my pastor were in the back seat (or the front seat, depending on what I was doing at the time).

“I know that he gave his life for me
Set all our spirits free
So I wanna do right wanna do right
All of my life
I never dreamed I could be holding you
Well he's making my dreams come true
So I wanna do right, wanna do right
I wanna do right, oh…”

I’ve loved this time with Paul Davis’s music this morning. I’m sad he is gone. I wish his family peace.

To view his fan site on MySpace (you don’t have to be a member of MySpace to view this site), click here.

Life’s Short. Eat Like a Baby.

The best part about driving to Pittsburgh from Clarion is the time. Seventy-five minutes of whatever I want to listen to or not listen to and think about or not think about. I pack a bottle of water or a travel mug of tea or coffee, and a plastic grocery bag filled with some fruit, like a banana or prunes or apples or grapes; maybe a few crackers and Werthers hard candies; definitely some gum and Altoids and Tic Tacs (I’m all about keeping my mouth minty happy); and often a homemade extra, like hummus or the pudding/pumpkin/cinnamon thingy I make, which requires a spoon.

Yesterday I really needed to see my girls – both daughters and grandbaby Claire. You know how you have those weeks when stuff just gets crazy and you need to walk away from it and surround yourself with the love and humor of the people you love the most?

I packed up my usual travel bag, such a classy couture, and included the pudding/pumpkin/cinnamon thingy in a recycled margarine container. I grabbed a spoon and I was good to go.

Forty-five minutes later, I passed Kittanning and merged on to 28, the four-lane to P’burgh. Eating the pudding thing while winding along Route 66 would have been cotton fiber suicide so I waited until I could put the Jeep on cruise control and safely balance the margarine container on my thigh. I turned off the Sirius radio, dug around for the spoon in the bag, and dug into the creamy goodness.

Two spoonfuls in, I realized I was just eating to eat. What’s the pleasure in that? I thought about Claire, who loves cold sweet potatoes and sweet peas. How would she eat this pudding concoction? Claire leans forward in her high chair and watches you bring the spoon to her mouth. She clamps her lips around the spoon and sucks and chews it until all the food is either in her mouth or spread out around her upper and lower lips. And sometimes her chin and neck, depending on how firm a grip you’ve got on the spoon. The food that’s in her mouth she swishes around like mouthwash, cherishing every flavor until she swallows and leans forward for another round.

So I tried eating Claire style. I scooped up a spoonful of pudding/pumpkin/cinnamon and sucked it off the spoon. I let it wander around in my mouth for awhile and on every exhale, tasted every last flavor it offered. (Have you noticed you can’t taste much when you inhale?) I observed the soft texture and the cold before swallowing it and thought of nothing more.

I’m trying to be more mindful in the small moments to train myself to be more aware in the big ones. Claire eats without thinking about money or work or her weight. She just concentrates on that moment of food. Eating like Claire, it took me 15 minutes to down a cup of pudding. That’s 15 minutes I can still recall and enjoy in my memory. How many meals or snacks have you eaten that you remember like that?

It’s not the specific food I remember so much, but the taste and the texture and the pure joy of eating. I tried the same thing with an apple today as I drove to pick up my dogs at the groomer. Same thing. I felt and was aware of the crunch, the sweet, and the red skin that caught in my molars. It was time spent not worrying about things I couldn’t change and things I couldn’t do.

Next time you’re tempted to multi-task while driving – paying bills or answering email via your Blackberry, talking mindlessly to pass the time – try eating some grapes or orange slices or even M&Ms. Really eat them. Think about them, each one, their texture and the feeling in your mouth. Breathe in their scent and exhale their flavor. Appreciate the moment for what it is. It’s a moment that you are simply being alive and not planning, not regretting, not wondering about the next moment. Just let it be what it is. It’ll give you a whole different appreciation and perspective of about darn near anything.

Let The Voting Begin

I have to remember that readers of this blog are not in my head. There’s no way for you to know how I “meant” something unless I make it clear in my writing.

I’ve very much appreciated your thoughts and comments about my last blog in which I ranted about the backstabbing going on in the 5^th congressional district here in PA. I heard from two kind and passionate readers who wanted to remind me that there is nothing wrong with being a real estate agent. When I first read their comments I thought, ‘I never said that.’ But when I looked back on what I wrote, I can surely see where the confusion was. What I meant was this particular real estate agent was not the right person for the congressional seat. But how could you know that if I didn’t indicate that more clearly? I apologize to all real estate agents and those who love them.

