It's time to put my money where my mouth is. For as long as I can remember I've been repeating this mantra: "Oh, I know exactly what I need. I don't need a book or a guru or a counselor to tell me this. The only thing that's going to slow down the whirling is meditation."
I am tired of seeming so unsure of myself. Decisions are agonizing torture, calling for advice from anybody who'll bid me the time of day. It's quite amazing, come to think of it, that I actually went into action last summer and put my house up for sale. I can only explain it by assuming that enough people told me to do it. Granted, they were all sick of hearing me debate with myself, ad infinitum, as to whether I should move to the urban neighborhood I coveted, where I could walk (instead of drive) to my life's destinations.
I even used you, my blog readers. Many of you indulged me with encouragement and suggestions regarding what is becoming my theme of the year : to move or not to move.
Now, my house still sits on the market, with showings (for potential buyers) fewer and farther between, as winter approaches. The ever-active whirling dervish of my mind wonders: "Hmmmmm....this must mean that I wasn't meant to move......this house IS in a great location, after all, on this incredible rose garden....if these people can't appreciate my house, then I'll just STAY here- I'll show 'em...although I do hate living in the suburbs....yet as time passes and my savings seem to be dwindling, I see that I can't really afford the more expensive, trendy urban neighborhood- that's the reality of the situation...why can't I live in the area I want to, in the house I want?....is there any way I can make it happen?........should I get a new realtor?.......maybe if I could find a man to hook up with, together we could afford what I want....etc., etc." This is what it's like inside my head.
It's nothing that a little meditation can't fix, right? We'll see. Instead of agonizing over neighborhoods, (or any of the other more fleeting issues like whether or not I was dissed at work) the theme of this week is going to be MEDITATION, and my objective is to slow down, and to empty, my mind. Its chatter is driving me crazy.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
The Effect of James Carden, Part II
Exactly one year ago I published a post about my 10th grade history teacher, James Carden. He was one of those inspiring zealots who leave lasting impressions on the people they encounter.
I voted today. I might have voted even if I hadn't known James Carden, but it would have happened with more detachment, I'm sure. James Carden taught me, a very non-political person, to care, and to act accordingly. And if the truth be known, during a frighteningly apathetic time of my life, I didn't bother to vote, and didn't give a rat's ass about it, either. Then I remembered James Carden.
He was intense, by golly. He didn't speak; he bellowed. If it wasn't important, then he didn't bother to say it. His words were punctuated by fists pounding and face reddening. His body paid the price- his heart condition required him to pop glycerin pills upon each outburst.
I don't favorably recall many events from my school years, but I do fondly remember our political debates in James Carden's class. That's how he taught us to care, even though it was very uncool for teenagers to do so. In the safety of his classroom, away from our peers who wouldn't get it, he ignited our fires, built to burn for a lifetime.
I voted today, and I cared about and had researched each of my choices. I thought of James Carden as I was handed my "I voted today" sticker. James Carden's fire has surely been snuffed out by now, but the many others he lit burn steadily.
I voted today. I might have voted even if I hadn't known James Carden, but it would have happened with more detachment, I'm sure. James Carden taught me, a very non-political person, to care, and to act accordingly. And if the truth be known, during a frighteningly apathetic time of my life, I didn't bother to vote, and didn't give a rat's ass about it, either. Then I remembered James Carden.
He was intense, by golly. He didn't speak; he bellowed. If it wasn't important, then he didn't bother to say it. His words were punctuated by fists pounding and face reddening. His body paid the price- his heart condition required him to pop glycerin pills upon each outburst.
I don't favorably recall many events from my school years, but I do fondly remember our political debates in James Carden's class. That's how he taught us to care, even though it was very uncool for teenagers to do so. In the safety of his classroom, away from our peers who wouldn't get it, he ignited our fires, built to burn for a lifetime.
I voted today, and I cared about and had researched each of my choices. I thought of James Carden as I was handed my "I voted today" sticker. James Carden's fire has surely been snuffed out by now, but the many others he lit burn steadily.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
revival
I have been busy lately- too busy to do anything except work, keep the child alive and try to sell my house. All that is really more than this whirling dervish can handle.
I am still too busy, but don't really want to give up completely on my blog. I miss the contact with the few loyal readers I had. I don't have any real friends these days, and now I'm even losing my virtual ones.
My house has been on the market since August. It is a shock to me that a house situated on what is arguably the world's largest rose garden is not selling. Yeah, yeah, I know....it's a buyer's market. Always desperate to figure out the hidden meaning of everything and anything, I am wondering if perhaps my move to the urban neighborhood wasn't meant to be after all. But whenever I think of giving up and staying put, I am consumed by disappointment because I still don't believe that it can't happen. I do admit that the urban house I'm eyeing is at the top of my price range, maybe even beyond it, but I feel like taking a risk rather than retreating back into the "same old same old."
My 3 goals (working, keeping child alive and selling house) have left time and energy for little else, and it's catching up with me. Was it Carl Jung who said that "an unexamined life is not worth living"? My life has been that way, unexamined, and I've found myself snappy and irritable. That's not how I want to be.
Part of my problem is that I feel completely alone. I think that makes people behave defensively, perhaps. Since my child came onto the scene, friendships have been fleeting. The one friend who did stick with me, for the most part, has found a buddy he likes better. She often stays at his house, and is soon moving in permanently.
I don't have any business complaining. If the truth be known, it almost seems as if I've lived several lifetimes already. Each phase was a life. In my other phases, I was not so alone. It is understandable that things are different now. How appealing is an overworked, overwhelmed, frazzled single mother who is always working or mothering when others are socializing?
I am still too busy, but don't really want to give up completely on my blog. I miss the contact with the few loyal readers I had. I don't have any real friends these days, and now I'm even losing my virtual ones.
My house has been on the market since August. It is a shock to me that a house situated on what is arguably the world's largest rose garden is not selling. Yeah, yeah, I know....it's a buyer's market. Always desperate to figure out the hidden meaning of everything and anything, I am wondering if perhaps my move to the urban neighborhood wasn't meant to be after all. But whenever I think of giving up and staying put, I am consumed by disappointment because I still don't believe that it can't happen. I do admit that the urban house I'm eyeing is at the top of my price range, maybe even beyond it, but I feel like taking a risk rather than retreating back into the "same old same old."
My 3 goals (working, keeping child alive and selling house) have left time and energy for little else, and it's catching up with me. Was it Carl Jung who said that "an unexamined life is not worth living"? My life has been that way, unexamined, and I've found myself snappy and irritable. That's not how I want to be.
Part of my problem is that I feel completely alone. I think that makes people behave defensively, perhaps. Since my child came onto the scene, friendships have been fleeting. The one friend who did stick with me, for the most part, has found a buddy he likes better. She often stays at his house, and is soon moving in permanently.
I don't have any business complaining. If the truth be known, it almost seems as if I've lived several lifetimes already. Each phase was a life. In my other phases, I was not so alone. It is understandable that things are different now. How appealing is an overworked, overwhelmed, frazzled single mother who is always working or mothering when others are socializing?
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
the cookie crumbles
The call came yesterday at 3:20pm. My realtor had just left for the Bahamas, and the call was from the woman filling in for him. I heard it in her voice. I said, " The contract on my house fell through, didn't it?"
"Oooooh, I just can't stand bearing this kind of news......Your buyer backed out because apparently she and her husband freaked out over the inspection report, even though the report was a very typical one.... and the other party who wanted to make an offer after the open house day isn't returning my calls...."
I am disillusioned. It had appeared that the good luck I always used to have, which had seemed to dissipate when my mother died, was back with me. I loved telling the story (over the past week) of how my house had gone into contract the day it went on the market, for a price higher than what I was asking! And this after I had defied my realtor by taking my sweet old time, thus entering the market at a bad time (end of summer). This was how Betty's life used to be, all of the time. Charmed, without a doubt.
I now mourn the loss, not just of my dream of living in a thriving pedestrian neighborhood in a Victorian house, but of what I had thought was the turnabout of my luck.
"Oooooh, I just can't stand bearing this kind of news......Your buyer backed out because apparently she and her husband freaked out over the inspection report, even though the report was a very typical one.... and the other party who wanted to make an offer after the open house day isn't returning my calls...."
I am disillusioned. It had appeared that the good luck I always used to have, which had seemed to dissipate when my mother died, was back with me. I loved telling the story (over the past week) of how my house had gone into contract the day it went on the market, for a price higher than what I was asking! And this after I had defied my realtor by taking my sweet old time, thus entering the market at a bad time (end of summer). This was how Betty's life used to be, all of the time. Charmed, without a doubt.
I now mourn the loss, not just of my dream of living in a thriving pedestrian neighborhood in a Victorian house, but of what I had thought was the turnabout of my luck.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Resolution
A mere few days ago, I was still undecided, changing my mind from one moment to the next. Should I stay in my suburban neighborhood on the park or move to the trendy urban neighborhood which seems to resonate in my bones?
During the month of August I almost put my house on the market several times, only to back out at the last minute, immobilized by the fear of making a mistake. I dreaded the constant pressure of keeping my house in showing condition until it sold. Housekeeping is absurdly challenging for me, especially with a child and a new Chihuahua following me around, eager to undo my handiwork.
Suddenly I seemed to experience a moment of clarity. It followed a conversation with an ex-boyfriend. He finds himself mysteriously entangled with the most unlikely women, then attempts to analyze, plan and predict. I told him to relax, accept that he had some kind of cosmic business with his latest woman (as he had with the others before her), and just go with the flow.
It occurred to me to apply that principle to my own situation. I was inexplicably drawn to the urban neighborhood just as he was drawn to each of these women. Why shouldn't I just relax, accept my urge to move, and go with the flow? Each time I had resisted, I had felt unrest afterwards. This time, then, I'd go for it.
Last Sunday, the day my house went on the market, my realtor held an open house at my residence. As luck would have it, that day the local newspaper featured a front page story on a castle-like home being built around the corner from my house. That newspaper article brought a tremendous number of curious folks into my neighborhood, many of whom stopped in at my open house.
After the open house I was in the kitchen preparing food for the child when I saw a woman in my driveway. I beckoned her inside, and she said she had been at the open house and wanted to buy my house. I told her that another party from the open house was very interested and had already set up a private showing for 7 pm.
The woman showed up again at 7:15, during the scheduled showing to the other party, with an offer which she handed to my realtor. She was offering more than the asking price, just hours after the house had been listed. I accepted, and my house in officially in contract.
To make a long story short, I am also already in contract on the urban house I wanted. When I stop and think that a week ago, I still wasn't sure what to do, I can't believe the lightening speed with which all of this has occurred, and in this buyer's market, no less. Although a few details remain to be ironed out, I can't help but wonder if, just maybe, this was meant to be.
During the month of August I almost put my house on the market several times, only to back out at the last minute, immobilized by the fear of making a mistake. I dreaded the constant pressure of keeping my house in showing condition until it sold. Housekeeping is absurdly challenging for me, especially with a child and a new Chihuahua following me around, eager to undo my handiwork.
Suddenly I seemed to experience a moment of clarity. It followed a conversation with an ex-boyfriend. He finds himself mysteriously entangled with the most unlikely women, then attempts to analyze, plan and predict. I told him to relax, accept that he had some kind of cosmic business with his latest woman (as he had with the others before her), and just go with the flow.
It occurred to me to apply that principle to my own situation. I was inexplicably drawn to the urban neighborhood just as he was drawn to each of these women. Why shouldn't I just relax, accept my urge to move, and go with the flow? Each time I had resisted, I had felt unrest afterwards. This time, then, I'd go for it.
Last Sunday, the day my house went on the market, my realtor held an open house at my residence. As luck would have it, that day the local newspaper featured a front page story on a castle-like home being built around the corner from my house. That newspaper article brought a tremendous number of curious folks into my neighborhood, many of whom stopped in at my open house.
