Mornings and Me

Look closely at the title of this little piece. This is the only time, probably in history, that you will see those words together in one place. I am not a morning person. Even when I was able to drag myself out of bed and get kids ready for school, and me into work by 8 a.m. or earlier, I was not a morning person. I may have been physically present at those venues, but mentally I was still very much tucked under my covers, enjoying the softness of my perfectly squishy foam pillow.

I can't really say I hate mornings, as I don't know that I've seen enough of them to make a sound judgement. A few times I have had to drive my daughter to work when she has needed to open her favorite exercise salon at 6. We have watched more than a few beautiful sunrises, seeing the sky get pink then the palest of blues and grays. It may be lovely, but it is fleeting, as I couldn't wait to get back home and back under those blankets.

I have worked evenings, or even nights, a good portion of my life, and really enjoy those moments late at night when everything around you is completely quiet. When the family is on vacation at a lake in the Adirondack Mountains, I like nothing more than going out on our dock at midnight or later, and watching the stars. It is meditation time, and I love the complete silence, broken only by the lapping of the water against the shore.

I was doing just that one night when some blithering idiot across the bay turned on his radio and blared Elvis at full volume. Had I a bazooka or rocket launcher available the radio and its owner would have been blown to smithereens. Not the kind of emotional mindset I was looking for. I bet he (notice the automatic gender identification) is a morning person. I am not fond of morning people. Having said that, I will sheepishly tell you that I married one.

I don't know why that happens, but in my acquaintances over the years this seems to be a pattern. The women come on with the lights, raring to go until two or three in the morning, while the men brag about getting up before sunrise, then are asleep on the sofa by 7:30 at night. Maybe these marriages last so long because the two of them really don't see each other much.

Night time is when I do my writing, my sketching, and my reading. It's when all around me is peaceful, and my head is the only thing running at full speed. I am somehow reassured by the wail of the freight train that rumbles through our little town at 3 a.m. It's not that I don't like the daylight. I do. It's just that I prefer daylight from, say, noon on instead of the moment the sun breaks over the horizon.

I have friends, and even relatives, who tell me how much fun they have getting up at 5 and running for an hour before they get ready for work. Bless their little early-bird hearts, but I will not join them in either activity. My body cannot respond to an early morning invitation to exercise. I can barely get my rear in gear for a workout at 4 or 5 p.m., and like to go swimming at my health club from 7 to 9 when all of those early folks are home and in bed.

I used to think that when I got older my body would get a bit more in sync with the rest of the world, and start responding to the schedule that the reasonable universe has set. Nope. I'm getting worse. If left to my own devices I would stay up until 3 or 4 in the morning, then sleep until close to noon. The rest of my family is not so crazy about this.

All right, so I miss out on breakfast and morning strolls and the first light of a new day and Good Morning America and even Rachel Ray. I miss early newspaper deliveries, morning coffee, and rushing out the door to catch the train, or hit the highway. By the time I get organized and fully functional, most of my neighborhood has had lunch. Part of me feels I may have missed something important.

However, the vast majority of me feels happiest curling up for a good night's sleep when there isn't much night left to take advantage of. That's what good curtains are for.

More sky stuff

This story popped into my mind shortly after I had posted my last comments, and is actually less about sky, and more about doing the right thing.

Quite a few years ago I was consulting in a psychiatric hospital with the adolescent and adult addiction units. I was board certified in clinical psychodrama, which was what gave me permission to be there. I ran psychodrama therapy groups during the day for the adolescent residents, and in the evening for the adult patients and their families.

One of the things that took me the longest to learn while in training (500+ hours of clinical, in all) was that being spontaneous was as important as being prepared. When leading patients into therapeutic situations, the therapist had to be ready for anything, and had to trust in his or her head to come up with the right things at the right times. There was really not any script one could follow.

One particular cold, February night I had arrived at the hospital when it was already dark, and, again in a parking lot, took the time to take in the spectacularly clear night sky. This was in a relatively unpopulated part of the suburbs, so there was a minimum of background light, making the stars all the more brilliant. As I was (and still am), essentially, a sky nut, I knew a few of the constellations and found some familiar stars.

When I got into the room where we were to begin our session, I realized that there was a back door that led out onto an open stone patio behind the building. As families were visiting, many of them had jackets or heavy sweaters handy. I let my head take over, and told them about the beautiful night sky, then asked if they would like to see it. They were enthusiastic, so out we went!

