Spring...

It’s a good thing it got here when it did. People – namely me – were starting to get grumpy.

Of course, the season brought out all the critters. Raccoons number two and three were trapped and transported a week or so ago. There was fighting over rights to the abandoned Raccoon Resort, so I evicted them both.

With spring comes renewed hope. I am cautiously, carefully, warily hopeful….I have a real interview with a real HR department for a real job. After being demoted before I was even hired by the last company I wanted (so desperately) to work for, I’m just a wee bit leery, but this one looks like the real deal.

To paraphrase a quote from my favorite movie….

“It will all turn out well….how?...I don’t know. It’s a mystery.”

Worse

About the time you think you’ve hit bottom, you find out you haven’t.

It started with an article in the local paper about a guy who will buy coins. The article says ‘the coin market is hot.’ My parents half-heartedly used to collect, and I know I’ll never be interested. Maybe there’s hope, something here I don’t know I have.

I scoop it all up and head to the storefront where he said he’d be until noon.

The building is new and clean. The walls are covered in paintings for sale, and the cases full of jewelry. He comes out from the back. Tall, serious, no smiling, no nonsense. I introduce myself, but I sense that he doesn’t want to get to know me and he certainly doesn’t want to hear my story. I have to think that over the course of this career of his, he’s had to harden, wall off any emotions he might feel, all the hardship cases he’s seen…..

He quickly dispenses with the coins that I thought might’ve been worth something. $5 and change. The box of old jewelry turns out to be only costume. I brought my grandfather’s old Masonic ring. I get $50 for that; he tells me mostly because of what the gold is worth. An old gold wedding band brings $50 as well.

The Ebel watch is the saddest. I’ve had it for a long time, a gift from a long ago boyfriend. I liked that watch. He looks, goes back to talk to someone, comes back out. He says $70. I know I can’t afford to put a battery in it, so I’ll never be able to wear it. I hesitate, then say OK. The same watch you’d have to spend $2,000 to buy new. I hold off crying until I turn to leave.

I walk out with $182, feeling like I just sold part of my soul.

hope

I’ve lost hope, and that was all I had left to keep me going.

I keep thinking back, trying to figure out where I made the fatal error that brought me to this situation. Was it divorcing? Letting my (then) husband convince me to quit my last public accounting job before I could be hired away as a controller by one of their clients? Dropping my own clients, years later, because he threatened me? What have I done wrong? Which piece of the puzzle that is my life is misplaced? I’m wracking my brain, looking for the mistake, so I can fix it.

I graduated 18th out of a high school class of 402. I earned a full four year scholarship to college. I was a mostly straight-A student. I sent myself back to college nine years later for accounting while working both a full time and part time job. I tested out of most of the accounting classes and went directly to sit for the CPA exam. I took it back in the days when it was given in a large conference room with no computers or calculators, essay questions were part of the exam, and it spanned two and a half days. I passed it all the first time.

But somehow, I’ve failed.

For over a year I’ve tried to find challenging work at a company who needs me, where I can make a difference. I have always wanted to help a company grow by providing the best possible financial information, so that the owners could see the results of any decisions they made and do what they do best – manage their company – without having to worry about the recordkeeping and reporting that is part of business.

No one, it seems, wants me. My only offer? A part time clerical job. And right now, I’m not even sure I have that.

Meanwhile, I see people with half my experience, unable to string together a logical sentence or work an Excel spreadsheet without formula errors or prepare a budget or make a decision and stick to it…all of them employed, and not just in ordinary jobs, but good solid positions. Directors. Vice Presidents. CFO’s. I don’t know how they got there or how they manage stay where they are. When did mediocrity become the norm, acceptable, even an advantage?

If being good at what you do is not the way out of this mess, what is?

valentine's day

Valentine’s Day. Four syllables that strike fear, loathing, and depression in the hearts and minds of typically sane but single women.

No doubt about it, the world was meant to be experienced in pairs.

I decided to view this day as an opportunity to reflect on the joyous, few and far between dates I’ve experienced in the past four years. It’s the only way I know to mitigate the misery of being single on a day so fraught with expectations.

First up, a guy I met on line. He drove an ancient Range Rover, loved dogs, was well educated, lived in a good neighborhood, and wrote well. Recently separated, he assured me he was ready to date, and of course, he was “fit”. [Aren’t they all?] He sounded good on paper. We agreed to meet at Starbucks for coffee. Safe enough. I made sure to get there first, and found a prime table to watch him limp through the parking lot with a small beach ball under his shirt and no visible evidence of a rear end in his pants. If he’s fit, I’m the Queen of Sheba. The conversation wasn’t what I’d call inspiring. He had the sense to never write or call back.