After the open house I was in the kitchen preparing food for the child when I saw a woman in my driveway. I beckoned her inside, and she said she had been at the open house and wanted to buy my house. I told her that another party from the open house was very interested and had already set up a private showing for 7 pm.
The woman showed up again at 7:15, during the scheduled showing to the other party, with an offer which she handed to my realtor. She was offering more than the asking price, just hours after the house had been listed. I accepted, and my house in officially in contract.
To make a long story short, I am also already in contract on the urban house I wanted. When I stop and think that a week ago, I still wasn't sure what to do, I can't believe the lightening speed with which all of this has occurred, and in this buyer's market, no less. Although a few details remain to be ironed out, I can't help but wonder if, just maybe, this was meant to be.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Voice of reason
Major decisions seem to daunt me these days. Recently I've struggled with the question of whether or not to try to sell my house, then buy in the downtown neighborhood I obsess over.
I've been through hell and high water of my own making. (There's nothing wrong with my existing house, located 7 miles from downtown on one of the world's largest public rose gardens.) I've made THE DECISION numerous times, only to flip back the next day.
This week I went so far as to call the realtor over to my house so that he could initiate the listing process. He photographed each room, advised me on what needed to happen before the open house this Sunday, and we filled out the paperwork. Before he left he planted the "For Sale" sign firmly in the ground.
That same day, another house, 2 houses down from the one I wanted originally, went on the market. This changed everything. I liked this new house, but it had certain drawbacks, like no garage. But it was cheaper.
The main effect of the new house was that it caused me to lose interest in the original, more expensive house. When I sat down looking at the photos of the new house, I glanced around at the place I already own, with its "For Sale" sign out front, and said to myself, "This is crazy. I'd be selling this house on the park in great condition for this dilapidated old thing downtown with no garage and one measly bathroom."
I called the realtor and told him I didn't know what I'd gotten myself into, but it was wrong. He told me to uproot his "For Sale" sign and bring it to his office. He's letting me off the hook. Again.
Yes, I'm relieved, because getting my house ready to sell was absolutely exhausting. Now that I'm off the hook again, I can attempt to live my life instead of constantly working on the house.
Yet I am nagged by the thought of a pedestrian lifestyle in a bustling neighborhood that could have been. The suburbs don't suit me well. According to studies of the psychology of space (where we live), most Americans don't even realize what they are missing by living in the suburbs. The sense of community created by front porches, sidewalks and neighborhood grocery stores and coffee shops is virtually unknown to many of us.
I grew up with front porches, sidewalks and neighborhood grocery stores. I walked everywhere, even in college, and felt empowered by that. Where I live now, the car is not only mandatory- it rules. Pedestrians, though rare, must yield to the SUV.
Let's hope that my dream of moving is simply being delayed a bit due to the fact that the right house at the right price is not available right now. That's why my resistance was so strong. When the right situation arises, I will carry out the work with ease.
And meanwhile, I will be figuring out what improvements I can make in my life without buying a new house.
I've been through hell and high water of my own making. (There's nothing wrong with my existing house, located 7 miles from downtown on one of the world's largest public rose gardens.) I've made THE DECISION numerous times, only to flip back the next day.
This week I went so far as to call the realtor over to my house so that he could initiate the listing process. He photographed each room, advised me on what needed to happen before the open house this Sunday, and we filled out the paperwork. Before he left he planted the "For Sale" sign firmly in the ground.
That same day, another house, 2 houses down from the one I wanted originally, went on the market. This changed everything. I liked this new house, but it had certain drawbacks, like no garage. But it was cheaper.
The main effect of the new house was that it caused me to lose interest in the original, more expensive house. When I sat down looking at the photos of the new house, I glanced around at the place I already own, with its "For Sale" sign out front, and said to myself, "This is crazy. I'd be selling this house on the park in great condition for this dilapidated old thing downtown with no garage and one measly bathroom."
I called the realtor and told him I didn't know what I'd gotten myself into, but it was wrong. He told me to uproot his "For Sale" sign and bring it to his office. He's letting me off the hook. Again.
Yes, I'm relieved, because getting my house ready to sell was absolutely exhausting. Now that I'm off the hook again, I can attempt to live my life instead of constantly working on the house.
Yet I am nagged by the thought of a pedestrian lifestyle in a bustling neighborhood that could have been. The suburbs don't suit me well. According to studies of the psychology of space (where we live), most Americans don't even realize what they are missing by living in the suburbs. The sense of community created by front porches, sidewalks and neighborhood grocery stores and coffee shops is virtually unknown to many of us.
I grew up with front porches, sidewalks and neighborhood grocery stores. I walked everywhere, even in college, and felt empowered by that. Where I live now, the car is not only mandatory- it rules. Pedestrians, though rare, must yield to the SUV.
Let's hope that my dream of moving is simply being delayed a bit due to the fact that the right house at the right price is not available right now. That's why my resistance was so strong. When the right situation arises, I will carry out the work with ease.
And meanwhile, I will be figuring out what improvements I can make in my life without buying a new house.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
update
The mind is swirling, whirling with lots of wondering. Most of all, I'd like to know where to find clarity. I have only speculation, and lots of it.
My last post told of my friend Jim's death from cancer. Many attended his well-planned funeral, and afterwards his wife invited the entire gathering to their house. Finally I got to see what Jim had described to me as "a Harley-Davidson in the living room". The house appeared to feature 3 different living rooms, one of which really did harbor a large motorcycle missing some parts, such as handlebars. And I saw the side-by-side Lazy Boys from which he and his wife reportedly shouted together at CNN over political matters. The house was filled with people, chatter, laughter, food, beverages, and even a keg of beer.
It was great, but why couldn't we have done that with Jim living? Why wait until a person is dead before having people over? Personally, I was bothered and was happy to flee early to get to the sitter's house on time.
Then I started wondering what my late buddy would say to me if I could now ask him for advice on my house dilemma. From his new perspective in some other plane, he would surely say,"Betty, enjoy your life. If you want to live downtown, sell your house and move there. Now that I'm dead, if wish I'd finished putting together that Harley that's sitting in my living room back home on earth... I never rode it. We don't regret the things we did. We regret the things we didn't do."
Then a friend who also knew Jim told me that Jim had left his family with an enormous financial debt. Enormous, as in hundreds of thousands of dollars. This friend suggested that Jim's imagined message to me from the grave might have more to do with thrift and responsibility. Hmmmm....
Clarity, why do you insist upon eluding me? Why do your messengers continually contradict one another? Why does Bill tell me to go, and Jill to stay? How is a whirling dervish supposed to know what to do? I want to do the right thing, the best thing. Why should the identity of the right, the best, remain concealed? Why is my sincerity apparently unrewarded?
I teach my child indecision. On Monday he wants to move. On Tuesday, of course, he wants to stay, having re-discover the wonders of the finished basement. He is his mother's son, much more than we'd prefer. Wednesday, though, he'll be ready to move again. If I do ever move, I'll have to time it carefully to fit his switching schedule.
One time, riding a great wave of truth, I emphatically instructed my son on how to seek the answers from inside himself. It was a day when I had been transported from my self temporarily. With enthusiasm, I assured him that the answer was always there, right inside of himself, free for the asking.
My last post told of my friend Jim's death from cancer. Many attended his well-planned funeral, and afterwards his wife invited the entire gathering to their house. Finally I got to see what Jim had described to me as "a Harley-Davidson in the living room". The house appeared to feature 3 different living rooms, one of which really did harbor a large motorcycle missing some parts, such as handlebars. And I saw the side-by-side Lazy Boys from which he and his wife reportedly shouted together at CNN over political matters. The house was filled with people, chatter, laughter, food, beverages, and even a keg of beer.
It was great, but why couldn't we have done that with Jim living? Why wait until a person is dead before having people over? Personally, I was bothered and was happy to flee early to get to the sitter's house on time.
Then I started wondering what my late buddy would say to me if I could now ask him for advice on my house dilemma. From his new perspective in some other plane, he would surely say,"Betty, enjoy your life. If you want to live downtown, sell your house and move there. Now that I'm dead, if wish I'd finished putting together that Harley that's sitting in my living room back home on earth... I never rode it. We don't regret the things we did. We regret the things we didn't do."
Then a friend who also knew Jim told me that Jim had left his family with an enormous financial debt. Enormous, as in hundreds of thousands of dollars. This friend suggested that Jim's imagined message to me from the grave might have more to do with thrift and responsibility. Hmmmm....
Clarity, why do you insist upon eluding me? Why do your messengers continually contradict one another? Why does Bill tell me to go, and Jill to stay? How is a whirling dervish supposed to know what to do? I want to do the right thing, the best thing. Why should the identity of the right, the best, remain concealed? Why is my sincerity apparently unrewarded?
I teach my child indecision. On Monday he wants to move. On Tuesday, of course, he wants to stay, having re-discover the wonders of the finished basement. He is his mother's son, much more than we'd prefer. Wednesday, though, he'll be ready to move again. If I do ever move, I'll have to time it carefully to fit his switching schedule.
One time, riding a great wave of truth, I emphatically instructed my son on how to seek the answers from inside himself. It was a day when I had been transported from my self temporarily. With enthusiasm, I assured him that the answer was always there, right inside of himself, free for the asking.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
The Effect of Jim
I've had a vague awareness, throughout my recent house decision-making process, that the attendant stress was entirely of my own making. Nobody held a gun to my head and demanded that I self-torture over housing. In fact, I was never even unhappy with my current living situation. Change was not necessary; the thought of it, though, was entertainment, and distraction for sure- distraction from real life, I'm afraid.
Sadly, I was given a whole new perspective today which rendered my house decision "suffering" irrelevant. A co-worker, a cherished buddy (as much as a married man can be to a single whirling dervish) died of cancer last night. I am one of many people trying to imagine the workplace minus the major presence of Jim, who loved his career so much that he continued to function brilliantly at work even as the cancer ravaged his body practically beyond recognition.
Of course my mind automatically dredged up the highlights of my memories of Jim, of our many frank discussions of work matters, clowning around to keep things light, and because he was the only one who could talk me into it, socializing after work.
I keep replaying the last conversation I had with him, just 2 weeks ago. I received his message, reluctantly.
The exchange took place at work. Sick as he was, he still managed to keep showing up and doing his job, while others took days off for sore throats and hangnails. I knew he was worried about what would happen to his wife and children, but I didn't want to directly address the topic of his death. I didn't know that he was going to die. And if the thought did cross my mind, I sure as heck didn't want to let on, lest his hope be dashed. Yet I wanted to somehow reassure him.
Without planning this, I found myself telling him about Charles, the widower of another co-worker of ours who died of cancer 2 years ago. I have stayed in touch with him by telephone at least once a week since his wife died. I told Jim this, and added that I was planning to take Charles, even though his health was failing, to a concert the next week.
Jim's eyes widened and locked with mine. "It's REALLY good that you're doing that, Betty....... It's REALLY GOOD."
I can still see the look on his face. I think he had received my message, too.
Sadly, I was given a whole new perspective today which rendered my house decision "suffering" irrelevant. A co-worker, a cherished buddy (as much as a married man can be to a single whirling dervish) died of cancer last night. I am one of many people trying to imagine the workplace minus the major presence of Jim, who loved his career so much that he continued to function brilliantly at work even as the cancer ravaged his body practically beyond recognition.
Of course my mind automatically dredged up the highlights of my memories of Jim, of our many frank discussions of work matters, clowning around to keep things light, and because he was the only one who could talk me into it, socializing after work.
I keep replaying the last conversation I had with him, just 2 weeks ago. I received his message, reluctantly.
The exchange took place at work. Sick as he was, he still managed to keep showing up and doing his job, while others took days off for sore throats and hangnails. I knew he was worried about what would happen to his wife and children, but I didn't want to directly address the topic of his death. I didn't know that he was going to die. And if the thought did cross my mind, I sure as heck didn't want to let on, lest his hope be dashed. Yet I wanted to somehow reassure him.