The first couple of minutes on the patio were a jumble of emotions, with plenty of oooo's and ahhhh's making up the conversation. Then, quite suddenly, one of the patients yelled, "Look, there's Orion!" Everyone turned to look, and the excitement spread as they twisted their necks further and found the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper and the North Star. Someone even pointed out what could have been another galaxy.

I was more than a little confused by their considerable knowledge, until one of them, shivering with joy and the cold air, told me they had been on a field trip that afternoon, to the planetarium in Philadelphia. They were completely blown away by the fact that they were now seeing for real what they had been learning on the planetarium ceiling just a few hours before.

I had known nothing about their day's activities, and was moved almost to tears by the thrilled expressions on their faces as we finally went inside. We were chilled to the bone, but exhilarated. From that point on this evening was one of the most productive sessions we had.

The point of it all was their profound realization that they could feel those extraordinary feelings of delight and newness and satisfaction without any involvement with chemistry. They had re-discovered the "natural" high.

All of this because my head told me the right thing to do, and, of course it did have a little something to do with the sky...............

Just look up once in a while.....

I was on my way into Costco the other day, head swimming with the list I had carefully left on my dining room table, thoroughly involved with the tasks ahead, when I was turned around by a mother and daughter walking in near me, both intent on their side of a heated argument. The girl couldn't have been more than nine or ten, but her Mom was reaming her out for something or other, threatening to leave her in the car (which she didn't) or take her home immediately (which she didn't). All she succeeded in doing was making the kid completely miserable.

This in itself was a shame, but the bigger shame was that the whole time the mother was screaming and the girl was cowering, if they had just looked up they would have seen one of the most bright and widest rainbows I have ever witnessed. From the parking lot you could see a huge expanse of open sky, and a fast downpour had just spent itself, so the colors were brilliant. An elder gent who was also nearby was looking at me, so I directed him to what I was watching. He, too, was awe-struck by the size of the arch and intensity of the hues.

I have had other experiences where I have looked at an incredible sunset, or a wild cloud formation, and had to gently grab the attention of others and show them the beauty they would otherwise have missed. They have all been appreciative. Nobody has ever yelled at me for pointing out an amazing sky. Yet, they would not have taken the moment to look up without prompting.

I was teaching a course one night, the last time we had a comet (was it Halle-Bop?) in the skies over the northeast. It was winter, so it was dark early, and the comet was easily seen, tail and all. I stopped in the parking lot and had a good, long stare before I went inside to share the news with my classroom. I was bubbling over with excitement, raving about the incredibly clear view, and not a single person in the class knew what I was talking about. Being the pushy broad that I am, I led them all outside, showed them the comet, and gave them some background on this particular sky phenomenon. They loved it.

Not a single one took the time to look up on their own.

One of my fondest memories with my kids and some of their friends was a meet-up at 3 a.m. at my house, to all pile into my van and travel to a nearby farm field, spread some blankets, and, huddled together for warmth, watch a spectacular shower of meteorites. There were only six or seven of us, but we were giddy with excitement, seeing at least a shooting star a minute, bright flashes in an otherwise black sky.

I am not certain when I became fully addicted to the sky. It may have been when I witnessed the aurora borealis, once in upstate New York, where it is a rare sight. I was about ten, and it became one of those "flashbulb" memories, staying with me in great detail. It may have been during my first airplane flight, when we got above the clouds and could watch all of the great cumulus towers forming beneath us. Actually, the fact that I knew they were cumulus clouds tells me it was before that.

I have recently become even more enamoured with atmospheric phenomena (sorry if you have to get out the dictionary), as my eyesight has gone through some substantial changes. In late 1999, my eye doctor discovered that I was developing very fast moving cataracts. Within a very few months after their discovery I had gone very nearly blind in my left eye, and the right one was close behind. I had them both operated on in 2000, with amazing results.

Since about third grade, I had to wear what most fondly refer to as "Coke bottle lenses" in my newly acquired eyeglasses. I was terribly nearsighted, and even with the glasses could not get my eyesight up to 20/20. Without the glasses I could see little beyond the tip of my nose.

When the cataracts started to develop, I just thought age was getting in the way of my vision, until I had the surgery on the first eye. The most frightening part of that surgery was then realizing how awful the sight was in the other eye, the one I had been depending on! You could stand in front of me and I literally could not make out the features in your face.