There was another, from out of town, also well educated and the CEO of a chain of hospitals. We met for dinner. I would’ve drunk myself into a stupor when I got home but I was already nearly comatose - from boredom, not the one lousy glass of wine I’d had. The man didn’t even smile or shake my hand when I walked in and introduced myself. Wooden; nearly totem-pole like he was so stiff; monotone voice; non-expressive face; boring and exceedingly accounting-like; lacking one shred of personality; completely incapable of interesting conversation; and if he's intelligent enough to be the CEO of an organization that big, then I'm fricking Einstein. Maybe he’d just had his frontal lobotomy done right before he got in his car to drive down from the hill he lives on. If I'd have yelled 'boo' he probably would have peed his pants.

Yet another came to the door to pick me up in his best Jimmy Buffet outfit (shorts, Hawaiian shirt, flip flops), freshly bathed in cologne. I’ve never been so grateful for dining al fresco in my life. I made sure to sit upwind.

And still another assured me that he was a “young” 61. We also met for coffee. I could barely stand a fleeting look, he was such a cyber-toad. He’d described himself as attractive. I’d like to know where he buys his mirrors. He was Durant’s twin dressed in golf attire. About an hour after I got home, he wrote; he thought we had “chemistry.” Yep, chemistry. Like oil and water, I'm thinkin.' Chemistry, connection with whom? Was I channeling Ethel Merman? He wanted an answer right away. I thought I should tell him I'm not his type; about the time he heard Prince coming out of my iPod, he might freak.

Remind me, should I ever forget, and once again get the hair-brained notion that blind dates are a great idea, to just schedule a gynecological exam, root canal, and IRS audit on the same day instead. They would all be less painful.

Fine. Being single isn’t great; in fact it’s mostly all about eating beans out of a can over the kitchen sink, falling asleep in your clothes with half the lights in the house on, and finding your wine glass in odd places the next morning….but maybe it’s better than being with the wrong guy.

Raccoon Resort

In the middle of the night, I hear a distant banging, like a shutter come loose on an old beach house, hitting the wall, back and forth, as rhythmic as the waves of the tide.
I struggle out of that half-sleep state to the realization that I’m not on a beach and my house doesn’t have detachable shutters.
Damn It.
I get up and listen for the direction of the noise. It’s louder in the bathroom and I get suspicious. Retrieving a flashlight from the nightstand, I go back to the bathroom window. A mask and two eyes shine back.

Oh Happy Day. My two month squatter, caught at last.

I let him sulk until daybreak.

The cage is too big, too muddy, too heavy to lift up through the window and cart through the house. The only thing to do is to shove him over the edge of the roof. Now how to do that without being bitten or scratched?

First try – a household broom. Rocky starts to snarl as soon as I poke at the trap. The broom isn’t long enough.

I trot downstairs, through the kitchen to the garage, and back upstairs with a janitor’s broom. I manage to finesse it out the window without taking off any paint in the process. This doesn’t work either. It’s only long enough to move the cage to the edge of the roof…where it gets stuck on the guttering. I push harder. The gutter bows. At this rate, I’m going to rip the gutter off, too, and just add to the damage already done. I need a hook.

I snatch a hanger out of the closet and try to attach it to the end of the broom. It promptly falls off in the middle of the roof, out of reach. I think about crawling out the window. Considering my propensity for broken bones, I promptly discard that idea. The hangar can just stay there.

Down I go, to the garage again, to survey all my garden tools. There has to be something longer, with a sharp edge. My eyes light on the Japanese hoe, and back up the stairs I go, looking like an off kilter pole-vaulter.

The corner of the hoe catches on the corner of the cage and I manage to move it. Another shove….and a crash.

I laugh. Victory is mine, you destructive SOB. I have lost my mind.

Down the stairs, out the back door, to the side of the house to look. The raccoon is fine, the trap only slightly dented.

I let Rocky settle down a bit, then load him into the wheelbarrow and deposit him in the middle of the driveway, with a sign attached to his trap. He looks like Hester wearing her scarlet letter. As if this raccoon feels any remorse! MK comes over and takes him to his new home.

I know where he lives. He’ll be getting my bill.

and now, to suit our great computer….

How did it come to pass that a computer now chooses who will be selected for an interview and who will not? These big companies with their boilerplate questionnaires and replies! Do any human life forms work there? They reduce your resume to catch phrases and snippets of data. Without the correct words, or combinations thereof, you are kicked to the curb by an inanimate object.