Without planning this, I found myself telling him about Charles, the widower of another co-worker of ours who died of cancer 2 years ago. I have stayed in touch with him by telephone at least once a week since his wife died. I told Jim this, and added that I was planning to take Charles, even though his health was failing, to a concert the next week.
Jim's eyes widened and locked with mine. "It's REALLY good that you're doing that, Betty....... It's REALLY GOOD."
I can still see the look on his face. I think he had received my message, too.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
conversation between Whirling Betty and Higher Self
WB: I'm here to gain clarity on this house issue.
HS: It seems that you want what is out of your reach financially.
WB: Yes, it appears that I'm behaving like a spoiled brat, at least in this sense. I do not spoil myself with expensive clothing, or jewels; I do not buy fancy furniture; my car is the laughing stock of my workplace. But I want a certain house which, yes, is out of reach financially, probably.
HS: Why do you want it, if it's out of reach?
WB: Because it is not definitely, or absolutely, out of reach. It depends on which online calculator you use. But none of those calculators include babysitting expenses, for some odd reason. So it's possible that my ability to afford this house is even worse than the calculators show.
HS: Do you have a sense of the truth about whether you can afford this house?
WB: I don't.
HS: Have you possibly cluttered your mind with lists, facts, figures and calculations ad infinitum?
WB: Certainly.
HS: Your clarity is thus obscured.
WB: How can I get past the data and find the truth?
HS: Well, one of the factors in that truth is your mindset. You are currently very uptight about money. You cannot afford the house regardless of your income. Your mind is worked up into a frenzy over the expenses of the house in question.
WB: So if I just relax about the finances, I'll be able to afford the house?
HS: All the money in the world won't save you until you do. However, the actual numbers do have to be considered. Technically, the mortgage is affordable, but you will be paying out more each month than you are now. Some people in your society believe that money equals freedom. If you agree, then you will be imprisoning yourself to some degree by taking on the increased expenses. Are you willing to do so?
WB: Here's where I need a fortune teller. I don't know. I don't know what other things my child and I might wish to spend money on in the future. I do know he needs braces someday...... I don't have so much money that I can say it doesn't matter. And I have no parents or anybody else to lend money for an emergency.
HS: That sounds like clarity.
WB: I'm afraid to pass up this opportunity. It may be the last house in that location which I can afford.
HS: You just said you can't afford it. The truth may be that there is no house in that location which you can afford. Just remember though- it is still possible for you to buy that house. The bank will grant you the mortgage, not caring whether the decision turns your life topsy-turvy or not. You may choose to swim upstream if you prefer.
More importantly, I think it would behoove you to ask yourself what you truly seek. Is the house in question going to satisfy you?
WB: Uhh....no, it didn't the last time I lived in a similar house in that very location. I ended up searching the internet for houses in wooded settings the last time, and finally, after living in the urban house only 14 months, I moved to my current house on the park. I seem unable to satisfy myself with all this moving. During the time my child was age 2-4, I moved 4 times.
HS: So it's possible, then, that what you seek is not a house or a physical location.
WB: When I move I think I'm getting a better situation, more in line with my beliefs and desires and more conducive to our growth and thriving. But then all I want to do is move again.
HS: So it's not working.
WB: Correct.
HS: Is it possible, then, for you to live more in line with your beliefs and desires, in a way that is more conducive to growing and thriving, without moving?
WB: Well.....I can find out......
HS: What you want to move to is a new, enlightened, evolved self. You may simultaneously move to a new house, but moving to the house alone will not satisfy this urging of yours. Dealing with just the symbol, the house, will not bring your desired result.
WB: OK, if I do all that, changing my "self" into a new and enlightened one, THEN can I buy the house?
HS: Sigh..............
HS: It seems that you want what is out of your reach financially.
WB: Yes, it appears that I'm behaving like a spoiled brat, at least in this sense. I do not spoil myself with expensive clothing, or jewels; I do not buy fancy furniture; my car is the laughing stock of my workplace. But I want a certain house which, yes, is out of reach financially, probably.
HS: Why do you want it, if it's out of reach?
WB: Because it is not definitely, or absolutely, out of reach. It depends on which online calculator you use. But none of those calculators include babysitting expenses, for some odd reason. So it's possible that my ability to afford this house is even worse than the calculators show.
HS: Do you have a sense of the truth about whether you can afford this house?
WB: I don't.
HS: Have you possibly cluttered your mind with lists, facts, figures and calculations ad infinitum?
WB: Certainly.
HS: Your clarity is thus obscured.
WB: How can I get past the data and find the truth?
HS: Well, one of the factors in that truth is your mindset. You are currently very uptight about money. You cannot afford the house regardless of your income. Your mind is worked up into a frenzy over the expenses of the house in question.
WB: So if I just relax about the finances, I'll be able to afford the house?
HS: All the money in the world won't save you until you do. However, the actual numbers do have to be considered. Technically, the mortgage is affordable, but you will be paying out more each month than you are now. Some people in your society believe that money equals freedom. If you agree, then you will be imprisoning yourself to some degree by taking on the increased expenses. Are you willing to do so?
WB: Here's where I need a fortune teller. I don't know. I don't know what other things my child and I might wish to spend money on in the future. I do know he needs braces someday...... I don't have so much money that I can say it doesn't matter. And I have no parents or anybody else to lend money for an emergency.
HS: That sounds like clarity.
WB: I'm afraid to pass up this opportunity. It may be the last house in that location which I can afford.
HS: You just said you can't afford it. The truth may be that there is no house in that location which you can afford. Just remember though- it is still possible for you to buy that house. The bank will grant you the mortgage, not caring whether the decision turns your life topsy-turvy or not. You may choose to swim upstream if you prefer.
More importantly, I think it would behoove you to ask yourself what you truly seek. Is the house in question going to satisfy you?
WB: Uhh....no, it didn't the last time I lived in a similar house in that very location. I ended up searching the internet for houses in wooded settings the last time, and finally, after living in the urban house only 14 months, I moved to my current house on the park. I seem unable to satisfy myself with all this moving. During the time my child was age 2-4, I moved 4 times.
HS: So it's possible, then, that what you seek is not a house or a physical location.
WB: When I move I think I'm getting a better situation, more in line with my beliefs and desires and more conducive to our growth and thriving. But then all I want to do is move again.
HS: So it's not working.
WB: Correct.
HS: Is it possible, then, for you to live more in line with your beliefs and desires, in a way that is more conducive to growing and thriving, without moving?
WB: Well.....I can find out......
HS: What you want to move to is a new, enlightened, evolved self. You may simultaneously move to a new house, but moving to the house alone will not satisfy this urging of yours. Dealing with just the symbol, the house, will not bring your desired result.
WB: OK, if I do all that, changing my "self" into a new and enlightened one, THEN can I buy the house?
HS: Sigh..............
open house
"My" house is open to the public today from 1-3pm. It's the house I almost bought last week, the Victorian near downtown in the prime whirlingbetty location.
I certainly hope nobody has the audacity to buy my house. It's mine- I'm just not officially buying it until:
A) the price comes down by about 15%, or
B) I experience an unexpected windfall, rendering its current price no object, or
C) I just happen to decide that I'm going for broke, literally.
It has occurred to me that if I buy the house, a void will be created in my life. I will no longer be allowed to obsess incessantly about houses and neighborhoods and moving. Well, I guess I could still do it, but nobody will listen.
This has happened before. I did live in the dream neighborhood, in a dream Victorian, 5 years ago. I only lived there 14 months. I was quiet and satisfied for a while, and then the urge to search gradually took over. I spent hours on the internet looking for properties with lush backyards, in wooded settings. I almost bought one, in a location that I now realize I would have despised. Then finally I did buy one, and it's my current house, the one situated on the public rose garden.
What is this about? Why am I never satisfied, constantly searching for the ideal place to live? What deeper issue am I trying to resolve using houses?
And will Whirling Betty show up at her own open house today?
I certainly hope nobody has the audacity to buy my house. It's mine- I'm just not officially buying it until:
A) the price comes down by about 15%, or
B) I experience an unexpected windfall, rendering its current price no object, or
C) I just happen to decide that I'm going for broke, literally.
It has occurred to me that if I buy the house, a void will be created in my life. I will no longer be allowed to obsess incessantly about houses and neighborhoods and moving. Well, I guess I could still do it, but nobody will listen.
This has happened before. I did live in the dream neighborhood, in a dream Victorian, 5 years ago. I only lived there 14 months. I was quiet and satisfied for a while, and then the urge to search gradually took over. I spent hours on the internet looking for properties with lush backyards, in wooded settings. I almost bought one, in a location that I now realize I would have despised. Then finally I did buy one, and it's my current house, the one situated on the public rose garden.
What is this about? Why am I never satisfied, constantly searching for the ideal place to live? What deeper issue am I trying to resolve using houses?
And will Whirling Betty show up at her own open house today?
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Perched on the precipice
Whirling Betty is dizzy with decision. This one is pricey and life-altering. Most likely, it's fear that holds her back from jumping.
The child and she live in a small but pleasant enough house on a renowned public rose garden which is connected to very large sports fields, a recreation center, a library and miles of bike trails. It's not a bad place to raise a child, for sure. It's safe, and although there are no kids in the immediate vicinity, most of the child's schoolmates live within a 5 mile radius of the house.
But it's a suburb. Betty has a problem with that. Walking and biking are "in her blood"- that's how she was raised. She never even owned a car until moving to this city. The area Betty lives in is devoid of sidewalks, much to her horror. Although the area is well within the city's outerbelt and only about 9 miles from downtown, it behaves like a true suburb, where the car rules.
Until 5 years and 3 months ago, Betty and son used to live in the urban neighborhood bordering the north end of downtown, in a beautiful Victorian house and garden. People said Betty was crazy, since she was a single mother trying to raise a child in an urban area where street people rummaged through the trash dumpsters. In reality, that neighborhood was as safe as the one Betty fled to after listening to people's judgments. And it was far more interesting, even exciting and stimulating. And, significantly, Betty's car was at rest much of the time.
With home buyers rapidly recognizing how appealing and environmentally friendly that downtown neighborhood is, house and condo prices have skyrocketed. Betty is pretty much priced out of her beloved 'hood, except for one last Victorian house, in an ideal location a block from Betty's favorite city park and near all the other desirable destinations for groceries, restaurant meals, etc.
This particular house is underpriced because it lacks the amenities usually found in that desirable locale. There's only one bathroom and the laundry is still located in the dungeon. The house, with 1820 square feet, is no mansion.
Betty's realtor, a longtime friend, talked his carpenter into agreeing to put in new hardwood floors, a half bath, and a second floor laundry into the house Betty wants, if Betty buys it, for a staggeringly reasonable price. Still, Betty counted beans and decided the price of the house was $20,000 more than she could possibly afford. She told her realtor, and the realtor said that the seller would not bring down the price.
That was the end of that, until yesterday when the realtor phoned Betty to say he had finally talked the seller into lowering the price by $20,000, as long as Betty seals the deal right away.
Instead of rejoicing, Betty panics. When the realtor called, she was hoping he was going to say that someone else had bought the house so that she'd stop thinking about it. The move, even if it is the most positive one imaginable, is still a stressful upheaval of an already challenged life.
Alas, Betty remains indecisive, worrying about possibly feeling overextended financially in the new house. And she keeps glancing at the spectacular Anderson windows in the current house overlooking the rose garden. (The new house features old, barely budging windows which spew lead paint dust every time one dares to touch them.) And for the organizationally challenged like Betty, the ample storage space of her current house has suddenly taken on paramount importance. (Anyone who has ever seen a Victorian house knows that they don't feature much storage. Those Victorian people just didn't hoard the way we do now. Walmart didn't exist back then, for one thing.)
Then again, no house is perfect. The downtown neighborhood is the draw, more than the house itself. Betty frequently talks about moving back there, yet now that the opportunity, imperfect though it is, has presented itself, Betty balks. Is this just the expected fear associated with taking on such a huge financial commitment, maybe an early-onset buyer's remorse? Or has Betty just been full of hot air all along, talking up the urban lifestyle while having no real intention of ever walking the walk?