For those of you who are not familiar with the miracle that is modern cataract surgery, what the surgeon does is switch your eye's natural lens, which is hardening and clouding over, with a paper-thin, flexible replacement lens. You get your choice in lenses - you can see close-up, or far away. Since I had seen nothing but close-up for most of my life, I chose the distance lenses. All I can say is "WOW!!!"

My vision is now 20/20 in my left eye and 20/10 in the right one. For the first time in my life I can see all of the crispy edges on things like cloud formations. I can see what looks like a telescopic version of the full moon: all of the craters and "man" features. So I have to wear reading glasses - so what!!!

I guess this has something to do with my insistence that others take a minute and look at the scenes the sky has to offer. I know we are constantly told to stop and smell the roses, to take time to find the sea shells in the sandy beach, and wade into the cold, salty ocean. We are not to let the moss grow beneath our feet, to watch our step, to take the road less traveled. All I ask is that in the middle of all of that ground-based activity, we take a minute or two to look up. The beauty is overwhelming, the serenity and peace sorely needed.

A good sunset can melt away the most heated of arguments.

I caught a small piece of news this afternoon that got me thinking, and then made me more than a little bit angry. Evidently Lane Bryant has filmed a new ad that will be aired some time during the broadcast of American Idol. American Idol, who is also showing ads for Victoria's Secret and Playtex during its air time, has said that the Lane Bryant ad is not as compatible with their "family" viewing audience as the others, so it will not be shown until the last segment of the program. I have seen the ad - CNN aired it today.

Essentially, it is an ad for a new line of very pretty Cacique underwear: bras and panties. It shows a young lady in these items, then getting dressed to go out with a comment about what is under your clothing being just as important as the outerwear. The model is absolutely gorgeous, and, no, she is not a size 0.

Lane Bryant claims that "Idol" is being discriminatory by airing the ad so late in the broadcast, while the Victoria's Secret ad and Playtex spots will be aired in the middle of the show. Recent Victoria's Secret ads that I have seen feature disturbingly scrawny models, in considerably more revealing undies. I don't know if it's a Fox TV image thing, or their extremely incorrect assumption that their viewing audience is mostly 14-year-old anorexics. They couldn't be more wrong!

My question is simple: When are we going to stop putting ideas into women's and girls' heads that they are of less value if they happen to carry about more physical weight? The advertising industry is actually making some effort, though small, to change the overall image of the women portrayed as beautiful. Dove products has committed itself to showing real women in its ads. Lane Bryant has conceived and produced a tasteful ad showing a very sexy, normal sized woman, and Fox is having a fit over it?

It might be interesting if all women who are upset at Fox's decision to show the the larger lady at a later (and less proportionately viewed) portion of its show, decided to let them know that they will not be viewing "Idol" unless the network issues an apology for its ignorance and agrees to show the ad in a more prominent piece of air space.

I certainly will be going on the Fox website and expressing my opinions. Anybody want to join me?

P.S. - I just learned that ABC has made a similar decision regarding airing the ad during "Dancing With the Stars." Thanks, folks for yet another slap in the face to the real women of your viewing audience.

How did they get so smart?

Unlike many of my neighbors, I love squirrels. In the winter I put out two or three different batches of birdseed, in "squirrel-proof" feeders, and I put out a special mix of peanuts and other large seeds especially for the furry visitors. There is only one problem, the squirrel food usually lasts less than 24 hours, while the birdseed is out there for days. The squirrels know this.

They begrudgingly let the birds have their chance at the seeds meant for them, until their personal tray is emptied. Then the acrobatics begin. I have one favorite squirrel who hangs upside-down on the side of the feeder, sometimes with one foot grasping the deck railing, one grabbing at a perch on the feeder, and the other two paws busily shoveling birdseed into his cheeks. I cannot figure out how he gets down from there without crashing onto the deck. The physics of his position are in no textbook I have ever seen.

I had one bird feeder for a while that settled onto the end of a tall post, hanging on it and turning in a slow circle depending on what was visiting it at the time. It didn't take the squirrels long to figure that one out. They would wrap themselves around it and go at one part of the contents, while protecting the rest so nothing with wings could get anywhere near it. Generosity is not part of their mind set.

