It’s all about the stuffing

I managed to get through the past weekend without a sea of cat barf. However, about half way through my lazy Saturday morning sporting pajamas, raccoon-eyes of mascara, and a “Bride of Frankenstein” hairdo I would have traded the incoming moment for something squishy between my toes.

My cellphone went off and I answered it to find the “FaceTime” video app open up and reveal my disheveled appearance to the person on the other end, whose first words were “Oh, Good Heavens, is that you?”

I could see myself in the little video clip in upper right hand corner of the screen staring wide-eyed and dumbfounded at the friend I hadn’t seen or heard from in years. I flipped the phone over so she could stare instead at the worn off toe nail polish of my big toe, and replied, with a much simulated inflection of joy, “What a nice surprise!” while making improper hand gestures with my free hand in the air above my head where she couldn’t see.

And then she said the most dreaded sentence on the planet. “I’m in town and I’d love to come for a visit.”

There’s nothing like an unexpected guest to kick-start a cleaning frenzy. It matters not that I run a tidy ship on most days, but when that yellow flag started waving as I stood there mired in clumps of old mascara all I could think of was cleaning the toilet seat and bowl before she showed up at the door and had to use the bathroom.

I looked around the kitchen and realized I was a hoarder. I had three days of dishes piled in the sink and there was so much dirty laundry in the basket that clothes at the bottom were now trying to escape through the webbing for fear of being crushed to death.

I had less than 30 minutes to revive my good looks and hide everything.

Remember the “Bugs Bunny Show” episode where “Wile E. Coyote” orders a humungous magnet from “Acme” but instead of drawing in the “Road Runner,” it attracts every conceivable metal object in the Universe?

The space under my kitchen sink attracts like that the stuff I don’t have time to put away properly and instead cram in that endless cavern alongside pickle jars full of nails, and hideous bolts of “Mac Tac” from the ’70s.

Even plastic bags get stuffed under there—pushed in one at a time and it’s all good—until I open the door to find something and the change in air pressure sucks the fluid sea of bags out onto the kitchen floor.

This time, after everything was jammed under the sink, there I was digging further and further to the back of the chaotic mess for the toilet bowl cleaner and a rag, and instead found a mouse trap set with peanut butter. While it managed to go off without taking my fingers with it, the sudden jolted surprise made a clean sweep of the endless contents onto the floor.

Change of plans my friend. Meet me at the coffee shop.

Could I start this day over?

The usual sounds and smells that are welcome to wake me up in the morning are the subtle waft of caffeine perking out of the coffeemaker and the beeps that spell “Ready,” the drift to the nostrils of fresh bread baked by timer in the bread maker, and the smell of bacon. Bacon rocks. 

Of course none of these wonderful stimuli avail themselves in my neck of the woods. Nope.

Instead I was yanked before sunrise from my fantasy dream of Matthew McConaughey rescuing me from a sinking boat and into an immediate wide-eyed state—thrust immediately conscious to the grunting sound of “Millie” the cat about to throw up beside me on my bedspread. 

I channelled Kung Fu from the ‘Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon’ movie, leapt from the sheets into mid-air, grabbed my housecoat with one hand while doing a half twist across to the other side of the bed and lifting the cat from her heaving position with the other hand, landed on the floor with two feet stuck in an Olympic gold medal gymnastics pose. 

I threw open the bedroom door, and in the dark, bolted into the kitchen, leapt over the garbage can, arms outstretched for the door handle in a frantic effort to release said feline into the porch to throw up.

And I hope for anything that didn’t just come from inside a animal—and more importantly that none of it gets on me. 

Needless to say that kind of good luck doesn’t avail itself to me in my neck of the woods. Nope.  

The cat didn’t make it to the porch before expelling the contents of her stomach.

And the situation was much worse when I didn’t see the wet blob of a thing on the floor before I flicked on the lights at 5 a.m. and I stepped in it.

As the warm, oozing chunky globule squeezed up through the toes of my foot I was wishing that it had at least been below body temperature. 

Blind as a bat because I didn’t have my contact lenses in, I squinted to identify the thing, bending over to get a better look, only to find what was left of a mouse’s head and front teeth soaked in a mustard-yellow slime looking up at me from between my toes. I wanted to unplug and jump into a cartoon black hole and disappear to a Florida beach. 

The two other cats skulking the mystery from under the kitchen table dared not venture forth, as I expect they understood perfectly the fragmented angry English slang erupting from my mouth. I began hopping on one foot towards the bath tub trying not to spread the goo everywhere, but Murphy’s Law dictated otherwise because I couldn’t hold the one-legged pose like I did when I was 20 years old and ended walking the slime across the floor. 