Where in their on-line forms can I insert that I have half a Master’s Degree? Or that I passed the CPA exam in one sitting? Or that I have managed personalities so diverse that Sybil would look normal by comparison? No place for gray with these Large Corporate HR Departments, it’s all black/white, yes/no, no fuzzy logic, no room for a good hunch that this one, this applicant might be a good fit.

You should’ve seen the questionnaire I had to fill out today. Do you like working in groups? Can you juggle more than one task at a time? Do you hate meetings? Do you use mustard or ketchup on your hot dog? Do you take showers or baths? Do you get impatient with questions like these? Seriously, it was about that idiotic.

Another irony….most have on line jobs boards where you can set up job searches based upon the resume you’ve just submitted. I can’t count the number of emails I’ve received….Here, apply for this one! It’s got your name written all over it! Your skills match! And when I do….another reject letter, three months later.

And the replies they send….not only months later, but boilerplate again…..

"Thank you for expressing interest in Corporation from Hell. Although we were impressed by your skills and experience, unfortunately we will not be taking your application any further…"

"While you display valuable skills, we have chosen to pursue other candidates…"

"While your credentials were impressive…."

Oh for Pete’s sake. Who are they kidding? And more to the point….would I really want to work for a company run by robots? I would love to see the applicants that make the first cut for a face to face interview. Are they robots too?

Must I become merely magnetic ink?

a true tale

There was a divorced woman who lived alone in a small red brick ranch house in a small Middle American city with her calico cat. She had recently retired from the city’s school system, where she’d worked since the mid – 1960’s. Retirement wasn’t what she’d thought it would be. She tried to fill her time with gardening and reading. She did have, as Norma would later write, a million friends. There was a small group of girlfriends she looked forward to seeing every Friday for early dinner and conversation. They didn’t meet at a fancy place, but somewhere that they could all afford on fixed incomes.

One Friday, she didn’t show up.

“Wonder where Bertie Jo is?”
“I don’t know. She said she was coming.”
“She always comes.”
“I just talked to her yesterday; she didn’t say anything.”
“I bet she went to see her daughters for the weekend.”
“That’s got to be it.”
“But she didn’t mention she was going…”
“I bet she just forgot to tell us.”
“You’re probably right.”

And the ladies went on with their conversations of children, grandchildren, and husbands, and forgot to worry about Bertie Jo.

Mary, the neighbor across the street, who’d also known Bertie Jo since 1960, wondered, too, why the package from UPS sat on the front step all weekend long.

Four days later, at the request of one of her daughters, the town police came and broke into her home and climbed through the dining room window to discover her, lying crumpled, next to her bed…gone….

After the autopsy, the coroner told her daughters that her girlfriends could probably not have helped her, even if they’d come looking for her that Friday night. The mortician had to tell her daughters that it was probably advisable that they not look….

Bertie Jo’s girlfriends made assumptions, which cost her daughters the opportunity to see their mother one last time before laying her to rest.

I know the story is true, because one of her daughters was me.

The Ghost of Many, Many Christmases Past

No, no, that’s not my ride to Logansport…..though had this moving van not materialized, I may well have ended up there…
Today is the fourth anniversary of my escape. No more “You can’t You won’t You shouldn’t You never You don’t.” No more “isn’t that right?” No more rages, death threats, financial threats, daily grading of my behavior (you get a C- for…), vilification for my choice of Christmas cards (not “Christmas-y enough), criticism for having too many hobbies, being too lazy or being too ambitious, too fat, too thin, too blond, too brunette……..living with such a Sybil was giving me psychological whiplash. Who was I, anyway?

This was going to be my best Christmas in over a decade. Attention had to be paid. Cartwheels across the lawn seemed too fleeting, and mid-afternoon would be too early in the day to drink myself into a happy stupor. Hmmm. What to do, what to do. A plan was hatched.

The day was endless. The Dip tried to ignore the movers as they worked around him. He hunched over his computer keyboard, playing chess, until they pried the mouse out of his fingers. I occupied myself with laundry, figuring it might be bad form to carry his clothes out or pop the cork before the door closed.

The photo op took place shortly after MK finished work for the day. She called my cell and I casually walked out.

No one needed to tell me Say Cheese!

Christmas Baking, Round One

I am having a day....and I haven't even started drinking yet. Maybe I should.