This feeder was right outside our family room window, so I could watch from no more than a couple of feet away. One day my vigilance was rewarded, as a smallish squirrel battled his way along some very spindly Rose of Sharon branches, swaying back and forth and inching ever upward. It took him a couple of minutes to find branches that could support his weight, and I watched him, unseen, while he calculated his next move. Finally he made it, jumping onto the rim of the feeder and clinging to it as it began to spin around. In fact, it very slowly moved counter-clockwise until he was staring at me face to face.

Up until that point I had no idea a squirrel could say, "Oh, shit!" but I'm pretty sure he did, right before he leaped to the ground and sped away.

We also had, one year, the homeowners' nightmare of a family of squirrels moving into the roof of our porch, which is enclosed on the front of our old stone house. They found a way in the inch or so of open space between the side face of the roof and the side wall of the house, and set up their happy home, immediately beginning to reproduce. We weren't sure how many we had, but every once in a while we would go out the front door and see squirrel tails dangling down in the cracks between the porch ceiling and the stone side wall. I admit I thought this was awfully cute, but I'm not sure if anyone else in the family shared my views.

We did find the solution in a Have-A-Heart trap. I found the ideal bait to be a small plastic bowl filled with a blob of peanut butter sprinkled with sunflower seeds. I caught one or two per day until there were no more, and one by one delivered them a couple of miles away to a well-planted park, full of bushes and trees and picnickers. This was the Disney World of squirrel habitats, and I hope they appreciated the effort.

During that project, I discovered that these energetic members of the rodent family have distinctly different personalities. I would load the trap into the floor of my van, and try to pay attention to the road while the captured squirrel reacted to his (or her) predicament. Some were just mad as hell, chattering the entire trip and bouncing around in the cage. Others were more thoughtful, checking out their surroundings and sniffing the air. One actually chose his transport time to finish off the peanut butter, while a couple of others curled up and pretended to nap.

The only way we could keep them from returning to set up camp again was by filling in the space with chicken wire and concrete. That did work, so now the squirrels we see are not residents of the house, but the many old trees around the neighborhood. It is amazing to watch these fellows at work, finding food, sorting through it (yes, they are actually picky!) and alerting the rest of the family that a safe place to find eats is my back porch.

I have chased away a neighborhood cat, watched out for hawks, and tried to be sure that nothing else would get in their way. I don't mind the mess of seed that they regularly sprinkle onto the deck, as the birds then come in and clean that up. The larger seeds draw the mourning doves, cardinals and jays, while the smaller stuff is policed by the sparrows, chickadees, and finches.

Spring has arrived, so the feeders will be packed away soon for the summer. There is plenty of food and entertainment for all of the animals provided by Mother Nature, so I don't have to make my regular trips to the Home Depot and their seed department until September. I enjoy watching the natural habitat that is my back yard, but I will miss those incredibly wily, soft gray creatures and their antics.

I Should Have Known

Back in the 1960's my mother had an item which was new to many, and which carried with it great prestige. She was the proud bearer of a credit card. This was before the era of Visa and MasterCard and many, many other big bank sponsored credit cards. This was a card to a very high end department store. Just the fact that you carried it in your purse meant you were of a certain social stature. (By the way, we weren't!)

She carried her card proudly in her wallet, and once in a while we would take the train into New York, have a stylish lunch around the fountains at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and waltz down 5th Avenue, fully intending to use, yes use, the credit card. We would window-shop at Tiffany's and Saks, Bergdorf's and Bloomingdales, but save our incredible buying power for the one and only Lord & Taylor 5th Avenue store. It was sale season.

Sale season at Lord & Taylor meant wonderful clothing at wonderful prices, and Mom was one heck of a shopper. She would check every item of interest on the clearance racks, looking for impeccable sewing skill, perfect pleats, plaids that matched at the seams. Nobody could find flaws in workmanship like my mother. In fact, her expertise has rubbed off on me, so that poorly made clothing items rarely make it into my closet.

But back to the credit card. She would purchase her loot with this magical hunk of plastic, lug it back to our suburban home, and dole it out to me and my sister (after her portion was carefully stored) with stern warnings about the fate that would befall us if so much as a ketchup drop made its way onto the front of one of these outfits. We knew this stuff was special.

Not that she ever purchased anything we couldn't afford. All bills got paid off at the end of the month, so there was never a finance charge associated with this card. Today most card companies find a way to charge you interest by the time you are less than a block from the point of purchase. In fact, I spent seven years of my life in Chicago, and I knew guys out there who would break your knees for less interest than most card companies charge today.