If this morning affair was the only bad luck tohappen on the first day of the workweek I would have made amends with a vat of “Caldwell” coffee, a loaf of fresh bread, and a pound of bacon. Of course that is never the case in my neck of the woods. Nope.

But that’s another story. 

 

Unplug - a lesson for more than meditation

Sometimes everything in my life comes together—and sometimes I have to coax it into place like a scared dog. 

I was in the shower enjoying my hot water therapy session Thursday night when I stopped scrubbing and opened my eyes as a sudden and impending doom washed my peace and tranquility down the drain with the soapsuds.

I hadn’t heard the sump pump (which at my house collects all the grey water in a reservoir in the basement and pumps it out to my septic tank) go off at all in the 15 minutes I’d been under the showerhead. As a rule during one of my muscle soaking zens, the sump goes off twice.

In fact I hadn’t remembered hearing it go off for about three days—through my evening showers and those of Daughter #3 who takes marathoners that last longer than anyone I have ever known. There’d also been at least two “super loads” of laundry and another one for my bedroom comforter after the cat puked on it, and the daily dishwashing sessions—all that water going nowhere.

I also recalled coming home from work earlier that day to find my cats sitting in a row on the top step of the staircase to the basement—eyes big as saucers. It was an usual for “they who do not get along” to be sharing space like that. Then a vision of why—a flooded basement of cat food dishes and litter boxes floating alongside all the other unused household junk I had stashed down there.

I leapt out of the shower like a bat out of a “Meatloaf” album and ran buck naked to the basement tripping over the cats, who caught sight of my greek goddess figure and fled fearing for their lives.

I threw open the reservoir lid to discover a brimming tank of gruesome grey water threatening the boundary line between a dry basement and my worse nightmare.

Without thinking I jammed my entire arm down into the liquid gruel to locate the sump float, and while looking up to avoid looking down into the abyss, did I see that at the ceiling I hadn’t unplugged electricity to the pump.

I yanked my arm out of the water quicker than a lightening fast draw by “Billy the Kid,” (as if it would have made a difference had there been a short.)

Suddenly in rushed a memory from my childhood and my Grandpa Joe Drennan telling us about his dairy cattle, back in the day, being electrocuted in the barn when, secured in the stanchions, one of them took a drink of water and all of them succumbed to a electrical short in the system.

Thankfully I’m still here to ponder how lucky I am to be writing this and that my “G-man” can not only turn a mean pipe wrench, but more importantly—and gratefully so—brings rescue, calm and wise solutions to a somewhat “Little Miss Stressed Out.”  

Thinking of you. :)

  

Here's to my song of life

One of my favorite “what life is really about” pieces of writing was penned by the very, very wise female columnist, Mary Schmich. It garnered her the Pulitzer Prize for Commentary in 2012. Reading it slowly (and it’s best said out loud) takes about five minutes and holds, in my humble opinion, some of the best third party advice I've ever absorbed.

Prior to Schmich’s award for her most sage thoughts, her gem of creation was immortalized worldwide on radio and music label by the brilliant film director, Baz Luhrman (of “Moulin Rouge,” “Australia,” and “The Great Gatsby” movie fame) when he recorded the commentary and it set to music.

I should listen to it more often, because there is many a day when I still need to be reminded of what matters most.

This self-proposed “song of life” is the reality check.

If you are familiar with the words, then you will understand when I declare I am among the people  (now well over 40 years of age) who really don’t know what they want to do with their life.

However, not knowing doesn’t mean I'm in chaos or unhappy.  Where I am-- or am not-- in this great big world, and that things will continue to change, makes for great adventure.

I only get one shot at this particular shift on Earth and I'm keeping the door open to further possibilities, known and unknown, until long after my hair is completely grey and thinning.

"Don't worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you . . . on some idle Tuesday."

So don’t text and drive. Period.

Oh, yes, and I'm supposed to dance, even if it's only in my living room by myself—and sometimes I do, like a champion from the “Dancing with the Stars” TV show—and I win—every time.

What I know for sure is that I should dance more often with my “G-force.” Dancing definitely is better in twos, at midnight, even if I step on your toes.  

The words of wisdom also encourage us to “Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on.”

That quote resonated with me on Saturday night in the midst of a phenomenal local restaurant soiree, watching the night unfold in a crowd of people I barely knew, while sitting across from friends who trumpet “life out loud,” and sitting next to the man with whom I so cherish my time, that all of us in that room were millionaires in our gatherings, enjoying the root of all that matters—the moment. 

We were together in precious commonalities of laughter, acceptance, and great conversations. Those are the gifts that trump all the negatives out there.

The song of life commentary is “Wear Sunscreen.” Read it. YouTube it. Take it to heart.

The Very Best Moments

If you had to name one—and only one—moment in your life that was your “very best,” what would it be? Could you honestly do that? 