The child and she live in a small but pleasant enough house on a renowned public rose garden which is connected to very large sports fields, a recreation center, a library and miles of bike trails. It's not a bad place to raise a child, for sure. It's safe, and although there are no kids in the immediate vicinity, most of the child's schoolmates live within a 5 mile radius of the house.
But it's a suburb. Betty has a problem with that. Walking and biking are "in her blood"- that's how she was raised. She never even owned a car until moving to this city. The area Betty lives in is devoid of sidewalks, much to her horror. Although the area is well within the city's outerbelt and only about 9 miles from downtown, it behaves like a true suburb, where the car rules.
Until 5 years and 3 months ago, Betty and son used to live in the urban neighborhood bordering the north end of downtown, in a beautiful Victorian house and garden. People said Betty was crazy, since she was a single mother trying to raise a child in an urban area where street people rummaged through the trash dumpsters. In reality, that neighborhood was as safe as the one Betty fled to after listening to people's judgments. And it was far more interesting, even exciting and stimulating. And, significantly, Betty's car was at rest much of the time.
With home buyers rapidly recognizing how appealing and environmentally friendly that downtown neighborhood is, house and condo prices have skyrocketed. Betty is pretty much priced out of her beloved 'hood, except for one last Victorian house, in an ideal location a block from Betty's favorite city park and near all the other desirable destinations for groceries, restaurant meals, etc.
This particular house is underpriced because it lacks the amenities usually found in that desirable locale. There's only one bathroom and the laundry is still located in the dungeon. The house, with 1820 square feet, is no mansion.
Betty's realtor, a longtime friend, talked his carpenter into agreeing to put in new hardwood floors, a half bath, and a second floor laundry into the house Betty wants, if Betty buys it, for a staggeringly reasonable price. Still, Betty counted beans and decided the price of the house was $20,000 more than she could possibly afford. She told her realtor, and the realtor said that the seller would not bring down the price.
That was the end of that, until yesterday when the realtor phoned Betty to say he had finally talked the seller into lowering the price by $20,000, as long as Betty seals the deal right away.
Instead of rejoicing, Betty panics. When the realtor called, she was hoping he was going to say that someone else had bought the house so that she'd stop thinking about it. The move, even if it is the most positive one imaginable, is still a stressful upheaval of an already challenged life.
Alas, Betty remains indecisive, worrying about possibly feeling overextended financially in the new house. And she keeps glancing at the spectacular Anderson windows in the current house overlooking the rose garden. (The new house features old, barely budging windows which spew lead paint dust every time one dares to touch them.) And for the organizationally challenged like Betty, the ample storage space of her current house has suddenly taken on paramount importance. (Anyone who has ever seen a Victorian house knows that they don't feature much storage. Those Victorian people just didn't hoard the way we do now. Walmart didn't exist back then, for one thing.)
Then again, no house is perfect. The downtown neighborhood is the draw, more than the house itself. Betty frequently talks about moving back there, yet now that the opportunity, imperfect though it is, has presented itself, Betty balks. Is this just the expected fear associated with taking on such a huge financial commitment, maybe an early-onset buyer's remorse? Or has Betty just been full of hot air all along, talking up the urban lifestyle while having no real intention of ever walking the walk?
Monday, July 03, 2006
Independence Day
I have always considered myself independent. To me, independence means "financially self-supporting." I've been that for a long time. And I've lived alone until my child came along to share my house. And since I own that house, I must be REALLY independent, right?
Well, I'm learning that there are levels of independence. If I ever alter my words, chameleon style, to suit the person I'm speaking with, then am I independent?
If I allow another person to manipulate me, am I independent? If I take steps to help another person out of a mess that he's gotten himself into, even though I see that he deserves the consequence I'm saving him from, and even though he has bullied me consistently, am I independent? Or might I be participating in the dance of co-dependence?
I wish to be true to myself, but instead I react to the personalities I'm dealing with. I act not out of independence, but out of dependence upon the behaviors, personalities and desires of those around me.
Do I possess the strength to pull myself out of this spiraling whirlpool in which my self melds with other people's dramas? Can I do my job as a mother, regardless of tears and tantrums? Can I stand up to the father/bully, hiring a lawyer to assist? Can I set boundaries with the neighbor, not falling for his persistent needling?
I'll keep ya posted. Happy Independence Day.
Well, I'm learning that there are levels of independence. If I ever alter my words, chameleon style, to suit the person I'm speaking with, then am I independent?
If I allow another person to manipulate me, am I independent? If I take steps to help another person out of a mess that he's gotten himself into, even though I see that he deserves the consequence I'm saving him from, and even though he has bullied me consistently, am I independent? Or might I be participating in the dance of co-dependence?
I wish to be true to myself, but instead I react to the personalities I'm dealing with. I act not out of independence, but out of dependence upon the behaviors, personalities and desires of those around me.
Do I possess the strength to pull myself out of this spiraling whirlpool in which my self melds with other people's dramas? Can I do my job as a mother, regardless of tears and tantrums? Can I stand up to the father/bully, hiring a lawyer to assist? Can I set boundaries with the neighbor, not falling for his persistent needling?
I'll keep ya posted. Happy Independence Day.
Friday, June 23, 2006
walk through the park
It's been a rough week, mainly due to the unreasonable behavior of my child's father. Although he neither pays child support nor has any legal custody whatsoever, it has always been my policy to treat him with respect and to allow him to see the child whenever he wants to. I am being quite sincere when I say that I have treated the man amazingly well; better than he deserved, in fact.
Instead of gratitude, he regards me with utter disdain. I have never understood that. I am unaccustomed to being the target of anyone's hatred.
Threatening to "take me to court", he bullied me into letting him have the child this weekend, Friday through Sunday, and he is demanding the same every second weekend, plus every Wednesday night, until the child turns 18. I have been advised in the past, by the city's best domestic attorneys, to do everything I can to stay out of court because any father (short of a convicted murderer) will be perceived as a hero by the court if he asks to see his child. Yes, he'd have to start paying child support, but my sole concern is limiting my child's exposure to a man whom I consider a poor influence. Until now, the two had spent only a few hours per week together. I was OK with that.
I have an appointment set up with another lawyer this coming week. Perhaps court is the only way to go at this point.
Meanwhile, the father picked up my child at 5pm today (Friday). As I said goodbye to my little boy, I asked him to call me tonight and tomorrow night before he goes to bed. His father roared, "HE'S NOT CALLING YOU, AND YOU'RE NOT CALLING HIM! YOU'RE SICK!!!" I said that any mother would expect to speak on the phone to her young child away from home, and he bellowed,"YOU'RE WRONG!!! YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY!"
Of course, as he sped off with my little son, I very seriously questioned whether I should have allowed the visit. The child has been safe with him in the past, and that's why I gave in. Once I speak to the lawyer about recent events, I'll know how to proceed from now on. But this weekend must be endured somehow.
At the suggestion of friend TA, who assured me by telephone that both Betty and son would survive this weekend, I took a "meditation walk" in the rose garden outside of my house. In other words, I tried not to march like a bat out of hell, but rather to stroll, like a peaceful, aware wanderer.
There were many people to be avoided- that was my initial goal. I wanted to be alone- quite a challenge on a pleasantly cool evening amongst the roses.
I happened upon a wedding rehearsal. Curious, I observed the participants. The people appeared calm, reverent and supportive. Why can't people just be that way all the time, I wondered? Tears clouded my vision.
Then I thought of my own history. I've never been married. What is it about me that has deemed marriage elusive? And what is it about me that attracts people like the child's father into my life?
I left the questions at the altar and continued on toward the casting pond. I passed a family: mother, tiny son and father. The father looked at me as if I were the most important person on the face of this earth, as he smiled and nodded at me. Again, tears erupted.
It reminded me of a story I had read about a young man who was deeply depressed. He jumped off a bridge to his death. At the site from which he had jumped, a note was found which he had written. It said, "I'm on my way to commit suicide because I feel so alone. But if anyone smiles at me during my walk to the bridge, I will not jump off."
Lest I alarm my readers, I am not suicidal. But I am awed by the stark contrast between my child's father's hatred of me and this stranger's display of unearned, unconditional love.
Then, as I meandered back home, I thought of the little dog who had so graced my life. This was the same route my child and I had followed with our Chihuahua the night our dog was killed by another dog in the park. I re-experienced in my mind our dog's complete and utter jubilant exuberance. Again, tears, as I thanked our departed dog for the consolation in absentia, and the reminder of what life can be.
Instead of gratitude, he regards me with utter disdain. I have never understood that. I am unaccustomed to being the target of anyone's hatred.
Threatening to "take me to court", he bullied me into letting him have the child this weekend, Friday through Sunday, and he is demanding the same every second weekend, plus every Wednesday night, until the child turns 18. I have been advised in the past, by the city's best domestic attorneys, to do everything I can to stay out of court because any father (short of a convicted murderer) will be perceived as a hero by the court if he asks to see his child. Yes, he'd have to start paying child support, but my sole concern is limiting my child's exposure to a man whom I consider a poor influence. Until now, the two had spent only a few hours per week together. I was OK with that.
I have an appointment set up with another lawyer this coming week. Perhaps court is the only way to go at this point.
Meanwhile, the father picked up my child at 5pm today (Friday). As I said goodbye to my little boy, I asked him to call me tonight and tomorrow night before he goes to bed. His father roared, "HE'S NOT CALLING YOU, AND YOU'RE NOT CALLING HIM! YOU'RE SICK!!!" I said that any mother would expect to speak on the phone to her young child away from home, and he bellowed,"YOU'RE WRONG!!! YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY!"
Of course, as he sped off with my little son, I very seriously questioned whether I should have allowed the visit. The child has been safe with him in the past, and that's why I gave in. Once I speak to the lawyer about recent events, I'll know how to proceed from now on. But this weekend must be endured somehow.
At the suggestion of friend TA, who assured me by telephone that both Betty and son would survive this weekend, I took a "meditation walk" in the rose garden outside of my house. In other words, I tried not to march like a bat out of hell, but rather to stroll, like a peaceful, aware wanderer.
There were many people to be avoided- that was my initial goal. I wanted to be alone- quite a challenge on a pleasantly cool evening amongst the roses.
I happened upon a wedding rehearsal. Curious, I observed the participants. The people appeared calm, reverent and supportive. Why can't people just be that way all the time, I wondered? Tears clouded my vision.
Then I thought of my own history. I've never been married. What is it about me that has deemed marriage elusive? And what is it about me that attracts people like the child's father into my life?
I left the questions at the altar and continued on toward the casting pond. I passed a family: mother, tiny son and father. The father looked at me as if I were the most important person on the face of this earth, as he smiled and nodded at me. Again, tears erupted.
It reminded me of a story I had read about a young man who was deeply depressed. He jumped off a bridge to his death. At the site from which he had jumped, a note was found which he had written. It said, "I'm on my way to commit suicide because I feel so alone. But if anyone smiles at me during my walk to the bridge, I will not jump off."
Lest I alarm my readers, I am not suicidal. But I am awed by the stark contrast between my child's father's hatred of me and this stranger's display of unearned, unconditional love.
Then, as I meandered back home, I thought of the little dog who had so graced my life. This was the same route my child and I had followed with our Chihuahua the night our dog was killed by another dog in the park. I re-experienced in my mind our dog's complete and utter jubilant exuberance. Again, tears, as I thanked our departed dog for the consolation in absentia, and the reminder of what life can be.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
life in the suburbs
Whirling Betty's city (and its suburbs) will soon boast more people residing outside of its surrounding outerbelt than inside. This is disturbing on many levels.
Most obvious is the resulting destruction of nature. Nature is obliterated by man to make way for ugly little cul-de-sacs devoid of plantlife and wildlife. (But no doubt, those houses contain the coveted 2-story great rooms from which its inhabitants can gaze out the picture windows at the neighboring trophy houses.)
Nearly as obvious is the ruination of our ozone layer, since the people inhabiting these mini-mansions must drive far away to earn money to pay for them. Often these people opt for gas-guzzling SUV's, of course, which are an undeniable part of today's American Dream. (Wars, of course, must be fought over the oil needed to run these vehicles.)
And remarkably, these luxury suburbs are devoid of sidewalks. Walking is downright discouraged, in order to make way for the almighty automobile. Rising obesity is one symptom of this phenomenon. Not getting to know the neighbors is another.
Whirling Betty and Son live within the boundaries of the outerbelt. However, we live 8 miles from downtown, in an apparent suburb, judging from the glaring lack of sidewalks. Walking or bike riding is simply not safe here, because the car rules. A nearby vacant commercial building, which we were hoping would become a restaurant, was leased out to Auto Zone. The car rules, there's no doubt about it.
Five years ago, when my child was just entering preschool, we moved here from a downtown neighborhood. There, we had sidewalks, and we used 'em. I hardly ever fired up the Honda. I even walked to work. Pedestrians were expected and respected.
Why, oh why, did I leave the place I loved? I followed the herd of People With Kids to the "family-oriented" suburb we now live in. How are we better off? We can't walk anywhere without risking life, limb and lungs. Always confined to a vehicle, we don't know our neighbors. I even have to drive my kid to his school bus stop because walking these sidewalkless streets is absolutely out of the question.
According to a local moving company, the vast majority of moves here are to locations farther from downtown (often to outside of the outerbelt). Well, my goal is to buck that trend. As soon as I find the right house, we're moving back downtown.
Most obvious is the resulting destruction of nature. Nature is obliterated by man to make way for ugly little cul-de-sacs devoid of plantlife and wildlife. (But no doubt, those houses contain the coveted 2-story great rooms from which its inhabitants can gaze out the picture windows at the neighboring trophy houses.)
Nearly as obvious is the ruination of our ozone layer, since the people inhabiting these mini-mansions must drive far away to earn money to pay for them. Often these people opt for gas-guzzling SUV's, of course, which are an undeniable part of today's American Dream. (Wars, of course, must be fought over the oil needed to run these vehicles.)
And remarkably, these luxury suburbs are devoid of sidewalks. Walking is downright discouraged, in order to make way for the almighty automobile. Rising obesity is one symptom of this phenomenon. Not getting to know the neighbors is another.
Whirling Betty and Son live within the boundaries of the outerbelt. However, we live 8 miles from downtown, in an apparent suburb, judging from the glaring lack of sidewalks. Walking or bike riding is simply not safe here, because the car rules. A nearby vacant commercial building, which we were hoping would become a restaurant, was leased out to Auto Zone. The car rules, there's no doubt about it.
Five years ago, when my child was just entering preschool, we moved here from a downtown neighborhood. There, we had sidewalks, and we used 'em. I hardly ever fired up the Honda. I even walked to work. Pedestrians were expected and respected.
Why, oh why, did I leave the place I loved? I followed the herd of People With Kids to the "family-oriented" suburb we now live in. How are we better off? We can't walk anywhere without risking life, limb and lungs. Always confined to a vehicle, we don't know our neighbors. I even have to drive my kid to his school bus stop because walking these sidewalkless streets is absolutely out of the question.
According to a local moving company, the vast majority of moves here are to locations farther from downtown (often to outside of the outerbelt). Well, my goal is to buck that trend. As soon as I find the right house, we're moving back downtown.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
chico
The Chihuahua was particularly cute when I came home from work today. Ears pinned back, body curling with glee, tail vibrating, he slipped out the door, unable to wait for me to enter. Instead of hightailing it into the park the way he normally does, he stayed to shower me with greetings. Although I poke fun at this dog, I appreciate his cuddly, affectionate, always-available-for-comforting nature, and the way he gazes at me with adoration in his eyes. Whenever I pick him up, he relaxes like a rag doll, totally compliant, grateful for the attention.
After dinner, it was my idea to go for a walk in the park. For some odd reason, I wanted to leave the Chihuahua at home this time, but the child insisted on taking the dog as we usually did.
Maybe it was the angle of the sun, but something made the scene in the park magical, with the first rosebuds opening and the slightly crisp air still warmed by the setting sun. The Chihuahua was, as always, thrilled to be alive and with his people.
We walked and ran through the roses to the casting pond and back. Close to home, the frisky Chihuahua bucked and charged, freeing the end of his leash from the child's hand. Off he flew, toward the nearest dog.
Our Chihuahua is not like other Chihuahuas. Ours is loving, trusting, and fearless, totally. He never seemed to realize that his size was diminutive, or that some dogs lacking in sophistication might mistake him for a squirrel.
The ensuing events are a bit hazy to me, as if shock set in from the outset. I was aware of a dog brawl, and afterwards I heard my dog crying mightily. My child was bawling. I clutched the sides of my face in horror, unable to move or comprehend. The owner of the attacking dog tried to pick up my Chihuahua, but my dog snapped at him and staggered over to me, bleeding from the belly.
My neighbor drove me and my family (boy and Chihuahua) to the emergency animal hospital. A heroic effort was made to save his life, but our little chico died tonight.
So far, the aftermath has been unbearable. The house is filled with the toys he loved so much, which he was constantly presenting us with, hoping we'd play fetch. His Pooch Perch is stationed proudly at the window, where he kept vigilance until his people returned home. His little teacup of water awaits him. I can't bring myself to remove his things, which have become suddenly sacred.
In my mind's eye I see him proudly prancing about, doing his utmost to teach me all about the joie de vivre which was his specialty. We were lucky to have him, if only for 10 months. Thank you, chico.
After dinner, it was my idea to go for a walk in the park. For some odd reason, I wanted to leave the Chihuahua at home this time, but the child insisted on taking the dog as we usually did.
Maybe it was the angle of the sun, but something made the scene in the park magical, with the first rosebuds opening and the slightly crisp air still warmed by the setting sun. The Chihuahua was, as always, thrilled to be alive and with his people.
We walked and ran through the roses to the casting pond and back. Close to home, the frisky Chihuahua bucked and charged, freeing the end of his leash from the child's hand. Off he flew, toward the nearest dog.
Our Chihuahua is not like other Chihuahuas. Ours is loving, trusting, and fearless, totally. He never seemed to realize that his size was diminutive, or that some dogs lacking in sophistication might mistake him for a squirrel.
The ensuing events are a bit hazy to me, as if shock set in from the outset. I was aware of a dog brawl, and afterwards I heard my dog crying mightily. My child was bawling. I clutched the sides of my face in horror, unable to move or comprehend. The owner of the attacking dog tried to pick up my Chihuahua, but my dog snapped at him and staggered over to me, bleeding from the belly.
My neighbor drove me and my family (boy and Chihuahua) to the emergency animal hospital. A heroic effort was made to save his life, but our little chico died tonight.
So far, the aftermath has been unbearable. The house is filled with the toys he loved so much, which he was constantly presenting us with, hoping we'd play fetch. His Pooch Perch is stationed proudly at the window, where he kept vigilance until his people returned home. His little teacup of water awaits him. I can't bring myself to remove his things, which have become suddenly sacred.
In my mind's eye I see him proudly prancing about, doing his utmost to teach me all about the joie de vivre which was his specialty. We were lucky to have him, if only for 10 months. Thank you, chico.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Knight in Shining Armor
My diary writing resumed today after an inquiry from Shankari, who was curious as to whether I had burned my diaries yet. No, I haven't, largely because I seem to have a few more things to say in them before I'm ready for the bonfire.
Today my journal writing took an unexpected turn. Often I tend to dwell on the same issues, ad infinitum, but today I found myself focused, much to my surprise, on the boyfriend with whom I had been involved during my mother's illness.
M had referred to himself, sarcastically, as my "knight in shining armor". He deeply resented the many helpless women who seem to be looking for that magic man to save their lives. His past was littered with such women, and he hoped I wouldn't turn out to be yet another example.
Actually, I had always perceived my mother as my source of security. It's no wonder- she had resolved many of my problems for me, from financial to social to physical. For example, there was a man stalking me when I was a college student. After I told her about it over the phone, she appeared at my door several hours later, having traveled two hundred miles to tell this stalker a thing or two. Same thing happened when I told her I had been diagnosed with anemia. She showed up at my dorm room hours later wielding a side of beef.
Now I see that, facing the impending loss of my source of security (she had pancreatic cancer), I did unconsciously hope to transfer the title to M. After I flew back to my hometown for her funeral, M apparently decided to don his suit of armor. He showed up at my mother's funeral unexpectedly, having flown halfway across the country to be at my side.
Afterwards, he presented me with a bill for his air fare. (After all, it was my mother who had died, and he had flown there for my benefit, even though I had not asked him to come.) I never realized that the damsels had to pay their knights!
He had been planning to quit his engineering job to move to Montana, in a heroic effort to "follow his heart." He did pack up his belongings and head out west a few months after the funeral. I was heartbroken, but not for long. He called when he got there, with a proposal. If I'd give him money, I could go to Montana and stay with him for a few months. (It seems he didn't have enough money to make it there after all.) I sent the money, took a leave of absence from work, and headed out West.
That was only the beginning. The job he eventually found didn't pay very well, and I used my savings to pay his bills during my prolonged visit.
Today my journal writing took an unexpected turn. Often I tend to dwell on the same issues, ad infinitum, but today I found myself focused, much to my surprise, on the boyfriend with whom I had been involved during my mother's illness.
M had referred to himself, sarcastically, as my "knight in shining armor". He deeply resented the many helpless women who seem to be looking for that magic man to save their lives. His past was littered with such women, and he hoped I wouldn't turn out to be yet another example.
Actually, I had always perceived my mother as my source of security. It's no wonder- she had resolved many of my problems for me, from financial to social to physical. For example, there was a man stalking me when I was a college student. After I told her about it over the phone, she appeared at my door several hours later, having traveled two hundred miles to tell this stalker a thing or two. Same thing happened when I told her I had been diagnosed with anemia. She showed up at my dorm room hours later wielding a side of beef.
Now I see that, facing the impending loss of my source of security (she had pancreatic cancer), I did unconsciously hope to transfer the title to M. After I flew back to my hometown for her funeral, M apparently decided to don his suit of armor. He showed up at my mother's funeral unexpectedly, having flown halfway across the country to be at my side.
Afterwards, he presented me with a bill for his air fare. (After all, it was my mother who had died, and he had flown there for my benefit, even though I had not asked him to come.) I never realized that the damsels had to pay their knights!
He had been planning to quit his engineering job to move to Montana, in a heroic effort to "follow his heart." He did pack up his belongings and head out west a few months after the funeral. I was heartbroken, but not for long. He called when he got there, with a proposal. If I'd give him money, I could go to Montana and stay with him for a few months. (It seems he didn't have enough money to make it there after all.) I sent the money, took a leave of absence from work, and headed out West.
That was only the beginning. The job he eventually found didn't pay very well, and I used my savings to pay his bills during my prolonged visit.
M and I remain long distance friends. He almost died in a motorcycle crash recently, and I'm glad he didn't. His deep spiritual and philosophical ideas are forever welcome in my life. However, today's journal writing exposed the truth: by financially enabling M to live out his dream, I had been his knight in shining armor.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
What's your theme today?
The other day when I was attempting to turn left off a main drag, I was in an unusually jovial mood, apparently. Instead of being offended by having to wait until an approaching Speedy Gonzales passed, driving at least twice the posted speed limit, I chuckled to myself that he was a man on a mission. After pausing briefly to speculate as to what it might be, it dawned on me that each of us has a daily theme or goal, whether or not we're aware of it.
Lately, my mission has been to make it through the day- to get from point A (May 19) to point B (May 20). That's it. The theme? Survival.