But I digress. The credit card spent most of its lonely existence in the back of Mom's wallet, mostly so her friends would get a glimpse of it as she took out her few dollars to pay for lunch. It was only used once or twice per year, and paid off as soon as we hit the front door to our home. Therefore, it was quite a shock when we received a bill in the mail from Lord & Taylor.

It was more of a shock when you consider that we had moved from suburban New York to a rural area near Syracuse, and therefore had not set foot in the store for close to a year. The biggest shock of all came when she opened the envelope, her hands shaking, to find a demand that she should pay the balance shown in full, $0.00.

After a good laugh and a showing of the bill to all family members, she tore it up and threw it out. You know what comes next, don't you? Right, another bill the following month, with an urgent note that this balance was close to thirty days overdue, and would she please pay the $0.00 immediately! This time it was still pretty funny, but she thoughtfully put a little note explaining the error into the return envelope and off it went.

Yes, you are correct. The following month she received a downright nasty letter informing her that her credit privileges could be revoked and her other creditors (she had none) were going to be notified of her lack of payment. To avoid financial disaster, she had to send them, by return mail, $0.00.

This was before the time when everything in billing departments was computerized. This was not a computer error! This had to be a real human being typing out the specifics of this bill and sending a new version every month with the same old balance due: $0.00. It was starting to get ridiculous. She sent off another letter explaining the situation, and forgot about it. How silly of her to try to thwart the billing office of such an important establishment!

By the time the fifth, and nastiest, letter arrived with the bill attached, she had just about given up, throwing her hands in the air and wondering allowed what she had to do to remedy this situation. My father, a creative sort, had the only answer - "Write them a check!"

So she did. Very carefully and in her very best handwriting, she made out a check to the billing offices of Lord & Taylor for the amount of $0.00. She then placed it in their fancy return envelope with the bill attached. Considering the circumstances, she was annoyed at having to spend money on a stamp, but she did want delivery to go off without a hitch. She placed it in the next days' mail and watched while the postman tucked it into his pouch. There would be no errors in delivering this check to its rightful owner.

She never heard from them again.

There is a moral to this. If one department store could go to that much trouble and expense to collect "nothing" from a customer, just think of the lengths more current creditors would go to to come after someone with a real balance! When I was sent my first card, I should have thought this over very carefully.................

Life's Little Roadblocks

I had every intention of writing something light and humorous this evening. That is, until I got a note from someone I value as a friend. He is in his mid-twenties, a former student, and someone who lives with two opposing forces: an indomitable spirit, and Multiple Sclerosis. I have been sponsoring him for a couple of years now in a 100-mile bicycle race, from Philadelphia to Atlantic City. He is a dedicated dirt-biker, a hip-hip devotee, and incredibly talented artist. This year he may not be able to make the trip, as he is rapidly going blind.

My protective instincts are all fired up on his behalf, but there really is nothing I can do but be supportive. That is incredibly frustrating, as I am so very fond of this kid. I remember the first time he ever walked into one of my classrooms, pants dragging on the floor, baggy t-shirt, hat turned sideways. I thought to myself, "Oh, lord, how am I going to handle this one!"

I didn't have to worry for long. He became one of my best students, working incredibly hard to learn as much as he could. I still have a term paper he wrote for me one semester, for a Human Relations course. It was all about the inception and theory of the hip-hop culture, and he gave me one heck of an education in way more than the required four pages. He even included a CD he had made, a compilation of some of the best hip-hop artists and tunes, with lyrics included on separate pages so I could see what they were all about. It was an astonishing job, and I was very proud of him for his efforts.

Even when I did not have him in a class for a given term, I could count on him showing up at the door to my classroom, full of stories about his bike riding, or to show me some photos of artwork he was doing on commission - painting the gas tank of someone's beloved Harley Davidson. When I asked, as I always did, "How are you?" the answer was just as inevitable. "Best day of my life, Mrs. Williams!"

He is four years into his battle with MS. His parents have both passed away, and to my knowledge he has little family except a cousin, with whom he lives. He has built himself, however, a net work of friends that is as strong as a family, and he holds his head up high even as his eyes cloud over.