I thought I could. I even picked “that one time when . . . “ and gave it due credence, but then right in behind it another good memory vying for best flowed in on the breeze of my many gratitudes.

Homemade macaroni and cheese can move me. It can move me to swoon, time and time again, over the very best moment when the warm cheesy gobs oozing over the spoon reach the palate and drown the senses in comfort and carbs. 

I was recently reminded never to underestimate the power of a dinner invite to a meal prepared with love for the purpose of conversation and appreciation that includes my homemade macaroni and cheese. “It can be refuge in a digital, confusing, pressure-cooked world.” Homemade macaroni and cheese? Yes indeed, spoonfuls of it (especially the ones snuck from the dish of leftovers) can create some of the very best moments.

Slipping under the flannel sheets of my bed on a cold winter’s night after the electric blanket has been turned on—no question one of the very best moments of my day.

I keep a diary. I’ve been doing that since I was 11 years old. Sure, I’ve missed a time or two here and there, and yet I always return to the page where some of the very best moments are the ones I write in permanent ink.

I watched my first granddaughter delivered through my daughter’s caesarean section. I laid my eyes on that living miracle in the moment before she was touched by a doctor’s hand about to deliver her from the womb into the world. It was a remarkable best moment.

Facing the church congregation as I said my wedding vows, when once upon a time I was married, that too, a very best moment, even though it is long since gone into the history books.

A photograph that hangs on my living room wall captures the happy moment on a playground slide in the mid-1990’s, when my three daughters, then “Littles,” smiled back at me. Oh, so very much a best moment.

Holding hands in the night with my special someone while we sleep—my favourite best moment. 

Listening to snow melt off my roof, watching my cats play, checking my bank account when its not in overdraft. Oh my, those make the list too.

Seeing my father today, at 90, healthy and wise, smile back at me from across the kitchen table, during that meal prepared with love by my mother for the purpose of conversation and appreciation of family. We were there—a very best moment.

If you had to name one—and only one—moment in your life that was your “very best,” what would it be? Could you honestly do that?  I hope not.

Thinking back to now

I’ve believed it for years and years. I am exactly where I am supposed to be. 

I believe in the words of the “Desiderata” - created in 1927 - and I carry it with me always. I most especially believe in the part that says– “Whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the Universe is unfolding as it should.”

So it shouldn’t surprise me that I am here once again on the crest of memory of a cold January day five years ago that unfolded, as I know it to be, into the most defining moment of my life thus far.

That was the day I learned what it meant to be alive.

Yet I am here wrestling with a muddled bag of alphabets and trying most desperately to pull them into some kind of meaningful scrabble—again—a checkerboard of words of value about what I know to be true about that day, when life changed in an instant. 

First of all I am compelled to remind anyone who reads this how important it is to practice three golden rules any time someone needs to share feelings on their grief, loss, and crisis.

“Mouth shut, ears open, presence available.” 

Really try hard to be the ears and not the mouth. It isn’t easy. Most of us in crisis aren’t asking for your advice. We just need to be heard. Put away your opinions. Shut up and listen.

Furthermore, and I say this with the upmost humility and respect for the journeys of others. Purpose is sacred to each of us—this I know for sure—and I respect yours, whatever it may be.

I’m still ever edging outwards in healing from my own storm damage.

Mark Nepo wrote, “The current of life requires us to stand up, again and again, and we are not defeated when we are worn down, just exposed anew at a deeper level.”  This I believe.

I am puzzled by many things, some worth piecing together and some, not so much. I spend a lot of time thinking about what I think about.

I think again about that question posed to me some time ago by a friend. “What’s the goal of your life, Beth?”

Much to my surprise I couldn’t answer it promptly and that bugged me—a lot.

I felt stymied in some internal way, as if the fact that I couldn’t answer the question meant I didn’t know what I wanted or what I was supposed to be doing with my life.

Eventually it dawned on me that, yes, of course, I know what my goal is. It’s what I live for and in one way or another I write about it all the time. It was the primary lesson I learned when I came face to face with the suicide of a loved one.

Nepo writes “That we insist on keeping old wounds alive, is our curse.” He’s right. It’s what we focus on that manifests itself.

“When I focus on the rake of experience and how its fingers dug into me and the many feet that have walked over me, there is no end to the life of my pain. But when I focus on the soil of heart and how it has been turned over, there is no end to the mix of feelings that defy my want to name them. Tragedy stays alive by feeling what’s been done to us. Peace comes alive by living with the result.”

What is the goal of my life? My goal is to be happy. I deserve to be happy. We all do.

The happiness balance is tedious, constant work. Sometimes I do it well, sometimes I do appallingly, but I do the work anyway, because life is short and thank the Universe, I’m still here.