OK, is that the way I really want to live my life? (Granted, I'm usually driving well within the speed limit given such a mundane mission. I pose no threat to society from behind the wheel!)
How do Joseph Campbell's bliss followers go about their days? Do they groan and grumble when the alarm goes off in the morning?
Today the child and I had a mission, at least in the morning. I awakened very early, without an alarm, and noticed with surprise that the child was still sound asleep. On the days when school is his resented agenda, he is outrageously difficult to remove from bed, but today is Saturday! So I whispered the words "yard sale" and he sat bolt upright in bed, smiling from ear to ear.
Less than five minutes later we were in the car, on our way to an annual neighborhood-wide yard sale in a very hip part of town. Treasures would surely abound, and I drove with a sense of purpose, barely lawful.
Now we're back home after a successful shopping spree (I got shoe organizers for $.50 total and he got a pair of really nice brand new speakers for his iPod for $2.00) and now I am searching for a mission for the remainder of the day.
My neighbor just came over, bursting at the seams with news. He had warded off two juvenile delinquents last night who ran through my property, upsetting the trash can, yard waste containers and everything else in their path. He actually shot at them with a BB gun.
Since I must not have seemed impressed enough with that story, he went on to tell me that once he had fatally shot a squirrel in the head with the same BB gun. This particular man, I must admit, does have an agenda, one which remains constant from one day to the next. He is a God-fearing, gun-wielding man who believes in controlling his environment to the point of killing wildlife. He is forever mowing grass, hacking branches, spraying insecticides, fertilizing, clipping, weed-wacking, you name it. He is never at rest.
So I guess I do have a mission: to live and let live. I would never kill a squirrel; I hand feed them peanuts. I will continue to appall people like my neighbor with my overgrown jungle-like landscaping which provides habitat for the very animals he wants to shoot. And every so often I'll throw in a yard sale for extra kick.
Lately, my mission has been to make it through the day- to get from point A (May 19) to point B (May 20). That's it. The theme? Survival.
OK, is that the way I really want to live my life? (Granted, I'm usually driving well within the speed limit given such a mundane mission. I pose no threat to society from behind the wheel!)
How do Joseph Campbell's bliss followers go about their days? Do they groan and grumble when the alarm goes off in the morning?
Today the child and I had a mission, at least in the morning. I awakened very early, without an alarm, and noticed with surprise that the child was still sound asleep. On the days when school is his resented agenda, he is outrageously difficult to remove from bed, but today is Saturday! So I whispered the words "yard sale" and he sat bolt upright in bed, smiling from ear to ear.
Less than five minutes later we were in the car, on our way to an annual neighborhood-wide yard sale in a very hip part of town. Treasures would surely abound, and I drove with a sense of purpose, barely lawful.
Now we're back home after a successful shopping spree (I got shoe organizers for $.50 total and he got a pair of really nice brand new speakers for his iPod for $2.00) and now I am searching for a mission for the remainder of the day.
My neighbor just came over, bursting at the seams with news. He had warded off two juvenile delinquents last night who ran through my property, upsetting the trash can, yard waste containers and everything else in their path. He actually shot at them with a BB gun.
Since I must not have seemed impressed enough with that story, he went on to tell me that once he had fatally shot a squirrel in the head with the same BB gun. This particular man, I must admit, does have an agenda, one which remains constant from one day to the next. He is a God-fearing, gun-wielding man who believes in controlling his environment to the point of killing wildlife. He is forever mowing grass, hacking branches, spraying insecticides, fertilizing, clipping, weed-wacking, you name it. He is never at rest.
So I guess I do have a mission: to live and let live. I would never kill a squirrel; I hand feed them peanuts. I will continue to appall people like my neighbor with my overgrown jungle-like landscaping which provides habitat for the very animals he wants to shoot. And every so often I'll throw in a yard sale for extra kick.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Mothers' Day
It doesn't take much thought for me to come up with an answer to the un-asked question: What do you want for Mothers' Day, Betty?
I'd like a pack of tiny, busy elves to enter my house during the night before to set things right. I want them to get rid of everything, mine or the child's, which is unneccessary or not contributing to our well-being. Forget the 3 categories (discard, give away, hold for 6 months); I just want them to clear out the house, then clean and organize what's left.
These elves would even take it upon themselves to re-arrange the furniture in my impossible-to-make sense-of living room. Feng Shui principles would be honored impeccably. They would even tear up the wall-to-wall carpeting which I so despise and install beautiful new hardwood floors.
They wouldn't neglect the outdoors, either. They'd plant the flowers I'd bought, prune the jungle which is starting to strangle my house, and clean and repair the gutters. They'd sweep the patio, fill the birdfeeders and set up the fountain.
The atmosphere would be magically transformed from chaos into peace. The elves would leave me a breakfast of scrambled tofu and Starbucks organic Serena blend before scurrying out. (The child would be too awed to eat.)
I'd probably spend the rest of the day reading and strolling through the rose garden while the child happily entertained himself or interacted with me in our inspiring new environment. The Chihuahua would be so blown away that he'd dare not soil his new digs. (The elves had somehow set him straight, too.)
This is my hope and fantasy for all mothers- that we each receive a generous dose of whatever it is we need on May 14. Happy Mothers' Day.
I'd like a pack of tiny, busy elves to enter my house during the night before to set things right. I want them to get rid of everything, mine or the child's, which is unneccessary or not contributing to our well-being. Forget the 3 categories (discard, give away, hold for 6 months); I just want them to clear out the house, then clean and organize what's left.
These elves would even take it upon themselves to re-arrange the furniture in my impossible-to-make sense-of living room. Feng Shui principles would be honored impeccably. They would even tear up the wall-to-wall carpeting which I so despise and install beautiful new hardwood floors.
They wouldn't neglect the outdoors, either. They'd plant the flowers I'd bought, prune the jungle which is starting to strangle my house, and clean and repair the gutters. They'd sweep the patio, fill the birdfeeders and set up the fountain.
The atmosphere would be magically transformed from chaos into peace. The elves would leave me a breakfast of scrambled tofu and Starbucks organic Serena blend before scurrying out. (The child would be too awed to eat.)
I'd probably spend the rest of the day reading and strolling through the rose garden while the child happily entertained himself or interacted with me in our inspiring new environment. The Chihuahua would be so blown away that he'd dare not soil his new digs. (The elves had somehow set him straight, too.)
This is my hope and fantasy for all mothers- that we each receive a generous dose of whatever it is we need on May 14. Happy Mothers' Day.
Monday, May 08, 2006
to keep or not to keep
I have what I consider to be a major dilemma. Since the age of 12, I have kept diaries, or journals as they are more commonly called, off and on. I would never part with the ones from adolescence. Those diaries were made for children- they even have tiny locks on them. The content features nothing objectionable; I was very reserved, having been raised by a gaggle of very tight-assed closet Irish Catholics.
During early adulthood the writing became more tortured. College offered me a more diverse view of the world. The one I attended happened to be particularly wild and crazy. And competitive. I became more insecure and unstable, and wrote about it fairly candidly, sober or otherwise, thinking that somehow my writing would prove to be therapeutic. Maybe it was; maybe it wasn't.
I once paid a dear price for my diary-keeping habit when a boyfriend, in a moment of compromised integrity, snuck a peek. He thereby learned of my continuing friendship with a celebrity who had been in town. The aftermath of his discovery was particularly diary-worthy.
I derive pleasure from reading past diaries, as a voyeur of my own past. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of growth when I realize that some past life-or-death issue would be nothing now.
Unmarried, I suffered greatly over the decision of whether or not to have my child. I wrote profusely and openly.
Once the child was born, the future of my diaries came into question. Now there exists a human being who would undoubtedly be affected by my words, some of which debated his birth.
Now when I write, I am cautious, again the stiffled adolescent, now that my child can read. As always, I insist on writing my diaries on paper, the old-fashioned way.
I guess I've answered my question. I have no choice- the diaries must go. But first, today I'm going to indulge in a writing frenzy, laying it all out, in no uncertain terms, no limits, no fears of exposure.
You're all invited to a bonfire at Betty's tonight.
During early adulthood the writing became more tortured. College offered me a more diverse view of the world. The one I attended happened to be particularly wild and crazy. And competitive. I became more insecure and unstable, and wrote about it fairly candidly, sober or otherwise, thinking that somehow my writing would prove to be therapeutic. Maybe it was; maybe it wasn't.
I once paid a dear price for my diary-keeping habit when a boyfriend, in a moment of compromised integrity, snuck a peek. He thereby learned of my continuing friendship with a celebrity who had been in town. The aftermath of his discovery was particularly diary-worthy.
I derive pleasure from reading past diaries, as a voyeur of my own past. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of growth when I realize that some past life-or-death issue would be nothing now.
Unmarried, I suffered greatly over the decision of whether or not to have my child. I wrote profusely and openly.
Once the child was born, the future of my diaries came into question. Now there exists a human being who would undoubtedly be affected by my words, some of which debated his birth.
Now when I write, I am cautious, again the stiffled adolescent, now that my child can read. As always, I insist on writing my diaries on paper, the old-fashioned way.
I guess I've answered my question. I have no choice- the diaries must go. But first, today I'm going to indulge in a writing frenzy, laying it all out, in no uncertain terms, no limits, no fears of exposure.
You're all invited to a bonfire at Betty's tonight.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Betty the Rebel
First, I thank anyone who is reading this. I have been neglecting my blog and have undoubtedly (and deservedly) lost the small following I used to have. So, if anyone actually reads this, thank you.
Today, while attempting to sort through the rubble in my living room I came across one of my many diaries, written a few months ago in a dire attempt to figure myself out.
Now I know why my housekeeping is so outrageously substandard. I spent the rest of my "sorting" time reading the diary with great interest. The house is still a wreck, but by golly, I'm armed with more self-analysis that you can shake a stick at.
In fact, the house in shambles was pretty much explained by the diary. You see, the house I grew up in, 39 Burbank, looked exactly right. The grass was cut, always; the bushes were shaped to perfection; the sidewalk was swept or snowblown depending upon the season; the gutters were clear; the roof always looked newly laid; even the siding was power washed regularly. There was always one new car parked neatly in the garage and another, equally showy and recently washed, in the driveway.
Even inside, everything was in its place. You'd never know that a child lived there- no toy was visible; no item was out of place. Even the tassels on the living room rug were carefully straightened with a clothespin so that they lined up perfectly.
But there were secrets swept under that rug. My father was cheating on my mother. At age 8 I knew about it, and my father had tried to strangle me when he suspected that I knew. He continued to beat me on a daily basis. My grandmother, a devout Irish Catholic, had divorced her husband who was sleeping with the woman next door. My older brother was well on his way into a lifelong battle with alcohol and drug addiction. My teenage sister was pregnant before high school graduation.
Appearances, even aural ones, were critical. One time, when I was a toddler, I laid on the floor crying, wanting to be taken to the park. I was severely reprimanded because "one of the neighbors had heard the crying." All inhabitants of 39 Burbank were prohibited from emitting sounds audible to the neighbors, and were advised to exercise extreme caution when venturing out of the house; the neighbors would likely be watching.
Little wonder that my house today is disheveled. And, mind you, I'll gladly tell my life story, in full detail, to anyone who'll listen.
Today, while attempting to sort through the rubble in my living room I came across one of my many diaries, written a few months ago in a dire attempt to figure myself out.
Now I know why my housekeeping is so outrageously substandard. I spent the rest of my "sorting" time reading the diary with great interest. The house is still a wreck, but by golly, I'm armed with more self-analysis that you can shake a stick at.
In fact, the house in shambles was pretty much explained by the diary. You see, the house I grew up in, 39 Burbank, looked exactly right. The grass was cut, always; the bushes were shaped to perfection; the sidewalk was swept or snowblown depending upon the season; the gutters were clear; the roof always looked newly laid; even the siding was power washed regularly. There was always one new car parked neatly in the garage and another, equally showy and recently washed, in the driveway.
Even inside, everything was in its place. You'd never know that a child lived there- no toy was visible; no item was out of place. Even the tassels on the living room rug were carefully straightened with a clothespin so that they lined up perfectly.
But there were secrets swept under that rug. My father was cheating on my mother. At age 8 I knew about it, and my father had tried to strangle me when he suspected that I knew. He continued to beat me on a daily basis. My grandmother, a devout Irish Catholic, had divorced her husband who was sleeping with the woman next door. My older brother was well on his way into a lifelong battle with alcohol and drug addiction. My teenage sister was pregnant before high school graduation.
Appearances, even aural ones, were critical. One time, when I was a toddler, I laid on the floor crying, wanting to be taken to the park. I was severely reprimanded because "one of the neighbors had heard the crying." All inhabitants of 39 Burbank were prohibited from emitting sounds audible to the neighbors, and were advised to exercise extreme caution when venturing out of the house; the neighbors would likely be watching.
Little wonder that my house today is disheveled. And, mind you, I'll gladly tell my life story, in full detail, to anyone who'll listen.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Invention Convention
Today's challenge was unexpected, actually beginning last night with my child's tearful complaints of a toothache. I thought I was imagining that his cheek was swollen. I tried to distract him with a few rounds of Boggle Junior before putting him to bed, but he did not sleep. Each time I looked at him, his cheek looked bigger. We stayed up most of the night , trying remedy after remedy (mouthwash, salt water, ice, vitamin C, echinacia, CoQ10) to no avail.
Finally 8am arrived, when I knew I could reach our dentist ,who had filled a cavity in the child's tooth last week. By this time, said child resembled a human chipmunk with an entire winter's supply stashed in one cheek. The dentist's receptionist said to bring him in right away.
What timing! This morning was the official judging for the "Invention Convention" at the child's school. My child was one of the youngest participants and had spent a lot of time and energy on his invention, a "Pooch Perch" which enables our Chihuahua to see out of our windows.
The visit to the dentist took forever, followed by a trip to the drugstore for penicillin and Children's Motrin. When we finally arrived at school, the judging had been completed, and they had skipped my child's entry because he hadn't been there to answer questions.
I found the director of the convention, and seeing how upset my child was, she rounded up some judges and had them judge while I stood by and watched. The child responded well to all questions at first, aptly displaying his enthusiasm for his subject. After about fifteen minutes he started to fade a bit, and finally gave out when she asked if he planned to market his product. After a painful, sleepless night followed by the stress of the dentist's visit, he had reached his limit.
"Uhhh......I dunno........"
These were not the words of a budding scientist. And this particular judge happened to be the personification of the "B" word.... She regarded him sternly and repeated the query: "You DON'T KNOW if you want to market this?!" she uttered, incredulous.
".......noooooo....."
We were sunk, I knew it.
A better mother than I would have jumped right in at that point, explaining the events of the past twelve hours. The problem was, I too was sleep-deprived and not mentally acute. The explanation didn't even enter my mind until I was leaving the school with tears in my eyes.
I don't know whether my child passed on to the next round or not. His fading toward the end of his interview definitely didn't help. How sad it is, I thought, that we rely to such an extent upon outside approval. This is one of the first times I've realized that I need approval not only for myself, but for my child as well. And I therefore teach him to need it.
My wish is to become so secure that I am not hurt or threatened when an insult, real or imagined, is hurled; and that other people's judgments no longer determine my worth. Then I can teach that instead.
Finally 8am arrived, when I knew I could reach our dentist ,who had filled a cavity in the child's tooth last week. By this time, said child resembled a human chipmunk with an entire winter's supply stashed in one cheek. The dentist's receptionist said to bring him in right away.
What timing! This morning was the official judging for the "Invention Convention" at the child's school. My child was one of the youngest participants and had spent a lot of time and energy on his invention, a "Pooch Perch" which enables our Chihuahua to see out of our windows.
The visit to the dentist took forever, followed by a trip to the drugstore for penicillin and Children's Motrin. When we finally arrived at school, the judging had been completed, and they had skipped my child's entry because he hadn't been there to answer questions.
I found the director of the convention, and seeing how upset my child was, she rounded up some judges and had them judge while I stood by and watched. The child responded well to all questions at first, aptly displaying his enthusiasm for his subject. After about fifteen minutes he started to fade a bit, and finally gave out when she asked if he planned to market his product. After a painful, sleepless night followed by the stress of the dentist's visit, he had reached his limit.
"Uhhh......I dunno........"
These were not the words of a budding scientist. And this particular judge happened to be the personification of the "B" word.... She regarded him sternly and repeated the query: "You DON'T KNOW if you want to market this?!" she uttered, incredulous.
".......noooooo....."
We were sunk, I knew it.
A better mother than I would have jumped right in at that point, explaining the events of the past twelve hours. The problem was, I too was sleep-deprived and not mentally acute. The explanation didn't even enter my mind until I was leaving the school with tears in my eyes.
I don't know whether my child passed on to the next round or not. His fading toward the end of his interview definitely didn't help. How sad it is, I thought, that we rely to such an extent upon outside approval. This is one of the first times I've realized that I need approval not only for myself, but for my child as well. And I therefore teach him to need it.
My wish is to become so secure that I am not hurt or threatened when an insult, real or imagined, is hurled; and that other people's judgments no longer determine my worth. Then I can teach that instead.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Betty and Charlie
An unfortunate mishap occurred this morning on my way to the child's school bus stop. It's a mile from our house, therefore requiring vehicular transportation. (Back in the olden days, young Betty used to walk, not to a bus stop, but to the actual SCHOOL. Childhood obesity was, coincidentally, nearly nonexistent back then.)
The accident happened before I was even out of my garage. Although my subcompact Honda Civic is one of the tiniest cars around, I seem to have trouble maneuvering it early in the morning, especially around obstacles like garage door frames.
The side mirror on the passenger side shattered into a million pieces, along with my already minimal supply of serenity. Too stunned to react, I silently drove to the bus stop and parked what was left of my car.
"Mama......Are you. .........CRYING?"
"NO! I'm sobbing uncontrollably! Can't you SEE that?!"
It took a few minutes for me to realize that it wasn't so much the wrecking of my car and subsequent hassle and expense of dealing with it, but it was more about the jarred memory of Betty and Charlie.
Exactly three years ago I had experienced the same problem maneuvering my car out of the garage, with the same broken mirror consequence. At that particular time I was already an emotional wreck, having just been "ditched" by my weekday babysitter, left high and dry, with no notice, without childcare. The rejection by that sitter, coupled with the very tangible childcare problem dumped in my lap had been unbearable. Then, on top of all that, I had wrecked my car's side mirror in a senseless act of incompetence.
Enter Betty and Charlie. They were the grandparents of my child's preschoolmate, Anthony. I knew they were unusual- they were the oldest people, by far, to ever set foot in that preschool. I came to find out that they had adopted Anthony as part of a complex, soap-opera-like family drama. (Anthony had been born to Betty and Charlie's irresponsible alcoholic son's girlfriend.)
Instead of treating Anthony like an unwanted mistake, they sought nothing but the best for him, as demonstrated by their choice of preschool (the most highly-rated in the city). Betty and Charlie socialized with the young parents of Anthony's classmates, fitting in unbelievably.
On the day my sitter "ditched" us, I hauled my defeated self into that preschool, fighting tears, and passed out letters to each parent in my child's class, explaining my situation and begging for immediate help.
When my phone rang that evening, it was Betty and Charlie. They would take my child, covering all of my working hours, until the end of the school year. They had discussed this with the head teacher of the preschool class, who had wholeheartedly approved. My life changed dramatically with that phone call. Hopeless desperation morphed into salvation; rejection into acceptance.
During the subsequent months, Betty and Charlie took us in as family. The day after that phone call, Charlie took my child and Anthony to the butterfly exhibit at the local conservatory, just for fun, before our first scheduled babysitting, and took them to lunch. He wouldn't even let me give him money to cover the cost! It was as if my son finally had a grandparent. It symbolized our acceptance into the family.
A few weeks later, my parked car was slammed into by a van. I was lucky that it happened while Betty and Charlie were in my life. They set me up with a highly-regarded body shop, whose owner they knew, and helped me deal with the insurance hassle. They even loaned me one of their cars while mine was being fixed!
And yes, when I hit my garage door frame three years ago, Charlie went to a junkyard, found a replacement, and installed it. (The Honda repair shop would have charged $500 for its replacement!)
The only sad thing about our experience with Betty and Charlie was that they set a time limit. They gave us their all, but being mature, wise people, they knew they'd have to set a boundary. They have an extensive biological family here in town who, as you might imagine, are constantly needing Betty and Charlie's help.
But what I took away from that experience was a newfound belief in the benevolence of life. I may not be constantly surrounded by people waiting to help out, but most of the time I don't need any help. And when I truly DID need it, Betty and Charlie were there, in spades.
The accident happened before I was even out of my garage. Although my subcompact Honda Civic is one of the tiniest cars around, I seem to have trouble maneuvering it early in the morning, especially around obstacles like garage door frames.
The side mirror on the passenger side shattered into a million pieces, along with my already minimal supply of serenity. Too stunned to react, I silently drove to the bus stop and parked what was left of my car.
"Mama......Are you. .........CRYING?"
"NO! I'm sobbing uncontrollably! Can't you SEE that?!"
It took a few minutes for me to realize that it wasn't so much the wrecking of my car and subsequent hassle and expense of dealing with it, but it was more about the jarred memory of Betty and Charlie.
Exactly three years ago I had experienced the same problem maneuvering my car out of the garage, with the same broken mirror consequence. At that particular time I was already an emotional wreck, having just been "ditched" by my weekday babysitter, left high and dry, with no notice, without childcare. The rejection by that sitter, coupled with the very tangible childcare problem dumped in my lap had been unbearable. Then, on top of all that, I had wrecked my car's side mirror in a senseless act of incompetence.
Enter Betty and Charlie. They were the grandparents of my child's preschoolmate, Anthony. I knew they were unusual- they were the oldest people, by far, to ever set foot in that preschool. I came to find out that they had adopted Anthony as part of a complex, soap-opera-like family drama. (Anthony had been born to Betty and Charlie's irresponsible alcoholic son's girlfriend.)
Instead of treating Anthony like an unwanted mistake, they sought nothing but the best for him, as demonstrated by their choice of preschool (the most highly-rated in the city). Betty and Charlie socialized with the young parents of Anthony's classmates, fitting in unbelievably.
On the day my sitter "ditched" us, I hauled my defeated self into that preschool, fighting tears, and passed out letters to each parent in my child's class, explaining my situation and begging for immediate help.
When my phone rang that evening, it was Betty and Charlie. They would take my child, covering all of my working hours, until the end of the school year. They had discussed this with the head teacher of the preschool class, who had wholeheartedly approved. My life changed dramatically with that phone call. Hopeless desperation morphed into salvation; rejection into acceptance.
During the subsequent months, Betty and Charlie took us in as family. The day after that phone call, Charlie took my child and Anthony to the butterfly exhibit at the local conservatory, just for fun, before our first scheduled babysitting, and took them to lunch. He wouldn't even let me give him money to cover the cost! It was as if my son finally had a grandparent. It symbolized our acceptance into the family.
A few weeks later, my parked car was slammed into by a van. I was lucky that it happened while Betty and Charlie were in my life. They set me up with a highly-regarded body shop, whose owner they knew, and helped me deal with the insurance hassle. They even loaned me one of their cars while mine was being fixed!
And yes, when I hit my garage door frame three years ago, Charlie went to a junkyard, found a replacement, and installed it. (The Honda repair shop would have charged $500 for its replacement!)
The only sad thing about our experience with Betty and Charlie was that they set a time limit. They gave us their all, but being mature, wise people, they knew they'd have to set a boundary. They have an extensive biological family here in town who, as you might imagine, are constantly needing Betty and Charlie's help.
But what I took away from that experience was a newfound belief in the benevolence of life. I may not be constantly surrounded by people waiting to help out, but most of the time I don't need any help. And when I truly DID need it, Betty and Charlie were there, in spades.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
VS
The month of March stands out a bit for me. It is the month in which VS performed her most important functions: birth, marriage and death.
Not many people know anything about her story- even I don't know that much. Since it bothers me to think that any life could possibly slip by unnoticed, I feel compelled to tell what I know.
Rather than attempt to calculate the year of her birth, I will honor her lifelong dedication to its concealment. Suffice it to say that she was born in a bygone era, the only child of a fairly poor family. Her mother had immigrated from Ireland at age 19. Her father was a handsome, quiet, talented man who never did figure out how to make a living. Her Irish mother earned the family money by hoofing it to a camera factory before dawn each morning.
VS used to tell of a cabin, on a tranquil lake in upstate NY, that her father had built. He even custom-built the kitchen to accomodate his tiny Irish wife, whose factory job funded his craft. This cabin was a mecca for people wanting to escape the city, and VS spoke of her resentment of all the people taking advantage of her parents' generosity. VS felt cheated.
VS entertained herself as a child and teen by going to movies. Apparently she was quite addicted, and even desired a career in film or dancing. She must have looked the part, since she was voted "most beautiful girl" by her high school senior class.
She met her future husband, PeeWee, in marching band. Years later she confided that she should have married Dick Packer, who turned out to be not only successful, but loyal to the woman who did choose him.
VS was still a teen when she married PeeWee. He performed a brief stint in the Navy, where he narrowly escaped death when a cable on an aircraft carrier snapped. His buddies were not as fortunate, and he surely was affected by the tragedy.
Back home, the couple bought a little house from PeeWee's stepfather, and they never moved from that house. VS gave birth to a girl, then a boy a year later. VS's mother, who lived nearby, helped with the housework and children. (VS's father had left his wife to marry the woman next door.) PeeWee ended up with a decent job at IBM. Both VS and PeeWee were smart, but neither came from educated families, and college was never considered.
Twelve years later, VS suddenly became pregnant again. VS bragged that she only gained 12 pounds during that pregnancy, and people didn't even know she was pregnant. Was she unhappy about it? We'll never know.
That baby had to be incubated for a while, but did survive. VS's Irish mother took a liking to the baby and gave her her first bath. VS decided, when that child entered school, to get a job. It had been many years since she had worked outside of the home.
She landed a job in a hospital, as a ward clerk, on the 3pm to 11pm shift. The child, named Betty, was not happy about this, since it meant she'd rarely see her mother and she'd be stuck with PeeWee. Betty had discovered by listening in on a phone conversation that PeeWee was cheating on her beautiful mother. Betty kept the secret, but despised PeeWee.
VS loved working at the hospital even though, during her first few years, she had a sadistic boss. On her days off she'd indulge in her favorite delights: shopping, museum-hopping and attending NYC Ballet performances.
Long before its popularity, VS was a health food devotee. (Betty can vividly recall the foul-tasting tofu hot dogs she was forced to ingest during health food's infancy.) VS kept herself in shape with aerobics and lots of walking, and never strayed from her high school weight of 115 pounds.
Eventually, though, she had to acknowledge that her home life was in trouble due to PeeWee's extramarital activities. They separated briefly, but she did not thrive on her own. When PeeWee came running back, having realized that his girlfriend was a nutcase, VS took him in, along with his promise that he'd change his ways.
Well, you can guess the outcome. PeeWee never changed, and VS suffered greatly, torturing herself by spying on PeeWee's clandestine adventures, sometimes even confronting the "other woman".
Then one day VS was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She died eleven months later, in her month of March, days before she would have had to endure another celebration of the anniversary of her marriage, and shortly before she'd have had to reluctantly add one more year to her age.
Not many people know anything about her story- even I don't know that much. Since it bothers me to think that any life could possibly slip by unnoticed, I feel compelled to tell what I know.
Rather than attempt to calculate the year of her birth, I will honor her lifelong dedication to its concealment. Suffice it to say that she was born in a bygone era, the only child of a fairly poor family. Her mother had immigrated from Ireland at age 19. Her father was a handsome, quiet, talented man who never did figure out how to make a living. Her Irish mother earned the family money by hoofing it to a camera factory before dawn each morning.
VS used to tell of a cabin, on a tranquil lake in upstate NY, that her father had built. He even custom-built the kitchen to accomodate his tiny Irish wife, whose factory job funded his craft. This cabin was a mecca for people wanting to escape the city, and VS spoke of her resentment of all the people taking advantage of her parents' generosity. VS felt cheated.
VS entertained herself as a child and teen by going to movies. Apparently she was quite addicted, and even desired a career in film or dancing. She must have looked the part, since she was voted "most beautiful girl" by her high school senior class.
She met her future husband, PeeWee, in marching band. Years later she confided that she should have married Dick Packer, who turned out to be not only successful, but loyal to the woman who did choose him.
VS was still a teen when she married PeeWee. He performed a brief stint in the Navy, where he narrowly escaped death when a cable on an aircraft carrier snapped. His buddies were not as fortunate, and he surely was affected by the tragedy.
Back home, the couple bought a little house from PeeWee's stepfather, and they never moved from that house. VS gave birth to a girl, then a boy a year later. VS's mother, who lived nearby, helped with the housework and children. (VS's father had left his wife to marry the woman next door.) PeeWee ended up with a decent job at IBM. Both VS and PeeWee were smart, but neither came from educated families, and college was never considered.
Twelve years later, VS suddenly became pregnant again. VS bragged that she only gained 12 pounds during that pregnancy, and people didn't even know she was pregnant. Was she unhappy about it? We'll never know.
That baby had to be incubated for a while, but did survive. VS's Irish mother took a liking to the baby and gave her her first bath. VS decided, when that child entered school, to get a job. It had been many years since she had worked outside of the home.
She landed a job in a hospital, as a ward clerk, on the 3pm to 11pm shift. The child, named Betty, was not happy about this, since it meant she'd rarely see her mother and she'd be stuck with PeeWee. Betty had discovered by listening in on a phone conversation that PeeWee was cheating on her beautiful mother. Betty kept the secret, but despised PeeWee.
VS loved working at the hospital even though, during her first few years, she had a sadistic boss. On her days off she'd indulge in her favorite delights: shopping, museum-hopping and attending NYC Ballet performances.
Long before its popularity, VS was a health food devotee. (Betty can vividly recall the foul-tasting tofu hot dogs she was forced to ingest during health food's infancy.) VS kept herself in shape with aerobics and lots of walking, and never strayed from her high school weight of 115 pounds.
Eventually, though, she had to acknowledge that her home life was in trouble due to PeeWee's extramarital activities. They separated briefly, but she did not thrive on her own. When PeeWee came running back, having realized that his girlfriend was a nutcase, VS took him in, along with his promise that he'd change his ways.
Well, you can guess the outcome. PeeWee never changed, and VS suffered greatly, torturing herself by spying on PeeWee's clandestine adventures, sometimes even confronting the "other woman".
Then one day VS was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She died eleven months later, in her month of March, days before she would have had to endure another celebration of the anniversary of her marriage, and shortly before she'd have had to reluctantly add one more year to her age.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Betty knows Best
Yesterday I witnessed a scene which brought back some not-so-distant memories. The scene involved a terrified 4-year-old boy who was being forced to face a large audience. The quivering boy did everything he could to hide within the folds of his father's suit jacket.
With great interest, I watched the reaction of those around me, expecting people to shake their heads and roll their eyes at such "papa's boy" behavior. Why? Because that's the reaction I've received, ever since my child was born, every time "mama's boy" wanted to hide within my folds.
Instead, people seemed mildly amused, somewhat sympathetic, and basically non-judgmental!!!! What the.......?
So what I've read is really true! Society truly does judge mothers (especially single mothers!) much more harshly than fathers.
A vivid nightmarish memory has pestered me since yesterday's demonstration of that phenomenon. My child was 3, and being the conscientious zealot that I tend to be, I had researched all available services for single parents and found a little-known program offered by the local school district. It involved free monthly home visits from early childhood educators. I was happy for any support in my parenting that I could possibly find.
During one visit, when the educator rang my doorbell, my 3-year-old began crying for me to pick him up. (Mama's boy behavior, indeed.) I had been practicing attachment parenting, believing that its effects would serve him well throughout his life. He was accustomed to being held, and I thought nothing of his desire for me to pick him up before opening the door to let the educator in.
Well, let me tell you, this educator was HORRIFIED that I would "allow a 3-year-old to control me" in such a manner! She entered my house and raked me over the coals for the entire hour, and demanded that I call her suggested child psychologist AT ONCE!
I did, and the psychologist had already been warned about me. She insisted that I hire a sitter for my son (even though he was already with sitters while I worked fulltime) and show up by myself. I followed her orders, and arrived for my appointment filled with trepidation. She proceeded to rip me to shreds, insisting that by allowing my son to "ruin" my life, I was ruining his! She flat out demanded that I "lock (yes, lock) my child in a room by himself" whenever he asked me to pick him up! I sat there and listened, stunned, for 50 minutes, then feebly stood up, (over)paid her, and said, "Your beliefs differ vastly from mine. I won't be coming back."
For the next 6 months, every time my doorbell rang I expected Children's Services, fearing that those professional witches had found a way to "blow the whistle" on me and my twisted parenting. How could I have been so fiercely attacked by other women, mothers themselves, whom I had called upon for support?
Somehow I suffered through that very difficult period, learning to get by with no support. A flash of clarity appeared as a fleeting gift one day, when I was given the message "This, too, shall pass". I chuckled at the thought of a 16-year-old boy crying for me to pick him up when the doorbell rings!
With great interest, I watched the reaction of those around me, expecting people to shake their heads and roll their eyes at such "papa's boy" behavior. Why? Because that's the reaction I've received, ever since my child was born, every time "mama's boy" wanted to hide within my folds.
Instead, people seemed mildly amused, somewhat sympathetic, and basically non-judgmental!!!! What the.......?
So what I've read is really true! Society truly does judge mothers (especially single mothers!) much more harshly than fathers.
A vivid nightmarish memory has pestered me since yesterday's demonstration of that phenomenon. My child was 3, and being the conscientious zealot that I tend to be, I had researched all available services for single parents and found a little-known program offered by the local school district. It involved free monthly home visits from early childhood educators. I was happy for any support in my parenting that I could possibly find.
During one visit, when the educator rang my doorbell, my 3-year-old began crying for me to pick him up. (Mama's boy behavior, indeed.) I had been practicing attachment parenting, believing that its effects would serve him well throughout his life. He was accustomed to being held, and I thought nothing of his desire for me to pick him up before opening the door to let the educator in.
Well, let me tell you, this educator was HORRIFIED that I would "allow a 3-year-old to control me" in such a manner! She entered my house and raked me over the coals for the entire hour, and demanded that I call her suggested child psychologist AT ONCE!
I did, and the psychologist had already been warned about me. She insisted that I hire a sitter for my son (even though he was already with sitters while I worked fulltime) and show up by myself. I followed her orders, and arrived for my appointment filled with trepidation. She proceeded to rip me to shreds, insisting that by allowing my son to "ruin" my life, I was ruining his! She flat out demanded that I "lock (yes, lock) my child in a room by himself" whenever he asked me to pick him up! I sat there and listened, stunned, for 50 minutes, then feebly stood up, (over)paid her, and said, "Your beliefs differ vastly from mine. I won't be coming back."
For the next 6 months, every time my doorbell rang I expected Children's Services, fearing that those professional witches had found a way to "blow the whistle" on me and my twisted parenting. How could I have been so fiercely attacked by other women, mothers themselves, whom I had called upon for support?
Somehow I suffered through that very difficult period, learning to get by with no support. A flash of clarity appeared as a fleeting gift one day, when I was given the message "This, too, shall pass". I chuckled at the thought of a 16-year-old boy crying for me to pick him up when the doorbell rings!
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