Tonight I am dedicating my thoughts to him, a young man of charm, energy, and wit, with solid integrity and an incredible attitude. Having been through cataract surgery on both eyes, and having looked at the world through clouds, I know a little of what he is feeling. If anyone can find a way through this, it will be this fellow.

To return a quote to him, "Love you, man!"

Too pooped to post

See title.....seeya tomorrow!

On Collecting

My husband and I are collectors. Of course, that leads me into the old adage: "He collects junk; I collect things of great value." If you asked him, I'm sure the words would be reversed. We are, however, getting to the point where we are doing some serious thinking about looking for a smaller house. Therefore, something's gotta give!

His collections fall into two categories - paper and musical instruments. He seems to have an aversion to naked flat surfaces. Surfaces that have just been cleaned are his particular obsession. Somewhere in his brain is an automatic command that tells him to fill the surface as quickly as possible, preferably with paper. It does not seem to matter what kind of paper, just as long as the flat surface is no longer visible. I have found important notices about our 401K mixed in with renewal notices for fishing magazines, which he doesn't get, and coupons for food we haven't purchased in 35 years.

As for the musical instruments, I hesitate to mention how many there are, but can easily say that a substantial musical group could play all available parts with our collection. We have drums, keyboards, a sax, a violin, a flute, a mandolin, a couple of acoustic guitars, more than a couple of electric guitars, two electric basses, and a didgeridoo. That is not counting the brass section, which is fully stocked.

He has some legitimate claim to the brass instruments, as he plays with three or four different musical organizations on any given week, ranging from a symphony orchestra to a drum and bugle corps. This excuses the collection of trumpets. As you have probably guessed, I see him on alternate Thursdays, when he comes home to spread paper around. As of today, it seems much of the paper is sheet music. We have enough sheet music to wallpaper a small hotel.

My collections are more varied, and, truth be told, probably take up more total space than his. I draw, I paint, and I crochet and do other crafty things, so I have the supplies which I need for current and future projects. Those future projects could extend into early 2057 and I would still not run out of things like colored pencils, sketchbooks, paintbrushes and yarn. I need one of our children to leave and take all belongings with him or her, so I can have a room for my artsy stuff. Chances are I might need slightly more than one room.

I also collect books. Hubby is constantly telling me I should get my library card, but there is one major problem. When you get your reading material from the library, they tend to want it back. I get very attached to my books, and love the bindings, the cover art, the smell of the paper. You will never find this reader in front of an IPad perusing the latest bestseller! I am far better off at Barnes&Noble, Borders, or even the book table at Costco.

Then there are the artworks created by someone other than myself. Of course I have to keep every single piece that either of my children has created. Some have actually been framed and hung up, but most of it is safely tucked away in plastic containers. Nobody I know would fault me for keeping those - they are truly valuable!

I also have some odd but endearing paintings by very distant relatives, that I, frankly, don't know what to do with. A couple of them are by some great uncle or other on my father's side, who lived in Maine, and must have had a special liking for sheep. These are very dark, dingy paintings, mostly of dark, dingy landscapes, but there is always a batch of sheep somewhere in the middle of the composition - you can tell because they are less dingy and sort of fluffy-looking. I might hang them up some day just to watch the reactions on visitors' faces.

Shall we look through the china collection? I have enough china to feed most of the population of Pennsylvania, should they ever want to come to dinner. It does not all match, but is in five or six different patterns, plus an odd flowered cup and saucer or two. I did pick out a nice set when we were first married, and I think I have either eight or twelve settings of that one. Then I have 24 settings plus serving pieces of my Mom's favorite, which I actually added to a number of years ago with a great thrift shop find. It must have slipped my mind that I would eventually be inheriting all of it!

Other sets are smaller (Whew!) and some are more casual, while some are way more elegant and valuable, or at least way more breakable! Then there are the every-day plates, bowls, and mugs, some of which match, and some of which never will. They were discontinued shortly after I got the first few pieces.

This is only the beginning. As you might have imagined by now, our home of 35 years is crammed with goodies. Pottery, gifts from former students, "decorative accessories." I am terrified that some day the host from "Hoarders" is going to call and tell me he has heard of us. No, we're not up to our eyeballs in trash, but it will take all of my mental fortitude and the physical strength of a more than the two of us to get this place "downsized."

I have a piece of advice for anyone who cares to listen. If you do collect something, DO NOT TELL ANYONE! A few years ago I made the mistake of telling a few people I was collecting teddy bears. You can take it from there......