Also, my friend Carol made an excellent point that I wanted to share: “I do have to disagree with you about one thing. I think that in order for everyone's voice's to be heard, it is important that Congress be made up of people with various backgrounds, education, training and work experience. You can't really use W as an argument against that because, quite frankly, he works as an argument against everything in every situation. The candidate I am voting for in our own circus-like Congressional race is in fact a minister. He is educated, has roots in the community, is service minded, and can speak to the issues that matter to me. And being the eternal optimist that I am, I am counting on the fact that, as a minister, he has more than a passing acquaintance with honesty (I know, I know).  He is the kind of person I want representing me in Washington.”

Very true. And again, I meant in my last blog that the particular minister running for the seat in my district is not qualified, in my opinion, and does not share even the remotest interests, politically or otherwise, with me. Again, my apologies to ministers and to those who love them.

Carol's right about having diversity in our political machine. There are ministers and real estate agents and mayors and mechanics out there who would make excellent members of congress. I admit using W as an example of the lack of education in our political system was poor judgment on my part. When I write a blog, I often write off the top of my head and without the critical analysis some of my subjects deserve. This isn’t an excuse, but an explanation.

Having said that, I want smart people in office and I don’t believe W is a smart person. He may be passionate about his beliefs, but he’s not smart, and in fact seems to relish the fact that he’s not smart, like being ignorant is a badge of honor. That bothers me. A lot.

Being smart encompasses all areas, not just education. It means being thoughtful, patient and compassionate; having experience working with diverse groups; and having the ability to truly see both sides before making a decision. Most people fail at the latter, particularly when they are ingrained in the rhetoric of their party.

Thank you again for your insight, support and thoughtful comments. As soon as I post this, I’m walking over to my polling site and voting. I actually have butterflies I’m so excited! I’ve never voted in a primary before, but I’ve done my homework and am ready to make a thoughtful decision. Several thoughtful decisions, actually. This isn’t just about Obama and Clinton. I’ve got a few other political seats to help fill.

No One Runs Me Off My Own Blog! The Primary Redux

Some of you might have read the blog I put up yesterday about how I was feeling mean lately because of the primary tomorrow and the fighting going on between two particular candidates for the congressional seat in my district. I took it down last night after taking some heat for it. I was tired and not wanting to fight these guys’ political backers. Actually, what I really felt was angry and then I felt that old familiar one: unworthy to have a voice about anything, particularly politics.

I had a good night’s sleep, woke up, and decided I DO have an opinion, it’s valid, and my facts ARE straight. Matt Shaner may not have been charged with DUI, but I didn’t SAY he was. The Derek Walker campaign did. I stand by every word of my blog and I’ve decided to put it back up again, particularly after I read this on the Declaration of Pride blog: “Shaner blamed his alcohol related crash on the political powers trying to smear him. Sorry, but political opposition didn't tell you to drink, drive, wreck, leave the scene, hide in your home, and then come in the next day to admit alcohol was involved, pay a fine, leave and then finally freak out on the CDT, blaming all your misjudgments on some sinister political force that was out to get you. Shaner made those decisions, and they are a critical flaw in his claims of representing the best virtues for PA 05.”

No one runs me out of my own blog.

I want to share the comment tommayer@gmail.com posted and I deleted (and this is verbatim – the spelling and grammar are all his). With backers like him – setting the “record” straight makes it all so much better! LOL – who needs enemies?: “You should feel mean you sound like an idiot because you don't even have your facts right. Matt Shaner was never arrested for a DUI he crashed his car near his house and walked home and reported it. He recieved a citation for leaving the scene of an accident not a DUI. Next time why don't you get your facts right and do something yourself politically rather than bitching about good people running for a position you have no guts to run for yourself. I pitty people like you who hide behind their computer and post nonsense that isn't true.”

I love Sunday mornings. I catch up on my favorite blogs, read the Washington Post, send emails, and play a few games of canasta on Yahoo.

Soon, very soon, the peace will unravel as the phone calls begin once again from Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, and every other democrat (and republican) running for office. I don’t like to wish time away, but I can’t wait until Tuesday (the Pennsylvania primary) is over. I’m becoming kind of mean, and I don’t like being mean.

I’m a registered democrat so I kind of accept, with dismay, the phone calls from the dems, but the republicans? I can’t even VOTE for those people even if I wanted to, so why are they wasting their time on me and my answering machine?

I’m talking specifically about the idiots, I mean the two front runners, for the 5^th district congressional seat here in PA. What a couple of playground mama’s boys. Their names are Derek Walker and Matt Shaner and neither one of them deserve to be elected to prom committee let alone congress.

