$1.50 Worth of Commitment

When I first met my "Dearest" (I am too old to have a "boyfriend," but when I refer to him as my "Man Friend" he thinks he sounds gay...and he is right, but if I say "Partner," people think I'm gay, so I just stick with Dearest) most of our relationship seemed pretty easy. He lived out of state, and so would just appear in town on business, and we would spend a few very happy days hanging out together. At first, he stayed with his mom, and would only come over to visit me, which was just fine. I wasn't looking for a relationship, and neither was he. What were we doing together, then? Well, for one thing, lying to ourselves and each other about the whole "not looking for a relationship," thing...

After several thousand frequent flyer miles, there came that weird and wonderful tipping point, where my Dearest started spending longer and longer hours with me, and fewer and fewer with mom, until...oops...he spent the night. Then, he spent a few in a row. This isn't going to be a tell all about how his mom dealt with finding out that her sonny dearest wasn't a virgin at 38(or that I wasn't either). Actually, it's about something much harder for couples to talk about than sex: it's about...toothbrushes.

See, the first time that D. spent the night, he just toodled out in the morning, and took care of his dental hygiene needs back at mom's. But, trying to continue this routine day after day not only became inconvenient, but time consuming, since he was driving about 10 miles just to go brush, floss, rinse and then come hurrying back to spend the day with me. And no, I didn't offer him mine. There are some things that even after sharing certain intimacies, are still too icky to consider. And one of those is having a man stick my toothbrush in his mouth after it has already been in mine. (Hey, we all have our hang-ups!)

This dilemma left me with only one horrifying alternative. I was going to have to get a toothbrush for D. It only seemed fair and practical, until I was actually at the Wal Mart, all alone (he was actually off working at the job that was supposedly bringing him to Idaho in the first place after all...huh!) and there I stood in the dental aisle. All of a sudden it felt like I was at Tiffany's, buying him a Man-gagement ring! After considering and discarding several options, and even leaving and coming back a few times, I finally made the commitment: for $1.50, I could get him a red Pepsodent toothbrush. It was decent, without being too fancy, and therefore indicating that I had more expectations than simple teeth cleaning. But, it wasn't the crappy 4-pack kind, that would seem like I didn't care about tartar build-up and gum disease. Yep, this was it.

Now, I am not saying this for dramatic effect, although I wish I were so creative: I actually got an anxiety attack on the way to the cash register. I. Was. Making. A. Commitment. Oh. My. Gosh. I was sure that I had gone too far, and my Dearest would be offended and never come back, after seeing that he had his own toothbrush at my house. Eek! Somehow, I managed to get my sweaty palms around the brush, credit card, and swipey thing at the register, and walked, weak-kneed to the car with my hard-won prize.

That night, as we cuddled up together in bed, I took a breath to tell him what I had done. Then, I just sighed. Another breath, another sigh. After a few of these, he asked, "Ok, what's up, Sparky?" (His much better nickname for me...but hey, this is why he earned a toothbrush!) "Um," I stalled. "Geesh, I hope you're not mad. I, uh, I thought maybe you'd like to have...this." And from out of the nightstand I whipped the red toothbrush. "Wow!" he said...yep, an actual wow over a toothbrush. Extra points. "That's for me? Cool! I'm so glad I won't have to leave your nice warm body in the morning, just to get rid of my death breath!" He sounded...sincere. Not mad, weirded out, or upset, just...grateful. Then he got out of bed and walked away. Damn. Spoke too soon! Until I heard the water running in the bathroom, and from around the toothbrush in his mouth, I could just make out, "Hey, vith is awephum! Fanks!" He had given it a test run, and then came back to give me a thank-you kiss, with very fresh breath.

I know this is a totally corny story, but it was a big deal to me at the time. It was when I learned that My Dearest was even dearer than I thought. He was not only someone I was beginning to love, but could also...trust. And here's the gushiest part of all. I have, of course, purchased many more toothbrushes over the past 5 1/2 years that we have been together. And he's even gotten some for me. But you know what? He has kept that silly old red one, for "sentimental purposes." Apparently it's the first gift I ever gave him. Now I wish I'd gone for the Man-gagement ring, instead of dental hygiene, but oh well...this is a whole lot more practical. I mean, you can't keep pearly whites at their best with a Man-gagement ring.

No News, When There's No Good News...

It's hard enough to write regularly. At least, it is for me. Maybe it's because I'm a procrastinator, or I get writer's block, or writer's cramp (is there such a thing anymore?), or maybe I'm just plain lazy. Hard to say. But when on top of all that, there's just plain no good news to report, and it makes sitting down at the ol' keyboard totally daunting.

There's this weird thing in our society, where we seem compelled to ask each other, "How are you?" But, we aren't actually allowed to answer the question honestly. The only acceptable answer is, "Fine." Oh, there are variations on the theme, including, "Fine thanks, how are you?" "Great!" and "Super!" But, we are rarely fine, great, or super, and when asking after the other person, most people don't listen to the answer. This is because the person who asked in the first place doesn't really care, either. Well, not true. Some of us might care, but we aren't about to break ranks and answer honestly first.

It's just not okay in our society for things not to be okay. I'm not sure why, since we live in a state of information overload, most of the time. Between Facebook status updates, Twittering, texting, voicemails, and emails, it's almost impossible not to know how people are. But, most of us use Facebook to share fascinating tidbits like, "Frank just can't wait til Friday!" and the whole point of Twittering is to limit messages to 120 characters. What can one really share in just a couple of lines? "Shelley is loving the summer sun!" (or not loving it, depending...) I know people who send hundreds of texts a day, and most of them are just smiley faces and abbreviations that end up saying nothing at all.

Not wanting to be the rebel, I find that I clam up and shut down when things aren't peachy keen. But that makes it harder and harder to say much of anything. I begin editing myself more and more closely, til eventually I find that I'm not talking to anyone, writing anything, or sharing anywhere, with anyone, at all.

So, here's the thing: I'm gonna have to find a way to write no matter what. Even though quite honestly, things pretty well suck right now. My ex is making life hell (well, that why they call them exes), my teens are, well, teens (meaning that the hormones are running pretty fast and thick around my house...), my bank account is dwindling, and I remain remarkably unemployed. And to top it off, the flowers I planted, died. There ya go. I'm sure there is a silver lining to the clouds that have rolled through my world lately, but quite honestly, I don't feel like looking for it. I am just too tired.

So, even though no one asked, I'll tell you how I am: pretty darn bummed. But, I'll survive. In fact, I will be fine. Really, just ask me.

Oh No, Not Another Sports Analogy

Having watched so many hundreds (maybe it's thousands, but I can't be sure) of hours of baseball, I feel an empathy with pitchers that runs deep and wide. Although this doesn't keep me from muttering curses at them anyway, the more I work on writing, the more I understand the pitcher's plight.

First of all, there is the pressure to perform. There is a lot less talk about a flagging offense in baseball than there is about poor starters and scuffling bullpens. And it's true: it doesn't matter how much run support a team gives a pitcher if the man on the mound walks too many and gives up too many long balls. But, if the starting pitching is decent, and the bully is even reasonable, there's still not as much focus on the bats as there is on the arm and the man behind it.

As a struggling writer, I know that sense of pressure. With no team behind me to provide support, there is even more pressure to perform. And the more people tell me to write, the less I do it. It's some kind of perverse mindset that makes the ideas go flat and the keyboard loom too large, every time someone asks me, "So, have you written anything lately?" I have to imagine it's a little like the reaction that a pitcher has every time the pitching coach gets on him about his ERA, or how many walks he issued in the last inning. Somehow, the mind digs in and then the body won't cooperate. But, if things are going well, and the ball is flying to the plate and then dropping into the dirt, or hovering around the corners and fooling batters into swinging when they shouldn't, a pitcher can do no wrong. Same thing with writing. When it flows, it flows and there doesn't seem to be a way to stop it. But there is no way to force the words to appear on that blank page.

An athlete's mind and body somehow have to work together, but not consciously. Tension in a pitcher or batter is anathema to success. As soon as a batter tenses up, his rhythm is thrown off, his mechanics aren't in sync, and he'll strike out, ground out, or fly out: anyway it's an out. A tense pitcher literally tries to get too perfect and starts nibbling. Trying to find the strike zone will surely lead to balls, walks, and runs scored.

Writing is much the same. Trying to write is impossible. That awful Nike ad was unfortunately right, in that one does have to "Just do it." Trying to be perfect as a writer leads to frustration and eventual "writer's block." There is no perfection in baseball or writing. But if you approach the plate or the keyboard relaxed and "in the zone," the stats are in your favor that you'll meet with some success.

It's a bummer being a fan of a losing team. Following the Diamondbacks for the last couple of years has been an exercise in frustration often times. But, it's also interesting, because you do learn a lot more from watching mistakes than from seeing success. As I have followed the trial and error of the Dbacks, I have discovered much about the importance of perseverance, patience, loyalty, and the willingness to try new things when the old just isn't working anymore. I have also learned that, truly, winning isn't everything, but it sure beats the heck out of losing. As I have struggled personally over the past couple of years myself, I am also realizing those same things. I am not going to try to be perfect. But I am going to keep trying. I am not going to expect to win all of the time, but I am not going to brand myself a loser. And if I compare myself in the rankings to all of the other teams out there, I will be totally disheartened. What I will do though, is focus on improving my own performance, increase my own stats, and expect that in the long run, even if I don't win, hopefully I can be proud of how I played the game.

Saleing

Summer weekends are often spent saleing with my kids. No, I did not just phenominally mispell "sailing", since we don't own a boat. The kind of sales that carry us out into the summer sun are of the yard/garage/rummage variety.

Once the morning chores are completed (ok, sometimes that's more like an "if") and the kids have gotten paid their weekly allowance (again, depending on whether the chores were tackled or ignored), those of us who have change jingling in our pockets head out the door in search of cardboard signs that read "Yard Sale" and bear arrows pointing nearby.

Not only does proximity help, but it also depends on the items that are strewn about people's lawns, driveways, or that may be stacked on tables in garages. My youngest, being the only non-teenager of the bunch, gravitates to displays of stuffed animals, dolls, and board games. She will peruse the clothes and shoes if they look to be her size (she is, after all, my child!) but will usually only buy these things if they are something I would never allow (think high-heeled sandals, tank tops with glittery trim, etc.)

Fourteen year-old twin boys are pretty easy to tempt: anything electronic (working or not), game tables (pool, foosball, air hockey, etc) and any or all military items. I remember last year, one of my boys purchased a pair of combat boots. He wore them a fair amount over the winter months, and all of his pals thought he was "the man." Best six bucks he ever spent, he said. It's funny though, just when I give them up for being such "boys," one of them will land an eye on an item I've been looking for, whether it's glassware or dishes, or some such, and say "Hey Mom, you might want something like this..." and I have to smile and remain hopeful that these "boys" are really becoming young men.

My oldest daughter, at fifteen, is a toughie. She will stop to scan everything, and has bought anything from cute hoodies and tennies, to roller blades and posters. She will point out items that would be great for decorating around the house, or kitchen items I've mentioned needing. But, she'll also spot something like photo albums and remember that we are in need of a few. She is in that strange place between child and adult, and yet seems to navigate them both with grace. Heck, I can't even do that, and I passed the child phase a long time ago, according to the calendar.

My own tastes tend toward the simple (polite term for mundane.) I am always on the lookout for cheap, but gently used furniture (I can sometimes find the latter, but never the former), cool stuff for the kids, unique clothing (the stuff you can't find at Wal Mart, like somebody's Grandma's mink stole, or white Go-Go boots, or whatnot), what my kids have come to call "pretties", which are really just knick-knacks that collect dust on shelves, and various kitchen and bath items that tend to look like a great deal in someone's driveway, and kinda grungy when I get them home.

Although we go saleing a lot during the warm months, we don't usually buy all that much. Part of the reason is that I have very firm standards about how items should be priced, and how haggling should proceed. I have passed this information down to my children and they now have the same expectations. Here's the thing: for common items like clothes, shoes, kitchen and bath stuff, etc. you have to expect to charge only what people are going to carry in their pockets. This means change! A quarter or two for nicer tops and pants, or dishes and glasses, nickels and dimes for the shabby stuff. After all, the reason you're selling this crap is in order to make a few bucks, and the rest is gonna have to go to donation anyway, right? Ok, now nicer items like a table and chairs, maybe ten bucks for the table, and five for each chair, then cut a deal if someone will buy the whole set. Same with a couch and love seat, etc. People should always be willing to break up a set, but throw in the whole enchilada for less. Oh, and I wish folks would mark stuff with the prices, for goodness sake. Even if it's just that stuff at each table is a certain price, or there's a box of twenty-five cent toys, that's much easier than having to find who is doing the sale and then ask about every single thing sitting out. Sheesh...

This brings me to the art of haggling. What is it with people not haggling anymore? The whole idea of having prices at a yard sale, is that you have to be willing to come down if: somebody buys a bunch of stuff, it's late in the day, or it's the end of the weekend. That's how it works! I am so shocked when someone wants half of what they paid retail for an item, won't budge on the price, and then sits there stonefaced as I walk away! I'm telling you, there should be a mandatory class about this stuff before anyone duct tapes a sign to a box and leaves it on a street corner.

I know I sound like a bit of a grump, which I really...ok..maybe I am. I don't mean to be. Most of the time I am a very nice person. But, walking block after block in the hot sun with whining kids whose allowance is burning a hole in their pockets all afternoon will make a person a bit edgy. All I ask is that the yard salers of the world unite! Set prices realistically (it's not a great economy, in case anyone hasn't heard. Maybe sellers are selling stuff because they need the money, but we are buying because we can't afford Wal Mart)! Be willing to wiggle a little on the total. Mark stuff so we know how much it is. Salers will beat a path to a yard sale if: everything is organized so we can tell what you have. My kids are dying to spend their hard-earned cash, and will do it at the one that shows them most easily what it is they just "have to have."

I think it's just wonderful that there is this "independent economy" in our neighborhoods, where people are literally taking care of business themselves. It helps buyers and sellers alike. It's also a fun tradition to have with my family, to "sale" the open sidewalks of our little world. Maybe we'll even have a sale of our own this summer. Heck, we should...we need the money, so we can go shopping! If I do, I will be sure to follow the rules. Happy saleing!

Accident Prone

I have become accident-prone. By this, I do not mean that I have begun having a lot of accidents. Rather, I have become addicted to watching TV shows about them. Thanks to “Nat Geo” (that’s the National Geographic Channel for those of you with jobs) I look forward to Tuesday like most people look forward to payday.

Tuesday is the day of the week when my TIVO gets deposited with “Air Emergency”, “Seconds From Disaster”, “Critical Situation” and “The Final Report.” All of these shows have the same premise: to tell about someone else’s misfortune in about an hour, including commercials (which of course, I can fast forward through, thanks to the miracle of TIVO.)
I don’t know if it was my illness or unemployment that first made me so attracted to other people’s bad news. Maybe I just got tired of movies and sports, although I still watch those, too. But, I don’t look forward to them the way that I do my disaster shows.

When Tuesday rolls around, I eagerly take inventory of what has been delivered to my television for the week. Then, I carefully portion out the shows throughout the week, so as not to make the mistake of feasting on them all at once. I have made that mistake, and then had nothing to look forward to for six whole days. There’s nothing quite so depressing when you’re unemployed, like knowing that you won’t get to watch a plane crash for a whole week. Ok, that didn’t come out quite right, but I know what I mean. I think.

Thanks to Nat Geo, I am on a first name basis with Greg Feith, the NTSB investigator that has handled hundreds of “Air Emergency” cases; I consider myself an amateur volcanologist, thanks to “Seconds From Disaster,” which has handled many volcano stories; I like those best, since I get to discuss “polyclastic flows” (those are the lava flows that are the most deadly parts of the volcanic eruptions); and due to the many hours of “Critical Situation” and “Final Report” I have a better understanding of things like the Oklahoma City Bombing, the 1972 Olympic Hostage Crisis, and the first and second Gulf wars.

I am aware that I watch too much TV. There’s no question. But, I’ve been working on dialing it back little by little. I’m not watching “I Survived”, “The Dog Whisperer,” or most of the Food Network anymore. There’s nothing I can do about the fact that it’s baseball season. And I just can’t give up on “The Alaska Experiment” before I find out if the four teams of regular people that volunteered to live in the wilderness for 90 days make it out alive. Although, I suppose it’s unlikely that Animal Planet would let anyone expire on camera. But, you never know.

It’s not easy being unemployed. It’s certainly harder than I expected. There’s the obvious economic hardship, but there’s also the pride thing. It’s embarrassing. It’s boring. It’s kind of bewildering. I am not sure what to do each day, after I have browsed around the ‘Net and seen the rather slim pickings for jobs. So, I get busy doing what I know I must. I get involved: in my disasters. These people need me. I need them. We are working together to prevent calamities like plane crashes and hostage crises, train wrecks and volcanic eruptions, wars and job loss, from happening to the next person.