This is just a test

This afternoon I was driving along listening to the radio when a familiar voice and sound came on. "This is just a test," it said, followed by the very annoying beep we all know and love. It is reassuring that it is just a test, just a way to make sure that if there is an emergency we can all get information and reassurance that all will be well. At least, we can get it if we are tuned in to the right station. I'd hate to think I had a heavy metal CD in the player when all hell was breaking loose around me!

I have somehow decided to adopt that quote, and it has come in very handy over the years, as a reminder that the real emergency is not here yet. When life has handed me lemons, and some have been giant economy sized, I do not necessarily make lemonade. When lying in a hospital bed hooked up to antibiotics and a morphine pump because something or other went wrong during kidney surgery, I had no desire for lemonade.

I did have, however, the reminder in my head that "this was only a test," which is immediately followed by a steely resolve to do well on this one. Maybe not an "A", as I will admit to being inordinately fond of the morphine. Of course then the nurses informed me I was only using the pump, pushing the button, about a third as much as I was allowed to. I guess that deserves some extra credit.

When informed that the numbness accompanied by fire in my legs was the result of nerve damage, probably caused by a physician giving me way too much of a required thyroid medication, and that it was not going to improve, lemonade might have been nice, but it was not a total solution. Again, "this is just a test" reminded me that there could have been far worse outcomes, and that I had two options:

1. Bitch and moan all the time about how life and that damned doctor had done me wrong, bringing everyone I know down into the dumps with me.

2. Go ahead and be alive and mostly well, accepting that a few things I love, like long walks and the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, were no longer in my repertoire. Actually, I could probably go down the steps as long as I had something or someone to hold on to. I can now do the steps in front of my house, up and down, with no hand-hold and a bag of groceries on each arm - progress!

I firmly believe that option #1would have been far too easy to fall into. I have been pretty healthy for most of my life, and the last few years have been surprising and challenging. I do not, however, believe that it is any good for my body or soul to spend my waking time making everyone else miserable.

Option #2, to me, means I have passed the test. It took a long time and a lot of work, but I can somehow compartmentalize my numerous ills and put them aside for further consideration. I'm not ignoring anything, as self-care has to come before care for anyone else (remember in an airplane that you have to put on the oxygen mask first!), but the "just a test" reminders put things into perspective, and allow me to put them aside until I reach a moment where I just want to feel sorry for myself. Those moments usually don't last more than fifteen minutes or so, and they serve me well. I come out of them feeling much better. Hey, I'm entitled to just a little but of "poor me," aren't I?

Anyway, as the list of later-in-life roadblocks piles up, and I stare down in the morning at my trusty case of pills for this and that, carefully arranged so I don't forget anything, I have thankfully reached a point where I can shake my head and laugh. Whatever shows up next, and I am certain there will be something, I can journey into my head and remind my self that this, too, is only a test.

Somewhere in the "Why Me?" category....

Now look. If I was to choose a point in time to travel back to, it would most likely not be when I was thirteen. So why, I ask, why does fate choose to hand me another batch of acne breakouts when I'm 63? It never fails. Every time I have to give an all-day seminar, speak to a women's group, teach a class, or do something where my general appearance is just a little extra- important, I get a huge, red bump right in the middle of that appearance.

I look in the mirror in the morning, much as I did today, and am greeted by not only my mother's face (that one definitely took some getting used to), but three or four extra added attractions. I seem to remember the voice of a dermatologist back in my late teens who pronounced my skin wonderfully clear, and assured me that the dreaded bumps would never return. Ha! What did he know! My current dermatologist seemed slightly gleeful when he announced that I did, indeed, have "Adult Acne."

Crap!

Today's batch not only caught me on my chin, right in the middle, but as an extra added attraction sprinkled my neck with the lovely crimson polka-dots. Normally, I would slip into something like a very sturdy turtleneck, but the temperature is supposed to hit 75 or so, which would not only leave me uncomfortably warm, but would add plenty of heat-related blotches to the mess. I would also have to super-glue the turtleneck to my chin line or spend the whole day yanking it up in order to feel properly disguised.

