Tangles and knots and confusion, scraping dried spaghetti from between the tines of my grandmother’s sterling, reading directions, coaxing nits from a toddler’s locks, de-weaving your dreads for tomorrow’s interview at Bank of America, proofreading the company’s “Five Hundred Uses of the Industrial Bolt” newsletter, scrubbing the toilet, bad sex. We’ve all been there; NO ONE needs an example of “tedium” — otherwise known as “bored and weary of it all.”
And why? Plenty of us have pretty much anything we need, and plenty more have even more. We were born in a golden age and many are still doing well. Seriously, can’t we all just be grateful and sharing? How hard is that?
And yet we hate It. We Hate It Intentionally. We Hate It until someone else does it for us. We Hate It almost enough to toss the silver. We chop the hair; we stray; we seek excitement and a Higher Level of Existence — that one just around the corner that allows us to afford maids and gardeners and cooks and a steady revue of hilarious houseguests, studly romancers, and adoring bimbettes. That one where we can . . . lie in a Barcalounger and . . . doze while the television blares. Ah yes, we’ve arrived — bored and weary of it all.
So far I’ve made it through hauling Christmas regalia out of the attic, hanging stockings, and standing by with a ready hand while my husband lifted and settled the tree. We have dinner plans — scratch that — we haddinner plans, but then the bottom fell loose and now I have no idea what the rest of the day holds. And I’m okay with that. Really. When you see your brother once a year, you smile, hug, and take what you can get.
And what’s change really? Life is never set in stone. N E V E R. I learned that lesson at the age of four.
So I pulled out my attic stash, rounded up the pink twinkle lights that keep me happy and sane, and dove in. And yeah, it took hours, even with our small four and a half foot tree. Because, well, you know. We all know, and it just ain’t easy. One side of the living room window is a bit smashed across the glass, and once I limb the ladder, I can’t really lean in far enough to extend the lights from one end to another. I’ve been doing this for years and always took the time to make it perfect. Now I’m just happy to see the lights at all. “I grow old, I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled ….” Oops, sorry to run off course.
When I was growing up, we always kept Christmas a secret. I was in my early twenties, my sister 3 years younger, and my brother quite a bit younger when the three of us walked into the living room together — my sister and I in tights and a top and my brother — ever the creator — walked in fully dressed in his own handmade Santa suit. Yes, I said Handmade Santa Suit.
I’ll never forget the awe of it, and I’ll never forget how much we can accomplish if we take a bit of time to drop the everyday and and add a bit of creativity. .
P.S. Apparently Jingle Bells was never intended to be a Christmas song, but hey, it sure worked.
YES it’s winter AND that holiday feeling is indeed coming my way. If you’re more or less my age, you may even remember all the lyrics to the opening words posted above. And I have to say that not only are they remembered each December, but yes, I still love Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme. Madly.
It all started when I was a young girl and has lasted prolifically as an old(er) girl. And yes, I still have a few of those albums that were sold at Firestone for decades. In fact, one day not long ago, I dragged my husband over to Firestone to ask if the albums were still for sale there. It was a long shot, sure, but I was hopeful and keen for nostalgia. The man heading the shop lifted his head toward the skies, mulled a bit while rubbing his three days of scruffle, then looked at us and said … “Nineteen … Sixty … Seven …. ” We all laughed, but I would surely have loved to hear those old vinyls again.
For me, it will always be “Our cheeks are nice and rosy and comfy cozy are we, We’re snuggled up together like birds of a feather should be. Let’s take that road before us and sing a chorus or two, Come on it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you!
P.S. In the early 60’s Firestone sold Christmas albums to help tire sales. I’m sure Steve and Eydie helped too.
What is it about stalkers? What makes them feel so entitled?
It could be loneliness, but they tend not to reach out. They’re not looking for love — they’ve already been down that path and turned to something darker. It’s not a good thing.
Sometimes he pretends to be all fun and games; other times he slumps into his seat almost hidden, perhaps thinking he can watch from a place I can’t see. Meanwhile I keep my eyes down, my focus on work, and make friends with those who work near me. So much of me wants to leave. I can leave. But I’m determined not to give up my writing sessions.
He doesn’t write. I don’t know why he’s here except to engage others with stories and jubilant laughter that makes him seem easy-going and raucously jovial. We all want to know people like that, don’t we? We all want to be a person like that, don’t we? But not everyone understands the difference between friendliness and danger. I worry about those who are young or naive, and especially for those who are lonely.
And then the best thing that can happen right now actually happens: children are coming in with their moms and brothers and friends and smiles and safety — one of my favorite words.
Such a big part of me wants to kneel at their level and tell them not to smile, not to talk, not to trust . . . but that’s not the route. The route is learning to put yourself and your intuition first, to learn the difference between kindness and inhumanity, and to teach it to others.
Sadly, women have to be vigilant for a lifetime. And yes, I could say that it’s an incredibly sad way to look at life, but in truth, it IS life.
To be honest, I have very little recall of most Fourth of July festivities. I don’t dislike the day — I’m just ambivalent. Actually, wait . . . . . . . okay, maybe I’m not ambivalent at all.
The best thing I remember about the fourth of July is children. I love seeing their bright faces, watching to see which balloon figurine they’ll choose and then stand in eye-popping awe as a masterfully (and surely exhausted) moustachioed man (or woman) twists and turns and blows and wiggles his way into the skinny balloons until THWACK! And suddenly the child is magically holding a pretty darn good replica of a dog/spaceship/tuba/baby girl/….. And mind you, this is all AFTER we’ve stood in the forever-line for tiny-tot-face-painting.
The saving grace, of course, is the look in their eyes and the glee lighting the entire night sky.
Sam has a touch of fire. When we got to be almost friends he would put his hand on my shoulder when it was time to leaves the parties we both went to and he said goodbye.
He would come up behind me and there would be the hand, and I would know it was Sam without even turning because his touch was fire.
One night I went to a party and I wore a sundress with no back. When it was time I thought he won’t touch me now. not tonight.
But then we were leaving and there was the hand again, On my bare shoulder this time and it was fire.
Night after night always the same, and when the hand came without stopping I was hard pressed to look him full-on when I said goodnight, knowing the eyes would be there, And I couldn’t tell yet what they were saying.
So I mumbled low at the floor, not wanting to leave until I knew, but needing the cool night air and the dark ride home to keep his touch from showing plain.
It’s a bit dreary today (not to mention several other days across the last few weeks), so how about a handful of Sunny Provence?!
I took these photos during a glorious week in Menerbes. Now, I’m one of those girls who LOVES traveling countrysides, frankly they just flat out amaze me. Have a look, and let me know what you think!
And no, I did not visit with Peter Mayle, but I did pass his delightfully charming house!
P.S. During our walk along the gorgeously ancient cobblestones, we passed an enticing church that was closed. Not to be deterred, I snapped a bit of the interior through the keyhole.
Sometimes it feels like the world is caving in a bit, and maybe it is; or maybe it isn’t and it’s all just coming from me.
For the second time, I’ve had my credit card stolen at a place that I frequent regularly — a place filled with kind, quiet, people who spend a couple of hours working on their computers in a pleasant environment. The first time it happened, I felt like it must have somehow been my fault. Of course it wasn’t.
Now that it’s happened a second time, I’m livid and … something else that I haven’t yet identified. The difference is that this time I told everyone nearby immediately and then pretty much everyone I know when I got home. Why? Because I don’t want it to happen to anyone else. Yes, I’m savvy enough to know that these things happen all around us far too often, but loving enough to believe that I won’t be robbed because I’m a good and kind person. Yes, well … I guess that’s naive to a “T” isn’t it?
And it leaves me wondering about life in so many ways.
One of the problems for me is that I really, really don’t want to have to beware every time I leave the house. I really, really don’t want to believe that any passerby and his mother is out to steal from me and who knows who else. And I really, really don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching my back. I’d like to say that I refuse to live that way, but the truth is that I won’t be able to let it go — I’ll be watching my back pretty much forever now. I suppose you could say that’s a good thing, but it doesn’t feel good to me.
Yes, it’s a huge wake-up call that hopefully melds okay-ish with my life, but there will always be a part of me that hates it.
A few weeks ago, I decided to take a leap — a big one for me. But after years of “NO, I Might Need That!” I felt in the depths of my soul that it was time to purge, to let go and live happily ever after with what I already have — mostly, to feel lighter myself.
Ohhhhh how very wrong I was. Or right. Or something in between. The truth is that I just don’t know, because purging is not in my wheelhouse. But a week or so ago, something in me changed, and I hit the LEAP button. Had I done a positive thing that would make life easier, or had I just wildly tossed all the supplies that I’ll certainly need on Monday?
And in truth I wasn’t even quite sure what my end goal was, but I was definitely certain that some sort of action needed to happen. How did I know? Honestly, that part remains a bit fuzzy, but I forged ahead anyway, enlisting the help of a friend and going at it Big Time.
So we put on old clothes and sat on the floor for hours and climbed through years of well-stashed “but I might need this!” mosaic supplies, eyeing each piece relentlessly. And then, after filling boxes upon boxes upon boxes of glass and china that I reluctantly deemed “will never be used” … I tossed it. Okay not all of it, but so many boxes that my back still hurts, AND I’ve lightened half of my supplies. What was I thinking?
It’s a funny thing. One day life seems perfect, and the next day you realize you’re only using half of what you’ve collected over the years and maybe you DON’T need it all. And maybe you don’t even know exactly why, but you see the path and it’s calling you. And then I shed my very-long-time way of seeing, and suddenly now it’s hard to remember what I gave away.
And even more surprising, I found myself joyously making art again and planning classes.
It’s unusual for me to enter the hell of housework, but sure, every now and then it happens. And this is one of my favorite things about the holidays — the joy of family arriving makes everything fun — even cleaning. I mean, it isn’t raucously fun, but still. At any rate, my life of late has been a whirlwind of washing everything in the house, tossing anything that’s no longer usable, and donating the rest. And then comes the fun part — re-dreaming, re-arranging, re-hanging and, often enough, re-loving.
Yes, the wonderful, mind-altering, fabulous thing happened, and yes, I actually cleaned.
Mind you, when I say I cleaned, I mean I CLEANED — right through the nittiest gritty on the planet. And then another thing happened. A wonderful, magical, mystical thing.
I was hot into ripping off bed covers and sheets and pillows and the errant what IS that? when I saw it. Between the mattress and the box spring, between the feeling and the knowing, between the motion and the act (10 points if you recognize the reference), a small piece of folded paper poked herself out quite nonchalantly. Just a papery flutter minding it’s own papery business. So of course I immediately pulled it out, and with it flew a lilting passel of individually written 20-year-old memories spilled full out and joyously tumbling all over the floor. Some written to me; some written to each other.
And suddenly I was back in those joyous days of artists arriving from multiple states, laughing and creating non-stop, sharing food and ideas and sleeping exhaustedly on every flat-enough service of every room in the house.
Over those years, we made art together for hours and hours at a time, easily filling a day or two with each visit. New friends, old friends, come-and-go friends, love-you-forever friends.
“A security I cannot describe.” “Pure solace, as it always is.” “May you have an enchanted and marvelous time in this room.” “Rest and be refreshed.” “I find peace being in this bed and with those who live here.” “Sorry for the scraps — I don’t travel with paper!” “Rest and be refreshed.” “Is this bed comfy or what???” “Workshops, gardens, peace, contentment, beauty, and inspiring art.” “With each short visit, I’m reminded how it might be to stay with cherished family. Thank you for your friendship, humor, advice, and suggestions.”
And it was, again, bliss, no matter the distance.
Love you forever, indeed. Maybe cleaning isn’t so overrated after all.
* Image above by Pam Goode, taken one night in Ireland.
Pam Goode Writes 