A few days ago, the district attorney in Clearfield County, a few counties east of me, filed burglary and other charges against Walker who allegedly walked into his ex-girlfriend’s apartment last August at 2 in the morning while she and her boyfriend were getting it on on the couch and started taping them with his cell phone and saying something like “This will guarantee you lose your job with the school district.” Here’s the ironic beauty: Walker’s TV ads play up the fact that he’s an Eagle Scout and a “family man.” I love the shots of him in church and being interviewed in front of stained glass windows. What is it with politicians using God like that? I’m pretty sure God doesn’t want to be part of this wacko’s campaign. Of course Walker is denying all these allegations, and I probably should reserve judgment, but some of the things he says he didn’t do are documented on phone records. Duh!

And yet, his campaign called me ad nauseum yesterday. My favorite recorded message featured a voice barely above a whisper, in real gossip mode, “When Matt Shaner was arrested for DUI…”

DUI? Oh hell, that didn’t stop Bush from becoming president! Why should that stop Shaner from getting into congress? It’s freaking madness, folks.

There are several other republicans vying for this seat including the mayor of my town and a local Baptist preacher, both in careers that hardly prepare you for serving in the U.S. congress, but it’s sad how we place so little importance on preparedness and a good education (and not just the fact that one attended a good school – again, I submit W as the perfect example) when it comes to electing our public officials.

I’m voting for Bill Cahir, although a democrat stands about as much of a chance of winning this district as W would have winning a spelling bee. Cahir served in Iraq and worked with one of my favorite former senators, Harris Wofford. He’s also a journalist. That makes him much more appealing to me than an Eagle Scout, a real estate agent and a preacher.

I’ve also decided between Clinton and Obama. But I’m keeping that to myself. I really appreciated all your input, both in comments and via email.

Tuesday can’t come fast enough. I want to use my phone again. And I want to stop feeling mean.

Bill Clinton's in Clarion...and I'm in Pittsburgh! Dammmit

The biggest thing to hit Clarion is rolling into town today and I’m not there to see it! Bill Clinton is giving a speech at Clarion University this afternoon and I’m in Pittsburgh today. I could have had a ticket to the event and everything. Damn. I so wanted to be the girl in the blue dress in the front row….

It all came together quickly, apparently. No one even knew he was thinking of stopping by until yesterday, according to today’s Derrick. I guess when you’re wife wants to win next Tuesday’s Pennsylvania primary, you’ll go just about anywhere to help.

Clarion is heavily republican, so I’m sure there’s a lot of Clinton bashing going on back home. I share very few of the conservative values of my fellow citizens and so I stay out of their inane debates. I’m not wholly a democrat, either, although as I wrote last month, I changed my affiliation from independent to democrat so I could vote in the primary. I’m still not sure who I’m voting for – I’ll probably make that decision in the voting booth – but some Bill Clinton love (no, not exactly Monica kind of love) might have swayed my vote a little. Just a smile would have done the trick. I like Bill Clinton, I can’t lie. (We’re still friends, though, right, Shari?) I’m just not sure I want another eight years of Clintons in the White House. It might even be longer than that. Won’t Chelsea be old enough to run for president in eight years? We could forget we’re living in a democracy and think we’ve adopted a monarchy.

Obama. Clinton. Obama. Clinton. I’m not sure. What do you think I should do? I read the papers. I read the op-eds. I read blogs. Now let me know what you would do if you lived in Pennsylvania and could vote on Tuesday.

The Boys Are Back In Town

I can see them but they can’t see me, my teenage stepsons who just arrived with their father a few minutes ago and are sitting outside on the deck. They’re on spring break and will be here for the week. Time to dust off my mothering skills and get to it.

They both tower over me now, my once small boys who’d crawl on my lap and tell me stories or watch TV. Now they lay sprawled on the couch and overstuffed chair playing hand-held video games. I wish we had a Wii. I’d so love to kick their butts in bowling.

Clarion University’s spring break was a few weeks ago, so their father must work while we play. This is one of the few perks of freelancing. Since I set my own schedule, I decided the boys and I will head out of Dodge and go to da’burgh to see their niece, sisters and brother-in-law for a few days.

Our car trips are always memorable. On our last trip, I introduced them to the songs “Love Stinks” and “Paradise By the Dashboard Light.” Now the new AT&T GoPhone commercial makes sense to them.

We’re always singing something while Kevin plays air guitar or air drums. Problem is, he doesn’t realize how tall and lanky he’s become. If he’s in the front seat, his arms flail into my driving space and in the back, he kicks the back of my seat like he did when he was little. He doesn’t mean to and always apologizes with an “Oops. Sorry.” accompanied by a short deep giggle. I’m still not used to his voice change.

Car time is also a good time to just catch up and laugh. We email and talk on the phone in between visits, but when we get to see each other for real, and especially when I get them alone in a moving vehicle in which they can’t escape, I ask the most detailed questions I can. On the phone, they grunt answers to their father’s questions, but they know I need plain English. Tuesday we’ll talk about school and their friends, but I think mostly I’ll ask them about what girls are in their lives, both as friends and as possible more-than-friends. They’ll blush, but I can usually get them to talk.

And if I can’t, their sisters can.

A highlight this week for their dad will be taking Andy out driving. Andy will get his permit soon and his license later this summer. I realize he’s 16 and very tall, but to see him behind the wheel of a car? I’m not sure I’m ready for that. He might even want to go to prom this year. Yikes! Good lord, I’ll be a wreck when he graduates from high school in 2010. You’d think I birthed the boy. Sometimes it feels like it, I’ve known him almost as long.

The week will no doubt go by too fast. There will be fart jokes and booger jokes and I’ll have to remind them to use Kleenex and to not throw their underwear in a wad in the corner of their bedroom. But as I’ve said in past blogs, as stressful as it can be at times, I love our little two-thirds of a Brady Bunch stepfamily. I only wish we had our own Alice.

Assertiveness and the Doctor

Anticipation’s a bitch, isn’t it? It practically ruined my day. I had to keep reminding myself to stay in each moment, that my knee injections would only take a few seconds, and that until 3:45 p.m., there was no sense worrying about pain that may or may not happen.

But I still did sometimes. Worry, that is.

Synvisc has been a godsend to my dilapidated knees. Every six to eight months, I have a series of three injections in each knee over a three-week period (six injections in all). The medication replaces the synovial fluid I lack, providing a cushion for my kneecaps. I no longer have chronic arthritic pain, or at least most of the time it’s minimal, between injections.

The injections are painful because the needle must go between two joints and deep into damaged tissue. When done right and slowly, it’s not too bad. I go to my happy place and relax and it’s over in less than two minutes. Most of the time, my favorite orthopedic assistant/specialist, Steve, gives me the injections. He calls me things like “Scooter” and “Buddy” and makes me feel relaxed and safe. During one of the series of injections 8 months ago, Doogie Howser walked in the room with Steve and I immediately tensed. Doogie was a med student, Steve explained. I asked the young pup skeptically, “How many of these have you done?” He answered enthusiastically, “I’ve been doing this for two weeks!” “Um, son?” I said. “I have underwear older than you. Your two weeks of injecting needles into knees does NOT impress me.” He laughed nervously, like maybe I was kidding. Nothing in my body language indicated I was kidding, though, and thankfully, he listened to Steve’s advice and the injections went smoothly.

Last week, however, Miss Newbie Med Student, whom we’ll just call “Barbie,” walked in with my actual doctor, not Steve, and took control of the needles and jabbed each one in, all three inches, without so much as a breath of a warning. Bitch. I had a hard time walking the rest of the night and my knees ached the next day. I’ve had dozens of injections and none of them felt that bad. I can take pain and I wasn’t being a big baby about it, but I was pissed. But did I say anything? Heck no. I’m too nice. I got home, limping, and wondered how I’d tell my doctor this week that I didn’t want Barbie within 10 feet of me with needles.

Why is it so hard for me to be assertive with my real doctors? God knows I have enough of them with all this freaking arthritis. I do pretty well with the wannabes, but why am I so intimidated otherwise? The anticipation today made me nuts. I kept playing the scenario in my head of me being kind yet firm if another newbie walked in the room ready to inject my knees like they were porterhouse steaks. I’m always assertive and successful in my daydreams, but I usually fall apart in real time.

However…...

Again, my real doctor, not Steve, walked in the room followed by a tall lanky young newbie who stuttered (in nervousness) when he said “Nice to meet you” and shook my hand. His hand was sweaty, too. My doctor said he’d been taking some ribbing all day and was feeling a little “off.” Off? OFF? Some kid who couldn’t handle some teasing was going to put needles in my knees?

I didn’t think so. Something like courage bubbled up inside me, uncontrolled, protecting me.

“How many of these have you done?” I asked him.

“A few,” he said, smiling.

“Doc, I gotta tell you,” said the voice coming out of my mouth. “Last week, that girl really hurt me. I couldn’t walk well for 24 hours.”

In response, my doctor actually apologized. He asked me if I’d feel better if he did the injections and I said yes, but if he’d talk Mr. Tall and Lanky through one, I’d be OK with that. I turned to Mr. Tall and Lanky and said, “Here’s my advice. Go S – L – O – W. Don’t attack my knee like it’s dinner.” He turned 20 shades of red and I’m sure he was pretty close to wetting himself, but god love him, he found the joint, injected the needle slowly, and it didn’t hurt. Well, didn’t hurt as in I didn’t want to shoot him when he was done. The injection hurts, that’s a given, but I shouldn’t have a “knee-jerk” reaction to kill the injector when it’s happening. My doctor did the other knee and all was well and tonight, I’m walking without holding on to the furniture throughout my house. Yay!

Walking out of the doctor’s office this afternoon, my stomach wasn’t hurting anymore, my shoulders were relaxed, and I sang a Peter Frampton song all the way home. I was assertive. I told my doctor what I needed. And it felt good to do it.

I have one more series next Thursday. I won’t ruin the day with anticipation now that I know I can say, “Hey! Don’t f*@$ up my knee, ok?” Well, maybe I don’t use the F-bomb. But damn, being assertive is way much better than fretting and staying quiet.

Visiting the Past Isn't Always Sunshine and Roses

I can hardly see the computer screen for the glare, but I refuse to leave the deck now that the sun has finally made an appearance in western PA. I raked dead leaves out from under the mulberry bush, cleaned out the flower beds and found budding perennials underneath, swept the deck and put out a few deck chairs. It’s the same temperature here today as it was a week ago in LA. I needed this peace and warmth this afternoon because this morning was a little rough.

I had to dig through some old journals of mine as research for a writing project. I went back to 1987, when I was 23 for half the year, my daughters were 4 and not quite 3, and I was married to husband #2. I was dieting, as usual, and wrote a lot about my first husband who’d been dead only four years.

Much of this particular journal was painful to read, especially knowing the outcome marriage #2 and the growing pains I endured as a mother. I admit to yelling at my kids, one time telling Carlene to shut up. I wrote about how horrible I felt and how I went to her room and apologized. She hugged me, not wanting to say anything because if she did she knew she’d cry and Carlene hated to cry.

Soon after that entry, I found a poem by Peter Meinke that I copied in my journal. In the margin I wrote “daughter Carly” next to the author’s reference to his son Peter. Here’s the poem:

This is a poem to my son Peter

Whom I have hurt a thousand times, whose large and vulnerable eyes have glazed in pain at my ragings

Thin wrists and fingers hung boneless in despair

Pale, freckled back bent in defeat

Pillows soaked by my failure to understand

I have scarred through weakness and impatience your frail confidence forever

Because when I needed to strike, you were there to be hurt

And because I thought you knew you were beautiful and fair, your bright eyes and hair

But now I see that no one knows that about himself

But must be told and retold until it takes hold

Because I think anything can be killed after awhile, especially beauty

So I write this for life, for love, for you, my oldest son Peter, age 10 going on 11

I copied this poem because it reminded me of Carlene, of my failings as a mother to understand her fears and vulnerabilities. While I didn’t yell often, and not always at my children, when I did, it ruined so much of the good we had. It made them walk on egg shells, not wanting to rock the boat of my inability to express myself more civilly.

I remember clearly the day I hung up the phone a dozen times, shattering it in the receiver, after fighting with my almost ex-husband. Carlene, brave and soft, said to me, “Mommy, it scares me when you yell.” She was 8 or 9, I think. She said her sister agreed. Carlene faced me knowing my response might be more anger. But it wasn’t. I was embarrassed and humbled and so very very sorry for having frightened my children. I was rarely ever angry at them. I was angry at my life. Angry at death and hardship. Angry at myself for bad choices and regret. I promised her I’d never yell again, and I truly made every effort not to. I still had my moments, but at least in the moment I remembered Carlene and her brave voice telling me how she felt. I still wonder how I ever raised such a patient and level-headed child.

Reading my journals is rarely a happy trip down memory lane. I seemed to always write about the bad stuff of me, flogging myself nightly for the things I did wrong and not the things I did right.

So gardening today, getting outside in the sun, is helping me remember that I wasn’t all bad. I didn’t yell all the time. I wasn’t unhappy day after day after day. My children love me. We’re very close. But if I could apologize to them over and over, I would. Because I love them and hate that I ever hurt them. Thank you, Paul Meinke, for writing that poem. I must have been paying some kind of attention to my anger to have copied it in my journal. It took my own daughter’s courage, however, to stop it in its tracks.

The Vacation Blues

I’m two days home from California and yet I feel a lifetime away from a week ago when I left.

I’ve been to Chicago, New York and Los Angeles in less than four months. Granted, people go to these places all the time, and sometimes all of them in the course of a week. But I’m just Lynn from Podunk, PA, and I don’t get out much. These last four months have been overwhelmingly not normal.

Usually when you return from vacation, aren’t you supposed to feel refreshed and ready to work your job again and live the ordinary life you left behind for a few days with more energy and patience? I’m still waiting for that vacation peace to hit me. So far, I’ve just been bored and impatient.

In a perfect world, I’d go to LA every other week. I didn’t expect to love it like I did. Before I left, my perception of LA was that of a smog-infested and congested city with impatient people and a few movie stars. From the second I got into the Alamo shuttle bus at LAX to the moment the plane left the ground bound for Pittsburgh, I learned and learned and learned that LA is nothing like I imagined.

Yes, the 405 is a busy road. People drive fast. They drive worse out east (sorry east coast readers, but it’s the truth). Yes, there is smog, but there are also palm trees and mountains and flowers that I couldn’t stop staring at. I know it’s a really large city with a lot of really big problems, but how can you not get caught up in the beauty of the Hollywood Hills, the San Gabriel’s, and the Pacific Ocean? Do you just get used to it all? Does it all become rote and ordinary? If so, what’s left of beauty to appreciate?

Even Beverly Hills, with its opulence and wealth, was welcoming. Lunch at The Ivy was no different than lunch anywhere else except that someone famous might walk in and cause a slight stir. That and the gimlets were $14 a pop. Patrons ate, drank and talked to their companions, same as anywhere else. The atmosphere was comforting, as were my dining companions – my daughter and my friend Michael.

I expected to be intimidated and lost. I thought I’d get homesick and want to leave the next day. Instead, I hated leaving and wished I had more time. It’s been a long time since a vacation did that to me. 

I’m not sure what to do with this feeling of spaciousness. It’s like I’ve spent the last 7 years in a bubble and I’ve finally been let out into the air. There is so much to see in this world and I feel stuck. Do you ever feel that way, living where you live and doing what you do?

Here are a few more vacation photos. Michael and me before saying goodbye in Beverly Hills (click on image to make it bigger); me with my cousin Rick (whom I haven’t seen in 18 years) at my nephew’s birthday party; and a photo of my beautiful diva granddaughter wearing the sunglasses and jelly shoes I bought her at Kitson. She promptly took off the jellies after this photo and started eating them. I guess that’s what keeps me grounded. She’s the cutest damn thing ever and I could never leave her for longer than a few days.

Sorry to be such a downer tonight. I’ll get over my angst soon, I’m sure. I have to learn to balance the fantastic with the reality. Given I didn’t experience much fantastic the last seven years due to my self-imposed isolation when I was obese, this will take a little time.

It Never Rains In Southern California?

Good morning from Orange County! I spent the night at my friend Kristin’s in Placentia. I wondered why you’d name a place after a placenta, but I looked it up and discovered it comes from a word in Latin meaning “a pleasant place to live.” Aw. How cozy is that?

My nephew Ian and me

Kristin, me, and my sister Emily at the Getty Villa

I woke this morning to a rain shower. It’s still cloudy, but the palm trees surrounding Kristin’s apartment still look exotic and warm against the gray backdrop. The OC is worlds away from San Fernando Valley. The people and streets are more spread out, and old women with heavy eye makeup shop at Trader Joe’s in fur coats, even though the temperature is 70 degrees.

Yesterday I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time. After touring Getty Villa at Pacific Palisades, we went to Topanga Beach where I got my feet wet and checked out the surfers. I picked up an interesting piece of driftwood and a few shells and soft rocks that will go home with me.

Carlene and me checking out the surfer dudes

Lunch was as new and fresh as the beach. We went to a vegan restaurant called Real Food Daily where I tried seitan for the first time. I guarantee it won’t be the last. I bought the Real Food Daily cookbook because I’m determined to make seitan again. Often.

There’s a little religion shop next to the restaurant. I can’t remember the name of it, but it now has a bit of my money. It’s part new age and yoga and part Christian and Hindu and Buddhist. Got some lovely smelling cedar incense and a few hemp shirts.

I’ll mosey back to the valley this afternoon. My nephew Gabriel will be 3 on Monday so his birthday party is today. My cousin Rick will be there. Haven’t seen him in 18 years. A Hershey cake will be there, too. That has me a little worried. I haven’t exercised since Wednesday and I can feel some weight creeping into my gut. I need to detox big time starting Tuesday.

In the meantime, I, like, totally need to chill. Tuesday and Pennsylvania and the cold will come soon enough. I’ve got two more days of palm trees and flowers and ocean and pretty people watching to do.

Good Morning from LA!

I made it here without freaking out on the plane and insisting we turn around. The flight was smooth, and even the six-month old baby in the seat two rows ahead was delightful and only fussed once.

Flying over New Mexico and Arizona, I made a mental note to visit there sometime and see the cavernous terrain up close. Where have these places been all my life?

Southern California is a little like I thought it would be and better. The weather especially is fabulous for winter-weary me. Palm trees, flowers of every color – God, it’s like an explosion of natural energy out here. Everything grows in earnest. That takes a little getting used to after living in nothing but varying shades of gray for the last five months.

The people have been great and so has the traffic. Yes it’s busy, but driving here is less insane than in Memphis or Manhattan.

A little synopsis of yesterday: After we landed, Carlene and I got our luggage and got on the rent-a-car shuttle. It’s only a few miles from LAX to Alamo, but I swear we passed 25 taco joints and a dozen “gentleman’s” clubs.

When I reserved a car online, I chose a compact because it was cheap and I didn’t need a lot of room. I figured I’d get a standard grey Cobalt or Focus, so I was a little more than surprised when waiting for me, freshly washed in the garage, was a metallic blue PT Cruiser! I always thought they were curious looking, like gangsters should ride on the running boards, but they’re actually a lot of fun. It took us a few hours to figure out there was a sunroof, though.

We cranked the stereo (and I kid you not, the Door’s “LA Woman” was playing), hopped on the 405 and drove into the San Fernando Valley. Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” was playing in my head: “It’s a long day, living in Reseda….All the vampires walkin’ through the Valley, move west down Ventura Boulevard….I wanna glide down over Mulholland…” I always knew those places were real, but I never thought I’d be driving past them or on them or through them, especially in a PT Cruiser at age 44.

I wrote to my sister Emily in 2003 – when I was 300 pounds, a social recluse, and afraid of my own shadow – and told her I didn’t love anyone enough to fly to see them, not even her. I felt so liberated when I pulled up in the driveway and hugged her in the portico of her own house, 2000 miles and five years away from the me who wrote that letter.

My only complaint is the time change. I have three free hours and yet my body won’t use them to sleep. I was up at 5 a.m. local time, which, at 8 a.m. eastern time, is considered “sleeping in” for me. By the time I adjust, it will be time to go home and those three hours will want their time back.

So I’m up, writing. I brewed tea and cleaned seedless red grapes in the bathroom so I wouldn’t wake up my daughter and sister. I checked my hometown paper online and the weather. It’s 35 and cloudy in Clarion. A little snow is in the forecast. I don’t know what the temperature is outside my hotel room, but I’m pretty sure it’s not snowing.

We’re tourists today, going to Hollywood. I’m sure we’ll have a great time, but I already know my favorite part about today: I won’t have to wear socks to keep my feet warm.

More later!

California Dreamin'

I must have looked a fright to the poor gas meter reader this morning. I completely forgot I was in my pajamas when I answered the door. They’re just sweats and a big red flannel shirt and gray slippers, but they really scream “I slept in this outfit” when combined with my uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth.

It was 10:00. You’d think I’d have my shit together by then. But I’m heading to California on Thursday and I’ve got a lot of writing to do before I leave.

I was in the middle of a project when he arrived. I had eaten a bowl of cereal and drank some green tea around 7:30, but other than that I was glued to my computer. I saw the him in his bright yellow jacket walking up the sidewalk and I cursed the fact that I had to get up and let him in because I was in the middle of a thought, but then, hey, he was just doing his job and so I directed him to come in through the back door and I blocked the dogs out of the kitchen so he could get down the stairs to the basement and out again without being accosted by three large curious dogs.

An hour later, my project was done and sent to the appropriate recipient. I had a ton of pent-up energy so I put on some workout clothes and hopped on the Oprah elliptical.

I’ve made it a point to listen to “California Dreamin’” during every workout this past week since a week from tonight I’ll be on a red eye home from LA after spending five glorious days in the sun with my sister, brother-in-law, nephews, cousin, friend Kristin and my favorite stylist in the whole world, Michael.

Carlene and I leave Thursday morning. As most of you know, I’m not a real fan of flying, so I’m loading my iPod with new meditations and Pema Chodron teachings to keep me calm at 30,000 feet. I’ll pair that with crossword puzzles and reading Health, Backyard Living and the opinions page from last Sunday’s Pittsburgh Trib-Review. Distraction is my middle name.

Back to “California Dreamin’” for a second. I didn’t download the Mamas and Papas version. I love the Tommy Shaw and Jack Blades version best. You can see their performance on YouTube here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zAbPBgt0Uo . It includes a bit of Shaw’s “Crystal Ball,” too. Good stuff.

I’ve never been to California. Seen it plenty of times on television. I love visiting somewhere I’ve only seen in photos or video. It’s like watching a movie based on a favorite book. It might be just as good, worse, or better than expected. Like the first time I was in New York City. Photos and video helped me identify landmarks, but they couldn’t capture the atmosphere, the smell, the background noises, the attitude of the people, and the visual perspective of a 5’5” outsider. California and its hills and sprawl and cars and smog, well, I have an idea of what it feels like, but I can’t wait to see it all up close.

Everyone I know has been to California. How come it’s taken me 44 years to get there? Anyway, just as I do with all my travels, I’ll blog from there and fill you in on my perspective as a 5’5” outsider. I’m hoping to bump into a celebrity or two at Whole Foods. I heard that’s where all the stars grocery shop. Maybe I’ll see Tommy Shaw. God I hope he keeps his long hair. He’s yummy.

I’ve got all my summer clothes out and laundered, I dug out my sandals from the back of the closet, and my camera, iPod, phone and computer batteries are all charged. If I forget something, I’m sure I can find it in California. You can find everything in California, right?

California. I’m going to freaking California! You’d think I was 8 years old.

You Can’t Have Easter Without Good Friday

In 1996, I was deeply hurt by someone I’d loved for many years. His behavior – our behavior – took me to an emotional place I’d never been. In the midst of this dark, septic place, a woman said to me, “You can’t have Easter without Good Friday.”

Growing up Christian, I knew Good Friday was the day Christ was crucified, but I’d not thought about the day as a metaphor for personal pain and suffering. When she shared that with me, I thought, “What good could come of this pain? How can there be an ‘Easter’ in all this incredible sorrow and hurt?”

I was living and feeling despair day after day. How could he do that to me? How could I have been so stupid? How can I trust anyone again? On and on the questions played in my head. However, hearing those words and the gentle way in which she spoke them drove a wedge in my endless regurgitation of anger, and they gave me hope that one day I would be whole again.

I hung on to that hope and, more importantly, began acting on that hope, and eventually Easter arrived. I smiled again, trusted again and was able to forgive and move on. I still remember that painful time with some regret and sadness – Good Friday was not meant to be forgotten – but my Easter, my renewed life, was worth working for.

I was reminded of this woman’s wisdom as I walked around our muddy yard today in search of life. It’s been a long winter – cold and nasty – and the prediction is for 3-5 inches of snow tonight. I’m tired and am almost desperate for better weather. I know there’s nothing I can do to change the weather, but I can change how I respond to it. So I went outside looking for hope. And there it was: daffodil and tulip shoots popping through the nearly disintegrated mulch and chives sprouting in the corner of my garden. Small bright green growths no bigger than a sparrow’s leg, but they restored my peace of mind. Despite any snow we get tonight, they will still be there, waiting and growing.

My wish for all of you this Easter is peace. Even if you’re living in the pain of Good Friday, Easter will come. It always does.

See you again next week.

Always and Never Revisited

Man, was I uninspired the other day. Felt like I couldn’t write my way out of a paper bag. So I got out the “3-Ring Binder ‘O Clips” and started reading old columns.

The one that half-assed inspired me was the one I wrote in January 2006 about the words “always” and “never.” It was the first one I’d written in nearly four years, since I left the newspaper and bought my antique store in 2002.

Reading it again got me thinking about two years ago and how much has changed. I don’t own the store anymore. In fact, the son-of-a-bitch who bought it tore it down. In its place, he erected a metal storage shed. Definitely not a tit for tat swap. There was no “yin” in his “yang,” if you know what I mean. But as I reread that column, I realized that I “never” thought I’d forgive him, but I did. I thought I’d “always” mourn the loss of that beautiful old building, but I don’t anymore. “Always” and “never” are promise words with loopholes.

Below are highlights from the always/never column. Particularly ironic are the parts about the blog and being a democrat. They are a few of those “I take it back” moments. (Just so you know, my voter registration card arrived today with my new affiliation boldly displayed. Gack. I’ll be changing back to Independent as soon as the primary is over, but isn’t it strange that my face broke out the morning after I became a democrat?)

I really mean it when I say that I “always” like to get your thoughts on my blog, and this time, of course, let me/us know your experiences with “always” and “never.”

Actress Gloria Swanson once said: “Never say never, for if you live long enough, chances are you will not be able to abide by its restrictions. Never is a long, undependable time, and life is too full of rich possibilities to have restrictions placed upon it.” I often warn my children of the use of the word never and its fraternal twin “always.” Be careful, I tell them, because rarely are these two words used correctly.

On April 18, 2002, in my last column for The Clarion News, I wrote: “…this time I will not return. Really. I’m sure this time.” While not used specifically, the word “never” was implied. Convinced life was linear, I was never going to write a column again because I’d chosen a new profession, one in which writing