Just in case anyone out there thinks that women become less concerned with how they look after a certain age, let me inform you that nothing could be further from the truth. I will admit to enjoying the fact that I can practically live in jeans, that I do have a few old t-shirts that I will never throw out (many of them have my son's band logos on the front, and one says "think unique" on it), and that these feet will never see pointy-toed, five-inch stiletto heeled boots, but will instead exist in comfortable footwear. If anyone has a problem with those facts, they can simply learn to live with it.

My personality is also set in stone. I am intense, curious, humorous, sarcastic at times, politically active, hugely interested in the well-being of others, creative, and occasionally, pissed off. Those who know and love me have learned to accept the whole conglomeration. It took me a really long time to put it all together, and at this point I ain't changing for nobody!!!

However, I do know that I put a certain amount of time and effort into presenting myself well, even if I'm not leaving the house. I am not thrilled with the extra fifty pounds my children gave me - okay, I'm still blaming it on baby-weight, even though they are both in their thirties. I am not totally happy with the portions of me that suddenly have appeared six to ten inches below where they used to be. But, let me tell you, I do my best to put together a pretty good package when introducing myself to the world, even if some days the world is only the UPS guy.

I guess I must resign myself to regular visits to my local drugstore, where they carry the hypoallergenic cosmetic lines, and where a magical potion called "concealer" exists. Considering the ailments that I have pushed myself through, and the fun stuff that my friends have dealt with, needing a few dabs a day of skin-tinted goo isn't so bad after all.

When I'm done at the drugstore, maybe I'll go check out those boots............

Rainy Days and Tuesdays

Is there a reason we get depressed on rainy days? Is there some chemical interaction with the prospect of getting wet that drags us into the depths of despair? I do remember one time back in the 1980's I was working part-time in the activities department of a local nursing home, and we had eleven straight days of steady rain. The residents started dropping like flies (no disrespect intended), and the listings of obituaries in the local papers grew to two or three times their normal size.

I'd hate to think that the sight of rain means we have to give up. In my favorite part of the world (so far), the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York, the rain brings with it a considerable amount of ethereal beauty. The clouds themselves divide and settle into the dips between mountains, and the waters of the many lakes turn a smooth-as-glass slate gray. I have taken photographs of this phenomenon, and you would swear the resulting prints are shot in black and white, but they are not. There are an infinite number of colors between blue and green and gray, but to see them you have to have a practiced eye and the desire to look very, very closely.

While others around me are sinking into nothingness, waiting for the spaces between drops to venture forth, I have learned to prefer walking in the rain. I'm not quite to Gene Kelly Land yet, but there is some fun to be had in waltzing through a gully-washer, even running through the puddles. It may be only as we get older that we can truly appreciate the joys of children. I used to let my kids go out in the summer rains and get soaked, muddy, and overcome with hysterical laughter. It took a long while for me to join them, but I am so glad for that regression!

Now when it rains, I leave my umbrella safely in my car or my house, and dash madly between chores, smiling like an idiot. Heck, it's only water, and it will eventually dry.

Since when are my thoughts noteworthy?

Okay, gang, here we go. I am sure there are many of you who will look at the content here and think, "Who the hell cares about the ramblings of some old bat just because she was born in 1946?" If those are your feelings, you probably won't like much of anything I choose to say, so go find something else.

If the year 1946 means anything to you, it might be that it was the year for the first baby boomers to arrive. My folks used to swear that I was born nine months and fifteen minutes after my Dad arrived back from World War II. I always thought that was sort of cool, and a nice way of telling me that they actually "did it" on occasion. Like many youngsters, I assumed that it was only "done" three times in their history - once for each of us three kids.

Having said that, I assume that I am far from the only person to have been conceived and produced in such fashion, and on those dates. There were 64 of us in my high school graduating class, the biggest class the school had ever seen. In my other high school, the one I moved away from, there were another 300 or more in the Class of 1964. I bet there were a whole lot of other classes of 1964 in a whole lot of other schools. We will shortly be clogging the rolls of Social Security.

For that reason I think I am right in guessing that there are a whole bunch of you who have either lived a pretty fascinating life, or have observed or gossiped about someone else our age who has done so. I have been told often that my life resembles a good old "grade B" novel, but anyone reading it wouldn't believe it. I'm going to test that theory, and you are my audience. I don't care if you are in your 60's or in your teens. I think you will find some fun in my ramblings, and possibly even a lesson or two.

I will freely admit that I was an idiot when I was younger, and I am just as adamant in stating that I am not one now. Come along for the ride, and we may see just how that transition might have happened: