can't let go of blogging

I have toyed with the idea of quitting blogging. I've been at it since 2005, and lately it has seemed as though my blogging phase has run its course. For some reason, though, I am not ready to let it go.

It has been disappointing to me that some of my former readers have dropped away. Blogging has at times reminded me of high school, when I fretted over not being popular. My blog has never been popular; however, I have enjoyed a small loyal following.

One of my favorite bloggers has quit. Certainly I have been influenced by her decision- for one thing, it's depressing to have her not be a part of my "small loyal following."

Another favorite blogger of mine quit a couple of years ago. I never fully recovered from losing her virtual friendship. It's amazing how attached I have become to my blogging community. Like neighbors, you can't bank on them being there forever.

Which reminds me- my next door neighbor died last week. He was more of a father to me than my bio dad. He cared about me, he worried about me, he cut my bushes, he loaned me tools, he fixed my bike, he gave me tomatoes, he tried to be a father figure to The Child, he went to court after The Child's father pushed him in my driveway (making it easier for me to prevail in the custody battle), he took care of the fallen tree in my front yard, he rushed my dying dog to the animal hospital.

How do you sat goodbye? I remember the day 2 weeks ago when he stood in his driveway, holding onto his garbage container because the bone cancer had made him so weak, while we talked. I remember saying goodbye to him that day, not knowing it would be the last time.

Every time my doorbell rings, I think it's him. He was always checking on me.

My sister was told a few short months ago that her tongue cancer was gone. The radiation and chemo had worked, apparently.

Then, a couple of weeks ago came the devastating news that it had returned, and the tumor on her tongue was so fast-growing that surgery was scheduled immediately.

This would be no ordinary surgery- it was scheduled to last 12 hours! It took place Tuesday.

A few days prior, my sister had noticed a suspicious lump on the other side of her tongue. At the outset of her surgery, that new lump was biopsied, and found to be cancerous.

The team of surgeons had to adjust their plan. Instead of removing one tumor, they'd be removing two. Instead of taking a skin graft from her arm, they'd have to take tissue and fat from her thigh, for the purpose of tongue re-construction.

The surgery lasted an unbelievable 14 hours. I was unable to travel across the country to be there, so I rely on reports from my brother.

He describes how shocking it is to see the incision circling her neck like a choker necklace. They did that to remove lymph nodes.

Her face is swollen and there are tubes- 24, he says, sticking out of her, connecting her to various machines. She has a tracheotomy and a food tube.

The staff warned the family members that if she got out of bed at all, she would be unable to walk. Yet the morning after surgery, she reportedly walked up and down the hallway, hauling the machinery with her.

Who knew that my sister had that sort of determination? She has never been challenged like this before, of course- nothing compares to this.

She can't speak, but apparently she is writing with amazing eloquence. Surpassing all expectations, she is the superstar of the cancer ward.

She is displaying a strength hitherto unknown, which we never would have known she had, which she would have never known she had.

betty is not whirlin' right now

I'd like to be, but I'm not. It seems that there's no pleasing me. When I have a lot going on at work, I just want relief- the more, the better. Yet when I actually do have a lighter schedule, I seem lost. Currently my workload is temporarily lighter than usual, yet I deeply resent each extra burden, such as a dentist's appointment, that makes its way into my sparse schedule. Today I came undone over the prospect of attending a 4th of July party, to the point where I ended up not going. What sense does that make?

During the springtime this year, I was enthusiastic about pruning and getting things in order outdoors. I was glad to live here, despite my strong preference for a walkable urban neighborhood. Now, early in the summer season, I am pretty much over this place. The weeds have had their way, and by now the poison ivy to which I am so allergic has popped up all over the place so that it is no longer safe for me to do any yard work. I resent the fact that the roof needs repair and rain now leaks into the living room. This property is small, and there's no place to go to escape the ennui. The weather is increasingly hot and humid. With my central air on its last legs, I barely use it, not wanting to face the bill for replacement, and have had resultant sleepless nights.

My former discipline, flimsy though it was, has gone out the window. Some days I do force an early, half-hearted jog just because I feel even worse if I don't. Other than that, though, I'm just lost, trudging through the hot, unbearable ghost town of my days, hardly even glancing back at the heyday in the rearview mirror.

Are you guilty of this?

Today I read an article on the onion.com about a young man who admits to a surprising policy during visits with his family:



95 Percent Of Opinions Withheld On Visit To Family


KALAMAZOO, MI–A full 95 percent of the opinions held by Justin Wilmot, 26, were kept to himself Sunday during a Father's Day visit with his family.

Wilmot holds his tongue while his sister and mother discuss their mutual excitement about Legally Blonde 2.

"No one in my family really gets my worldview, so I find it easier just to smile and nod and agree with everything," Wilmot said Monday. "When I'm with them, I tend to be a lot quieter than when I'm hanging out with friends."

Wilmot, who grew up in Kalamazoo and now lives in Chicago, described the visit as "seven hours of self-censorship."

"We're totally not on the same wavelength at all," Wilmot said. "I'm not just talking about dangerous subjects like politics or religion, but pretty much everything they bring up–the shows they watch, the things they buy, the people they know. So if someone says Daddy Day Care was hilarious, I may be thinking, 'I can't believe Eddie Murphy was once respected as a subversive comic genius,' but I sure as hell don't say it."

Among the subjects Wilmot declined to weigh in on during the weekend get-together: new Tropical Sprite, Survivor, the selfishness of childless couples, Iraq, golf, AM talk radio, and his brother-in-law's fantastic idea for a calling-card side business.

Wilmot said he used to voice his opinions, but has long since given up.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++



Does that seem shocking to you? Not to me, and you can imagine why. Yes, whirling betty is guilty of the same. I am not particularly proud of it, but I learned several years ago that being true to myself is not worth it during family visits.

When my mother was alive, I was quite assertive. She always deferred to me. After she died, everything changed.

The family dissipated. My father married his longtime mistress and she was the complete opposite of my mother. She deferred to no one- least of all me!

When I went to visit my father in the house I was raised in, the presence of his new wife turned the house into a prison for me, even though I had lived there a lot longer than she had. I was only allowed to enter the bedroom I was assigned to (which, of course, was NOT the bedroom which had always been mine- it was my brother's and I had never liked it) and the downstairs.

HOWEVER, I was only allowed to be in the downstairs portion of the house WITH supervision! I kid you not. The bitch whom my father married was convinced that I was going to rob them if left unattended- yes, ROB them- even though my criminal history is nonexistent- nope, not even a speeding ticket can be attributed to whirlingbetty.

I had to make a decision. Either I had to eliminate my father from my life or I had to figure out a way to tolerate the insanity which he married. I decided that my visits would be infrequent and short. I would visit once every 3 years, and for only two days. They never visit me.

For two days every three years, I can squelch myself. I do not share their views on politics or gun control or homosexuality or race discrimination. I do not care to hear about how superior my father's wife and her adult children are to me and my siblings and my deceased mother. But I made the decision that I will spend two days every three years biting my tongue and visiting.

I'm glad I'm not the only one.

End of an Era

Today The Child graduated from 5th grade and elementary school. Many thoughts swirled through my head as I reminisced about his school career and then dredged up ancient memories of my own schooling.

We were lucky that The Child was able to attend this particular elementary school. A gem within a huge urban school district, this highly sought-after school is populated by students who have won the citywide lottery. It's an alternative school, which basically means that the individual is honored. Because acceptance is paramount, there is no such thing as bullying here.

Before he started Kindergarten, I was a wreck, thoroughly convinced that there was no way that my son would survive even a day of Kindergarten. I wrote a letter to the principal of this school, expressing my concerns. To my shock, she called me and invited me to bring The Child in a few days before school started to meet with her and his teacher. This was the beginning of the support and acceptance that was offered to me by this school. As a single mother with no family or support, this meant the world to me.

It was still traumatic for The Child to start school, even after the generous preparation from the principal and teacher. All-day Kindergarten was too much for him. But thank heavens he was in that particular school, where his lessons could be learned in a caring and conscious environment.

One morning I dropped him off in his Kindergarten classroom, and just before I rushed off to work, I became aware of a problem brewing. One of his classmates, one who indulged in the alteration of facts to suit his agenda, was becoming enraged because The Child was in after-school latchkey and he wasn't. The Troublemaker was telling the teacher that The Child had been taunting him and telling him lies about latchkey, of all things. (Hard though it is to imagine, The Troublemaker was actually upset that he wasn't in latchkey.)

I knew what had been going on between the two boys because The Child had been diligent about telling me EVERYTHING. When I arrived at work, I called the principal of the school to tell her what was going on, and I was so worked up that I was shaking as I informed her that the teacher was preparing to send The Child to detention over a problem that had been fabricated by The Troublemaker.

In any other school The Child would have been sent to detention and been reprimanded, whether he deserved it or not. At this school, the principal made a beeline to the Kindergarten room, where she intervened and took the two boys to her office. Using top-notch problem-solving techniques, she heard each boy's version of events. In a fit of brilliance, she called The Troublemaker's big brother into her office to check out the facts as presented by The Troublemaker, and sure enough, Big Brother exposed the fabrication.

One of the things I loved about this school was its bookstore. Families and teachers donated their used books, and the books were then sold to students at prices ranging from a penny to a dollar, and the proceeds were used for school projects. I volunteered at the bookstore, and really enjoyed being in charge one afternoon each week. I met lots of students that way, and enjoyed watching the children embark upon a lifelong love affair with books.

Today I was much more distraught than the Child was over the end of our relationship with this school. I console myself with the reminder that the relationship may be over, but the lessons learned, by both The Child and his mother, are everlasting.

from Dorothy Parker

Indian Summer
by Dorothy Parker


In youth, it was a way I had
To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!


I recently happened upon this poem by Dorothy Parker. I suppose it's sad to say that it resonated with me, even though I certainly hope that I haven't yet entered the Indian Summer of my life.

Beginning in high school, I was definitely guilty of that chameleon-like behavior which Dorothy describes so laconically. I kept it up until The Child came along, and at that point I seem to have taken on Ms. Parker's Indian Summer attitude.

I have a theory which resulted from my awareness of that phenomenon: maybe my former "lad-pleasing" behavior was actually inspired, unbeknownst to me, by a biological urge to reproduce. Once that happened, I was allowed to be myself and let the chips (or lads) fall as they may.

I have always preferred to do my own thing, although, admittedly, there are those rare occasions when it would be nice to have a companion. When the Child grows up and flies the coop, there will be a void.

Maybe then I'll have to revert to my youthful ways.

Meanwhile, here are a couple of shots from my walk in the park today:

What would YOU have done?

Can you see that white flower in the middle of the above photo? It's an iris- one of the star bloomers at this time of year. Until a few minutes ago, that single iris was surrounded by many others.

Here's what happened: I happened to be looking out of my living room window into the park on which my house is situated. That's when I saw a woman walk up to the flower bed of irises and bend down. I thought she was just getting a closer look, until I realized that she was actually picking the flowers! There were no people around, and she certainly didn't know that I was watching from inside my house.

As she walked toward the parking lot with her booty, I debated whether I should let it go or confront her. The decision was made as I found myself standing a few feet from her car, saying (in a voice loud enough to be heard but not yelling), "I think that what you just did is illegal."

She mumbled a dismissive "yeah" without looking at me and proceeded to enter her car.

Not quite ready to let it go, I added, "Not only that, but it's not fair to your fellow man."

No response, and she drove off.

I've been around long enough to usually have a sense of whether I've done the right thing or not. In this case, I'm unsure. As the sole witness to this woman's indiscretion, was I morally obligated to let her know that she was seen and judged? Or was it none of my business? Was I standing up for the taxpayers of this city whose money paid for those flowers? Was I upholding the law? Was I speaking on behalf of the many people who enjoy this park and its flowers? Or was I just using her weak moment to try to boost myself into a morally superior position?

Thank you, mother

for all the "square" meals you prepared
for the huge roast you made just for me when you found out I was anemic
for taking me to see the New York City Ballet
for the treats you put in my bag lunches
for all of the term papers you typed (and re-typed)
for making it possible for me to explore my interests
for the horse-drawn carriage rides around Central Park
for teaching me how to "mother" on the day my puppy was bitten by a bee
for doing the best you could to show a defiant daughter how to snare a boy
for making lime slush for every holiday meal because it was my favorite
for providing a good example of "moderation in all things"
for not being jealous those times when I preferred to spend time with your mother
for providing a constant example of the saying "you catch more bees with honey"
for allowing me to be myself, even though "myself" was foreign to you in many ways
for inadvertently teaching me by example to not let a man run my life
for the fresh baked cookies you mailed to me at summer camp
for taking me to Saratoga for that concert I just had to attend
for planning all those picnic lunches for the two of us
for allowing me more freedom than most parents would have
for believing in me beyond reason

parenting

Today I realized that good parenting requires a fertile imagination. It's so easy to be bogged down with the challenges of everyday life, especially for single parents, and especially in today's economy.

Yesterday, for example, I kept asking The Child all day long what he'd like to do. I was hoping for the art museum, zoo or science museum. He had other ideas- he wanted to spend the day on the computer. I had things to do, so I waited. And waited.

Finally sometime late in the afternoon he that he wanted to go to Cinnabon for a cinnamon roll. By this time, I was tired, hungry, frustrated and upset about something that was going on at work. I drove him across town to Cinnabon, griping the whole way. By the time we arrived, he was miserable and I was guilty.

I tried to apologize and smooth things over, explaining the things that were bothering me so that he'd know it wasn't about him. I asked if he wanted to go anywhere else, but he just wanted to return home.

This morning he cried before we left for his school bus stop. He strongly dislikes school, and didn't want to go. I tried to be on my best behavior, asking if there was anything I could do to brighten his morning- short of letting him stay home, that is.

When I returned home after his bus roared off, I sat on the patio feeding peanuts to the squirrels and chipmunks. I wished The Child could have been there with me, because I wanted to talk to him about the reason I do this.

Then something very rare happened: I had a good idea. I ran into the house to get a pen and paper, and I wrote The Child a letter, saying what I would have said had he been there.

This accomplished two things: I communicated my beliefs to him, and I provided him with a writing example. Although The Child is an excellent reader, he has never really enjoyed writing- a common problem among boys.

I am curious about any parenting breakthroughs or pearls of wisdom you all may have to offer- on any aspect of parenting at all- not related specifically to the incident described here. I just want to hear about any examples you have of parenting successes! Those of you who don't have a child are invited to weigh in- you certainly don't have to be a parent to have parenting ideas or theories.

spring day musings

It occurred to me that I may not be that much different from my "tween-aged" son. I am always accusing him of not talking enough- of not disclosing his every innermost thought.


Then I remembered that annoying tendency we all have of ourselves possessing the traits for which we criticize others.

Well, I used to talk. When my mother was alive I spoke to her often, with full disclosure of every last aspect of my life, pretty much. And I saw a counselor until a year ago- obviously I talked to her.

I think I've done enough talking during my life. Even though I haven't talked much lately about anything more serious than the next cold front, I seem to be about as mentally healthy as I've ever been.

Is it possible that talking is over-rated?

Yesterday I nearly crashed the car when The Child started telling me, from the back seat, about a book his 5th grade class has been reading. First of all, he was actually initiating conversation, and secondly, this is a child who has done nothing but whine and complain about school since his first day of kindergarten. With complete sincerity, he told me he can't wait to read this book's sequel. (Mind you, this was no super hero book or anything like that- it was historic, written about the Civil War era.) This is the same child who has consistently resisted any and all attempts by me to get him to read books at home. (He couldn't even be bribed with rewards of video games!)

It's always been a mystery how he even learned to read. He resisted my efforts to teach him at home, and I know beyond doubt that he has rarely paid attention to his teachers in school. His kindergarten teacher had told me that he showed up at school one day suddenly and inexplicably knowing how to read at a fairly advanced level. He was soon thereafter placed in the Gifted and Talented program, where he remains to this day.

Unlike his mother, The Child has definitely not fulfilled his talking quota for his age. Yesterday's sudden bout of talking may have been an isolated and historic event.


There was much yardwork to be done this weekend. See the clippings on the ground? This city has stopped free collection of yard waste. I refuse to pay for it- I am already paying very high property taxes and I file city income taxes as well. I just found out that not all city residents file city taxes! Why? Seriously, why? Well, I'll be damned if I'm turning over yet more of my heard-earned money to this city which is constantly cutting back services to its residents.

So I have to figure out what to do with my massive amounts of yard waste. I've been hauling it into the woods near my house at night. Of course, I have to come up with an explanation of my clandestine activities for The Child.

"Why do you do this in the middle of the night if there's nothing wrong with it?"

Good question. I've always quoted football great Woody Hayes, "Nothin' good ever happens after 10 pm." So of course The Child, who grew up hearing that, wants to know why I haul yard waste into the city-owned woods after 10pm.

Some things are hard to explain gracefully and effectively, especially when the explainer feels inexplicable guilt. In nature, "yard waste" is naturally recycled. No city-owned trucks are required for nature's cycle of life. My yard waste is helping the city's woods grow, right?

So why do I insist on doing it in the dark of night, glancing back furtively over my shoulder for possible witnesses to my indescretion, while The Child, shaking his head in disbelief, acts as my lookout?

blink

In the blink of an eye, everything changes.

Some background is necessary. The Child used to spend time with his father whenever the father wanted to see him. I allowed this to keep the peace and to allow The Child to know his father. I was under no legal obligation to allow visitation, and to this day the father has never paid me a dime of child support.

Two and a half years ago the father's behavior finally became so outrageous as to be unlawful. I told the father he'd have to go to court to get permission to see The Child again. After a drawn out court battle, the father's lawsuit against me was dropped. This was one year ago.

The ensuing year has been the most peaceful since The Child was born. Gone was the unbearable stress of dealing with a controlling bully (the father).

This morning I was sitting at my computer desk, gazing out my window. I blinked, thinking my eyes were deceiving me. Who should appear in front of my house but the father. However, he was not presenting himself as a bully- he was crying and gesturing through the window.

I stepped outside into the chilly drizzle, afraid to let him into my house. He held a folded newspaper, and pointed to an obituary. I glanced at it and recognized the name of his other son.

I asked what happened, and he said his estranged son had been a college student. He died of an overdose. Of what? Heroin.

"I can't let this happen to The Child," he sobbed. "I can't let him grow up not knowing me." His other son had not seen the father since he was 2 years old.

"I'm a changed man."

I didn't have time to stay and talk further, but I said maybe he could meet The Child and me for dinner this week at a restaurant. He said his live-in girlfriend would come too.


************************************************************************************


What am I thinking right now? Well, for starters, I wish I had wallowed in my past year of freedom, really relishing it. I was aware of my wonderful freedom, but did I enjoy it enough?--- because it's gone now. Too bad I was experiencing a period of absolute hell at work over the past year, including a lengthy period of unemployment.

Who am I to question whether or not the father is truly a changed man? I am my child's advocate, that's who.

Everything changes in the blink of an eye.

Easter scenes

Last night the Easter Bunny, a.k.a. whirlingbetty, prepared the basket and hid it behind the sofa the way her own mother had done many years ago.



Shortly after dawn on this Easter morning, The Child attempts to suppress his enthusiasm, embarrassed by his continuing belief in the Easter Bunny. Children his age are easily embarrassed.

This is the view today looking out of my front door into the park. To most people, today was still quite chilly, but to me, it's been such a nasty winter that I thought the day was great. I even sat outside reading the newspaper and feeding the squirrels and chipmunks. They deserve to celebrate Easter too.

The daffodils are still going strong. This is my favorite variety.


Later, an unconventional Easter meal of pasta was being prepared at a friend's house. Don't you love the house decor?


Happy Easter to all, and to all a good night.

from Dorothy Parker

Indian Summer
by Dorothy Parker


In youth, it was a way I had
To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!


I recently happened upon this poem by Dorothy Parker. I suppose it's sad to say that it resonated with me, even though I certainly hope that I haven't yet entered the Indian Summer of my life.

Beginning in high school, I was definitely guilty of that chameleon-like behavior which Dorothy describes so laconically. I kept it up until The Child came along, and at that point I seem to have taken on Ms. Parker's Indian Summer attitude.

I have a theory which resulted from my awareness of that phenomenon: maybe my former "lad-pleasing" behavior was actually inspired, unbeknownst to me, by a biological urge to reproduce. Once that happened, I was allowed to be myself and let the chips (or lads) fall as they may.

I have always preferred to do my own thing, although, admittedly, there are those rare occasions when it would be nice to have a companion. When the Child grows up and flies the coop, there will be a void.

Maybe then I'll have to revert to my youthful ways.

Meanwhile, here are a couple of shots from my walk in the park today:

Strength and Healing for Binghamton NY

My brother called me from San Francisco midday today to inform me that our hometown of Binghamton, NY was dominating CNN. Since the call I've been riveted to CNN, watching the horrific scenes from "home".

How unbelievable that the latest episode in our country's spate of senseless shootings has placed Binghamton NY on the map for the first time ever. The American Civic Association in Binghamton helps immigrants in the area with citizenship, resettlement and family reunification. The shootings took place in a neighborhood of homes and small businesses in downtown Binghamton, a city of about 47,000 residents.

The Binghamton area was the home to Endicott-Johnson shoe company and the birthplace of IBM, which between them employed tens of thousands of workers before the shoe company closed a decade ago and IBM downsized in recent years. My father worked at IBM; my aunt and uncle worked at the shoes factory. Early news reports stated that the gunman had recently been fired from IBM, although the investigation is still in its early stages. The gunman's house was in Johnson City, the village adjacent to Binghamton. Johnson City is where I grew up. The high school under lockdown which CNN kept referring to was Binghamton Central, where as a teen I rehearsed with the Binghamton Youth Symphony. The 4 critically wounded victims are being treated at Lourdes Hospital, where my mother worked, and at Wilson Medical Center which is 2 blocks from the house I grew up in.


Under different circumstances, I would have been delighted to see familiar sights from home being broadcast over the media. I have been homesick for a long time- I miss the rolling hills which CNN showed in the background today. I miss the ethnic flavor of the place. I miss the diversity. I miss the east coast feel. I miss the accent- mine is fading.

But most of all, I'm shocked. CNN just announced that until today, Binghamton had only one homicide during the past year! It had been rated one of the safest places in the U.S. Can you imagine how the city is reeling!?

April showers

This is what the park outside of my house looks like today. The drizzle is not offensive as a downpour might be; it's a very light April shower- the kind that brings May flowers.

It's been a very pleasant spring, in stark contrast to the brutal ice-filled winter we just endured. It was so bad that my next door neighbors made the decision to sell their house and move to Florida. There were quite a few days this past winter when driving was outrageously dangerous. I have a problem with that, although I'm basically a tolerant individual.

Spring's renewal has inspired me to take inventory of my life. I happened to spy a copy of a book that I found really helpful a few years ago: Life Strategies by Phil McGraw. The book spelled out the importance of looking at each aspect of one's life and determining where the shortfalls lie. I made major changes after reading that book- hopefully they were wise ones.

Using the technique outlined in the book, I re-evaluated my life. Most areas are OK, with 2 areas standing out as needing improvement. One is clutter control. I'm so much better than I used to be, but I still have the problem of being too quick to let things go. And the other has to do with eating.



This photo illustrates my primary problem right now. Ever since leaving home for college, I've developed a habit of improper use of food. Instead of nourishment, its use in my life seems to be distraction, comfort, pleasure and numbing.

It seems like an addiction- the drug is food. Sometimes I control it to one degree or another- sometimes the best I can do is starve myself for a few days between binges. And I actually do experience an occasional period of "normal" eating, usually not for long.

I can't explain why the problem didn't surface until I moved away from home. I remember once when I was about 8 years old, I was alone in the house and I took a package of Chips Ahoy cookies into my bedroom to eat while I was reading a book. That was my first binge. At age 8, I was revolted afterwords, disgusted by my gluttony. I did not want to be fat- I vowed never to do it again.

And I didn't- not until college. That's where I was at my worst. I used to buy huge bags of candy to eat while I was studying. I'd scarf down ice cream by the half gallon. I'd eat entire cheesecakes. I didn't become obese because I also ran everyday, as I still do.

I have been to various types of counselors, ranging from a psychiatrist (who thought I was fine) to a social worker most recently. None of them focused on the eating thing, and when I brought it up, they offered no insight as to why it was going on or how it might be dealt with. I guess I do it to escape from life, which I apparently find scary. Lots of people escape in one way or another- it's not exactly uncommon.

Right now I am thinking of a friend of mine who had a hard time quitting smoking. When he finally did quit, he replaced the habit with long-distance running. I suppose I too would benefit from finding a replacement habit. An exercise addiction is not in the cards for me, in fact it's fairly amazing that I've been able to keep jogging for all these years, so I'm going to have to come up with something which would be suitable for me which is healthy or at least not damaging.

Maybe I should become a workaholic.

Do you have any suggestions? I really don't want to live on Peanut Butter Eggs and potato chips.

Urban Planning 101

This is what it looks like from the outside, as viewed from a pedestrian bridge over the street. It's a humongous shopping mall, smack dab in the center of downtown.

When it first opened 20 years ago, it delighted locals as well as out-of-towners who traveled great distances to shop here. Upscale stores such as Marshall Fields, Jacobson's and Macy's were among the hundreds of retailers. There was no shortage of food and entertainment, thanks to the many restaurants, the amphitheater in the center and the connected concert hall/movie theater. It was the place to be, no question.



What went wrong, then?



This grand shopping destination officially closed permanently on March 5, 2009, a mere 20 years after its auspicious opening.



Well, whirlingbetty is no city planner, but it doesn't take one to figure out what went wrong. Surely a 1,200,000 square foot 3 level shopping center in the center of a major U.S. city's downtown was intended to last longer than 20 years!

This mall opened in 1989. It was innovative, being an urban mall in contrast to the far more common suburban variety. It was upscale and exciting.

Here's the problem: in 1997, a brand new mall opened on the northwest side of this same city, unbelievably by the SAME developers who had built the downtown mall! Even an amateur urban planner sees what's coming.

Another suburban mall was opened on the northeast side of the city two years later. The impact on the downtown mall was dramatic by this time.

The fatal blow came in 2001 when when yet another mall opened on the north end of the city. This trifecta of brand new mega malls on the outskirts of town made it impossible for shoppers to justify driving all the way downtown to shop, especially knowing they'd have to pay to park there! Besides, most of the population lives in the suburbs anyway, as this city grows to look more and more like a giant, ever-expanding doughnut with a gaping, empty hole in its center.

City Planning 101: If you want to draw people downtown, the first rule is to exercise restraint on development in the suburbs! There was nothing inherently wrong with the downtown mall; it was a gem. What was wrong was the uncontrolled, unchecked competition allowed to spring up in the ever-expanding suburbs.

The city government did nothing to discourage re-location of residents, businesses, services and retail to the suburbs. We are left with a declining, decaying downtown. What good is a city with a rotten core?


These two shoppers, made of cement, are the last to grace the halls of the former downtown shopping mecca. What a loss; what a waste.

Monet's garden

I spied this image of a Monet painting while perusing blogs today. This is one that I'm not familiar with, but I find it most appealing.
I've always wanted to have my own garden like Monet's at Giverny. I suppose it's no wonder, then, that I ended up living on a park which features views like this one:


The similarities are remarkable, don't you think? Granted, the park isn't my own personal paradise like Monet's garden was for him, but I also don't have to tend the garden or pay the gardeners, except through with same tax dollars that every city resident pays.

I regularly see artists set up here in the park with easels like Monet's. They seem to be using "en plain air" techniques which Monet advocated.

Very early in the morning and after sunset, the garden is devoid of visitors, and I pretend it's mine.

A perspective

Here's a thought to ponder: Life is supposed to be fun. Imagine the possibility that before you were born, you said, "I'll go forth and choose. I'll look at the data, and I'll say, yes to this, and yes to this, and yes to this, and I'll paint a picture of the things that I want, and I'll vibrate about them, because that's what I'm giving my attention to. And the Universe will respond to my vibration. And then I'll stand in a new place where a whole new batch of yeses are available, and I'll say yes to this, and yes to this, and yes to this." You did not say, "I'll go forth and struggle into joy", because from your Nonphysical Perspective you know it is vibrationally not possible. You cannot struggle to joy. Struggle and joy are not on the same channel. You joy your way to joy. You laugh your way to success. It is through your joy that good things come.

spring is here

Can you detect the faint hint of green in the bushes on the left, and red in the bushes on the right? The subtleties of spring are becoming bolder by the minute. The closeup below shows promising buds and new growth.


Over the past couple of months I've allowed the house to fall into a state of alarming disarray. Something had to be done! I wouldn't go so far as to say I've been "spring cleaning", but at least I've been straightening up the house to the point where I can invite people inside again.


The crocus is the quintessential harbinger of spring. Crocuses abound around my house.


Below is a miniature daffodil, about 1/4 the size of a regular daffodil. (The regular ones bloom later, in April.) Each spring I am reminded of my dear friend Wini who died of breast cancer several years ago when the daffodils were in full bloom.


I have not been spending any money lately. Last summer was rough; my employer had shut down the business for several months, and during that time my car broke down 5 times and the plumbing in my house went bad. Repairs for those unfortunate events cost thousands of dollars. Financial recovery will take a long time.

However, I was perusing the ad from Target in Sunday's newspaper and I spied a fun, whirlingbetty-looking welcome mat for $9.99. Here it is:



Now that my schedule has lightened up a bit, I am heaving a huge sigh of relief and getting back to the things I've neglected, like blogging. I have resumed my fair weather practice of sitting outside on the patio in front of my house, feeding the animals and reading.


Happy Spring!

Happy Valentine's Day

Happy Valentine's Day! This is what I gave The Child today in hopes that he will be my Valentine. Yesterday was ridiculously busy- I didn't have time to go shopping for candy, heaven knows, but I wanted to uphold a tradition of my late mother's. She always gave me a very special Valentine's Day treat- usually from a world class chocolatier in Manhattan. Even during my ridiculously self-absorbed teenage years I was aware of (and possibly even appreciative of, as much as a teen can be) the effort she went through to make me feel special on this day of romance.

On Valentine's Days it's my mother whom I remember, rather than any of the various boyfriends who have paraded through my life. I suspect that my mother knew a thing or two about finding ways to feel validated without a partner. Even though she was married, my father cheated on her throughout her marriage, which infuriated me since the age of 8. (My mother was beautiful, smart and caring- why on earth did he have to do that????) So my mother, perhaps unwittingly, taught me to find alternatives to the validation that often comes from a partner.

During my college years, I joined 2 female friends in a Lonely Heart's Club which only existed on February 14 of each year. We Lonely Hearts celebrated Valentine's Day by snarfing down hot fudge sundaes at a cute little ice cream parlor, where, appropriately, we were always the only customers. Somehow, I think this club was a nod to my mother, who, as I said, taught me alternatives.


Just now, as I was writing this post, the doorbell rang. Much to my shock, these flowers were delivered to me from my favorite florist, sent by my friend Garnet, who managed to find flowers in all of my favorite colors. With friends like this, who needs a boyfriend?

So tonight, all the people in town who are lucky enough to A) have a partner and B) have reservations will enjoy dinner at one of the city's many fine restaurants. I will most likely be indulging in Papa John's thin crust, cheese only, with The Child while watching a murder mystery on TV. On top of the TV will be my bouquet from Garnet.

And I'm not complaining.

our hero

For the first time in 50 years of commercial jet flight, the pilot of US Air Flight 1549 successfully executed one of the most technically challenging maneuvers, landing a jetliner on water without fatalities. The pilot, Captain Chesley B. "Sully" Sullenberger, is an inspirational modern day hero.

His opportunity to be a hero dropped into his lap unexpectedly- he certainly never sought the situation. But he spent his life unwittingly preparing for his heroic role by doing what common, everyday heroes do- by realizing what his life's purpose was, or as some would say, by following his calling. And he did that with complete abandon.

Sulley was no ordinary pilot- his wife referred to him as "the consummate pilot" whose life revolved around his career. He was a US Air Force Academy graduate who flew F4 fighter planes. He was a renowned airline safety expert- an international speaker- who had been used by NASA as a consultant.

His cool, calm and collected style has been honed by decades of flight experience and research on safety. His actions on January 15, 2009 were exemplary, from the moment he heard the geese hitting his plane until he was the last person to evacuate the wreckage after having checked twice for any remaining passengers.

Prior to executing the unthinkable task of ditching his aircraft into the Hudson River, he matter-of-factly instructed his 155 passengers to "brace for impact." Let's hope that the impact of Captain Sullenberger reverberates for a long time, as his story inspire us to ponder the value of complete dedication to one's calling.

dig deep

We each live our lives at a certain general level of depth. It's entirely possible to go through an entire lifetime operating on automatic pilot, just as it's possible to be so sensitive, so reactive, so introspective that life becomes unbearable.

Last night, at the end of a long, eventful day and week, I found myself wondering if I was satisfied with my level of living. Was I living too much on the surface, just facing each crisis as it occurred, and not daring to go beyond that? Was I ignoring parenting issues that exist due to the absence of another parent? Was I doing a good enough job of taking care of myself? Was I making flawed decisions?

I had just watched Desperate Housewives on TV. It was a particularly moving episode, to me at least, featuring the significance of the handyman on Wisteria Lane. I bawled my eyes out, wishing desperately for such a handyman in my own life. He wasn't a "handyman", he was a "handy man", one who happened to be there at the times when each housewife needed a soft place to fall.

I rarely feel sorry for myself about being alone, but that TV show awakened memories of times in the past when I've experienced the phenomenon of having people around me to help out with life's hurdles. Usually it's my long lost mother I think of wistfully, but last night I remembered the various guys who visited my life, each helping in his own way. One built me a garage; one helped me through the trauma of losing my grandmother; one showed up at my door when I found out about my mother's pancreatic cancer diagnosis; one loaned me a very expensive piece of equipment for me to use at work.

In that frame of mind, I began asking myself if I really wanted to be alone, and if my life was really on the path I had intended. Am I in the right field of work? Are my parenting policies sound, and am I adhering to them? Am I just going through the motions of executing each day's tasks, unaware of my life's purpose and desires?

I come from a family which operated totally on that level. Questioning or deep thinking were simply not on the agenda. Not ever. I rarely see any of my family members these days because they live hundreds of miles away, but when I do, I marvel, unsure of whether the surface-level lifestyle is good or bad.

My father, for example, has his daily routine, which is never broken as far as I can tell. Tending his wife's many cats seems to be the focus of his life (and hers). They are retired, and everything is either about the cats or any impending doctor's or dentist's appointments. For social interaction they go to church and Bible study. Each night they watch TV, commenting loudly while watching, eating butter brickle ice cream.

When I visit (they won't visit me) I usually inadvertently stir up some type of trouble with my intensity. (I have been kicked out of their house more than once.) I tend to want to analyze things, face the past, and discuss any unresolved issues.

But now that I think about it, the past couple of times I visited, I had changed. I had dropped my former ways, and just hung out, trying to be like them. I can do that for brief periods.

Over the past couple of years, though, I think I've become generally more "automatic pilot" than I used to be, even when I'm not visiting them. Oh, I still react to things now and then, but it's not the same.

That change may seem positive, but as I've said, I question whether I'm missing the boat. Always the extremist, I swing dramatically one way or the other. I either spend every waking moment analyzing every thought that comes into my head, or I ignore all of it.

And I'm not sure which is preferable.

location, location, location......

During warm weather I like to sit outside, feeding the birds, squirrels and chipmunks while I read. At this time of year I still try to attract birds and squirrels with seeds and peanuts, but viewing them through a window isn't quite the same. I'm addicted, though- I can't go through a day without seeing if I can draw wildlife onto my property. I wish I had a huge picture window to make the view more accessible, and if I thought I'd spend many years in this house, I'd be thinking about saving money to make that change.

But......I have a few complaints about my current house. Even though I have stopped talking about moving and have accepted staying here for the time being, I still don't feel as if I've found the place I'm supposed to be. (I know there are books written on this topic- "home" is an inside job, etc., but I am talking about a more superficial "home".)

Things are changing here. There used to be a vibrant senior rec center next to my house, and I had gotten to know many of its members. Last October the city tore down that rec center, and of course, that changed everything. Now I live at the end of a dead end street (the senior center had been placed at the end).

The energy has diminished- now, only an occasional dog owner drives to the end of the street to release his/her dogs into the park outside of my house. The lack of leash laws in this city has been a source of much controversy, and I have given up fighting. The dog owners clearly believe that their dogs' freedom is more important than the safety of other dogs and people in this city park. Three years ago, my dog was killed in this park by another dog, and my son was bitten by an offleash dog. An elderly man with whom I had shared many conversations used to walk in the park regularly, and one day he was terrified out of his wits by a dog attack which I witnessed through my window. He never returned.

Another change- my next door neighbor is dying of bone cancer. He has been a true neighbor to me, in the old-fashioned sense. He and his wife have cared about my well-being. Formerly a man so energetic that I had to wonder if he had ADD, the cancer has rendered him suddenly immobile. Unable to walk over to my house, he calls me nearly every day to check in, with a hoarse voice sounding like a ghost's. He usually passes out after a few sentences. I know he's not long for this world. His wife will sell the house and move to their home in Florida.

I understand why feng shui rules dictate that a house should not be located at the end of a dead end street. It's because of the lack of energy flowing around the house. The senior center brought in energy even to this dead end, but now it feels isolated and lonely, which is the last thing I need.

It's great to be so surrounded by nature, though, in the midst of a major U.S. city. I don't have to breathe air pollution when I sit outside or when I jog, because of the park on which my house is situated.

On the downside, it's not a pedestrian part of the city. It's suburban even though it's within city limits. You have to drive everywhere, which I dislike strongly. Everyone says, "Can't you walk in the park?" and of course I can, but that's not what I'm talking about. Until I moved to this city, I got by without a car. I walked or biked everywhere. That's how I grew up- it's in my blood.

The changes that are occurring here are sad ones, and this is certainly a difficult time of year, with ice storms and dangerously frigid temperatures. I rarely allow myself to even think about any dissatisfaction- I'm just lucky that I don't have a foreclosure sign out front.

ice

Living in a sprawled-out city lacking decent mass transit means that ice is a bad thing. Cars were not meant to drive on it, and in this city, each man, woman and child owns 1.4 automobiles. Even the most impoverished among us manage somehow to own cars in this city, because they have to. When I moved here, I had never owned a car. I was told in no uncertain terms that if I didn't buy a car and start driving it, I'd lose my job trying to rely on unreliable public transportation.

I complied, reluctantly. The only ways I can show my defiance are by A) taking the bus to work once in a while, bragging about it widely, and B) owning a car which is as small as possible.

The car looks elongated here, almost like a station wagon, but it's a subcompact- a Honda Civic hatchback. To carry my defiance a step further, I refuse to adhere to society's rule of replacing one's vehicle a minimum of every 6 years. This Honda is 18 years old. (Yay!!!!!) If I must drive, at least I'm going to do it my way.

"Do you feel SAFE in that thing on congested highways!!??," they ask. Well, my answer is this: I've never been in an accident with this car, whereas the average accident rate where I live is one every 7 years for each driver. The Child and I have been 100% safe in this car (against all odds, apparently). And whenever it breaks down, as aging cars will from time to time, it either breaks down in my driveway or within a short walking distance of my house. The last time it broke down, it was within a mile of the shop where I have it worked on, and miraculously, I was able to drive it into the shop on its last breath. (The alternator was kaput.)

Those who know the life story of my car acknowledge that it's magical.

Getting back to the ice, the photo at the top is symbollic of the way I am trying to focus these days. The ice has a downside for those of us who have to get to work come hell or high water, but it also has its magical side, which turns the world outdoors into a fairyland.

However, I have heard stories recently of people I know who have been seriously injured just by walking on ice. One of The Child's babysitters, one who did yoga everyday and appeared to be extremely fit, fell on ice while trying to walk from her car to her house. The result was a disabling hip injury for which she had surgery. She can barely get around now, and yoga is out of the question.

After hearing a shocking number of stories like this, I decided to take action against ice. I searched the internet for solutions and came up with this:


These "Stabilicers" are supposed to be attached to one's shoes to provide safety on ice. I immediately ordered a pair. I guess I'm not as concerned about ice as I think I am, because I've never even tried to attach them to my shoes. But somehow I feel as if I have a grip on the ice problem.

Yet, horror of horrors, I fell on the ice while walking the Chihuahua early one morning a couple of weeks ago. To my surprise, I was not paralized from the waist down. I didn't have to cry out for help or dial 911. I didn't need surgery or a cast on my arm. I walked away from it, unscathed.

I guess it's magic.

starting the new year off right

Happy New Year! And thank you for forgiving me for being a slug-a-blog. The reasons for my recent absence are many, ranging from a radical computer crash to a ridiculous work schedule. And I'm going to be really busy over the next few months. HOWEVER...... I intend to exert Herculean effort to keep this blog afloat. That will be my top new year's resolution.

So I'm starting the new year right with a cup of freshly brewed Starbucks and my blog. As soon as I post this I'll be visiting my neglected blogging buddies, for whom I have a question: are any of you having problems uploading photos? I am, all of a sudden, which is part of the reason I've been missing.

I've always had a weakness for Dear Abby, especially when she publishes one of her repeat profundities, such as these universal new year's resolutions:

• Just for today, I will live through this day only. I will not brood about yesterday or obsess about tomorrow. I won't set far-reaching goals or try to overcome all of my problems at once. I know that I can do something for 24 hours that would overwhelm me if I had to keep it up for a lifetime.

• Just for today, I will be happy. I will not dwell on thoughts that depress me. If my mind fills with clouds, I will chase them away and fill it with sunshine.

• Just for today, I will accept what is. I will face reality. I will correct those things that I can correct and accept those I can't.

• Just for today, I will improve my mind. I will read something that requires thought and concentration. I won't be a mental loafer.

• Just for today, I will make a conscious effort to be agreeable. I will be kind and courteous to those who cross my path, and I'll not speak ill of others. I'll improve my appearance, speak softly and not interrupt when someone else is talking. Just for today, I'll refrain from improving anybody but myself.

• Just for today, I will do something positive to improve my health. If I'm a smoker, I'll quit. If I'm overweight, I'll eat healthfully -- if just for today. And not only that, I'll get off the couch and take a brisk walk, even if it's only around the block.

• Just for today, I will gather the courage to do what is right and take responsibility for my actions.

Each year I'm impressed with these suggestions as is I've never heard them before. I believe they are based on the 12-step program of Al-Anon.

In today's newspaper Abby added the following from a resident of New Delhi, India:

Dear Abby: This year, no resolutions, only some guidelines. The Holy Vedas say, "Man has subjected himself to thousands of self-inflicted bondages. Wisdom comes to a man who lives according to the true eternal laws of nature."

That's a mouthful, eh? Lately one of my themes with The Child has been that of explaining to him the difference between man-made and universal or natural laws. I'm not sure how this started. It may have been one time when he observed me blatantly driving through a red light. It was very early in the morning, nobody was around, and I was in danger of being late for my obligation. There was absolutely no traffic, so I drove right through a red light, openly defying the laws of man.

The Child issued an alarm from the back seat: "MOTHER!!!! How could you DO that???"

Thus launched the whirlingbetty version of man-made vs. universal laws. I argued that there was no way on earth that I could possibly hurt anyone by cautiously disobeying that traffic signal. (Mind you, I don't make a habit of it. I've done this maybe 4 times in my life.) The only thing that really matters is whether or not I am hurting any living thing or any material object.

Then I explained that I have natural "laws" for myself which don't exist in man's legal system. There's no man-made law against hurting people's feelings with damaging words, yet I choose to set this boundary for myself, and whenever I am living consciously, I follow this law.

I've pointed out that the animals live according to the laws of nature (except in cases where humans intervene). The result? They're happy, content, free of mental and social illness.

The self-inflicted bondages in the above message from New Delhi do not refer to traffic signals, but the more insidious bondages set forth by our egos. We tie ourselves into knots secured by the ego's attempts to control our lives, to control other people, to control outcomes. It's only on those rare occasions when we relax into our natural state that the truth, the truth of nature, sets us free.

Nature intends for all of its creatures to be happy and free, like the birds joyously shirping outside of my window on this frigid winter day as they pluck berries off the trees. My new year's goal is to remember that.

the effect of IJ

One of the difficulties of growing older is the lengthening of your list of important people who have died. Last week my dear friend IJ was added to my list.

IJ was present when The Child was born. Had she not been there, I am sure that things would have gone very differently, seeing as how the midwife attempting to deliver the baby had a surgeon standing by, knives sharpened. IJ functioned as my cheerleader. IJ didn't give a hoot what others thought- she did what she thought best at all times- and being very smart and very intiutive, she was usually right.

"Come ON, Betty, COME ON!!! You can DO it!!!! PUSH!!!!!!! PUSH!!!!!!" It was hard to push, since I had toxemia. I was seriously ill, hadn't eaten for 48 hours, yet I was being asked to perform the physical feat of my lifetime, with no medication, not even a pain killer, because I had signed a statement 9 months earlier stating that I wanted no medication during the birth process, lest I harm my baby.

But thanks to IJ, who somehow infused every last bit of her own inimitable energy into me, the midwife delivered the baby. IJ was victorious.

Her contribution to my blossoming motherhood did not end there. Although IJ had no children of her own, she somehow understood my experience. She understood that new mothers (especially ones who have lost their own mothers) often feel abandoned by the rest of the world.

So IJ and I had a standing date once a week. She drove the considerable distance to my house, tearing up the long winding driveway in her old Toyota with its "Question Authority" bumper sticker. She'd just hang out with me for as many hours as I wanted, providing me with much-needed adult conversation. She was always full of ideas and inspiration. She belonged to the group Simply Living and she loved the idea of living in a self-sustained planned community. She loved people, she loved the earth, and she loved the concept of living in harmony. Looking back, I don't know how I would have made it through that year without her.

I had met IJ in a spiritual group that met at a very open-minded church. I couldn't help noticing the very attractive older lady, IJ, whose insightful comments exposed her extreme intelligence. She always had a huge smile, intended for everyone equally. We started doing lunch together after the meetings.

IJ graduated Summa Cum Laude from college at age 19, having skipped two grades of school, then earned her masters from Northwestern. She had many different jobs, teaching, being an assistant dean at a college, directing YMCA programs and advocating for the oppressed. She was a woman who cared.

While working at a home for the handicapped, she met a young man who had lived an extrememly difficult life, with no loving family. She unofficially (because he was a ward of the state) adopted him as her adult son, and took care of him for the rest of his life, giving him the loving family that she believed every human deserved.

She risked her life to uphold her beliefs. During her young life she lived with a black family in Mississippi, a very bold and dangerous move in those days. She was determined to make a difference, and during her tenure in Mississippi she brought about a change. She was horrified that blacks had been addressed only by their names on postal envelopes, without the title Mr., Mrs. or Miss. (The title was not allowed!) By the time IJ left the state, everyone, regardless of skin color, was addressed by Mr., Mrs. or Miss, thanks to her heroic efforts.

A few years ago, just before her Alzheimer's took over, she boarded a bus at age 80 and rode to Washington, D.C. to protest the war in Iraq. She never complained about the aches and pains associated with endless hours on a bus- only her much younger bus mates did that. IJ was on a mission; therefore she was happy.


I saw the irony of IJ's move into the senior care facility when her Alzheimer's made it impossible for this fiercely independent free-spirit to live on her own any longer. She was finally moving into that group living situation she had always yearned for, although what she had envisioned, of course, was more like a hippy commune.



It was in the Alzheimer's unit that IJ found the romance which had hitherto eluded her. (My theory is that the free spirit had to be tamed a bit before she could"settle down.") She and her beau spent hours happily singing Broadway show tunes. They were ecstatically inseparable, that is until Alzheimer's eventually separated them.


Now IJ's spirit is truly free.