First thing I do is make the peppermint cookies. I cannot figure out why they're coming out of the oven flat as pancakes. After the second batch, I look at the recipe and the light bulb comes on in the pea brain....I had doubled the recipe but forgot to double the flour. I actually thought I did. I remember saying to myself OK you need 5 [meaning 5 cups of flour], but I was using a 1/2 cup 'cause I couldn't find the cup, so I counted out 5 all right. I am going to tell people they are French tuiles but I just didn't bend them into curls....

Then I can't get the maraschino cherry cans open and when I do cherry juice flies all over the counter....

Then I can't get the bag of pecans open, and when I start pulling harder, the entire bag explodes open all over the room. There are nuts everywhere. That's about when I started laughing hysterically and decided I probably need a straight jacket or a baby sitter.

And I just now discovered I washed one of my dishrags in with the dishes in the dishwasher.

The scary part is I'm only half done and haven't had a shower yet.

Dear Santa

If it weren’t for Little Susie, I might still believe in Santa Claus.

Snowhill Elementary School sits in the center of a middle class neighborhood in Springfield, Ohio. It’s a short walk from Malden Avenue, and walk we did, back in the idyllic era when children and parents feared nothing.
20 or so five year olds sat cross-legged on their nap mats on the linoleum floor, wiggling in barely contained anticipation of Christmas, on an overcast, snowy December day. Mrs. Jergins, a fresh faced, innocent new teacher, was leading the class in a discussion about Santa. Little Susie raised her hand, and stood up. She proudly informed us all that her parents told her there was no Santa Claus…he was just a fairly tale. Twenty-some little mouths dropped open and became silent. Twenty-some sets of eyes turned beseechingly to Mrs. Jergins for an explanation. Say it isn’t so! She herself was stunned, and though she tried to regroup, her explanation – long since forgotten – wasn’t good enough, and we knew it. Plenty of parents had lots of explaining to do that afternoon.

If I still believed in Santa, my letter might go something like this…..

Dear Santa,

Well, here we are again. I hate to nag, but you haven’t visited my house for a few years now. What is your problem?

I know my street is still nowhere to be found on some maps (even though this house dates to 1984), but that’s no excuse. All the information is in the GPS databases now, or you could always use Google Earth. You do use modern technology these days, don’t you? I assumed Rudolph is just for show.

I have two fireplaces for you to choose from, and I always make sure to turn them off early and leave cookies and milk by both. Maybe you don’t like biscotti? Just tell me and I’ll make something else. I have also warned my Gordon Setter to stop barking at strange men, specifically those in red suits.

Have you been skipping me because I didn’t decorate for a few years? Surely you can’t hold that against me, given all the other things I’ve had to deal with. This year I did put up a tree, hoping a festive look might entice you to come. The tree is causing a lot of havoc, though; my dog rummages underneath it to look for her gifts, while the two cats climb it to find theirs. It’s hit the floor several times. That’s OK; I didn’t like some of those ornaments anyway.

You’ve been forgetful for so many years now! My list has grown unwieldy; I’ve zipped the file and sent it in a separate email. I don’t want to lock up your computer system (please tell me you have one; I know a very good IT person who can set you up if you don’t). Just in case your computer is down, I’m also going to send the entire list via snail mail. The postage will cost me a fortune. All worth it, of course, if you show up.

OK….I didn’t want to bring this up….but I realize that I may not have been exactly good (depending on who you ask) those first few years. But I’ve reformed. I swear!

Sincerely,

Thanksgiving Preview

I’ve been in CPE for two solid days. CPE stands for Continuing Professional Education, which is required of all CPA’s who want to keep their licenses. Other definitions include Criminally Painful Experience, Convention for the Paunchy and the Elderly, Certain Psychosis for Everyone…I digress….

In order to keep from falling asleep, falling out of my chair, and making a complete fool of myself, I had to find a way to entertain myself unobtrusively. I got out my Crayolas and a legal pad and designed this pop quiz. The topic, naturally, is the upcoming holiday. Read below, answer yes I have that, or no I don’t, and tally your score.

Food. The most basic of needs and one with which most of us don’t have a problem. Bonus points if you can still afford to dine at a restaurant and aren’t dumpster diving to feed your kids or eating cat food.

Clothing. Another of the basics. In addition to the obvious – warmth and decency – clean, neat clothing can make you feel better about yourself. Bonus points if they’re less than five years old, don’t have shoulder pads the size of oven mitts, or triple pleats.

A good home. Every human being needs shelter from the elements and a safe haven from the daily trials of life. Whether it’s a house, apartment, or shed, you’ve got a roof over your head. Bonus points if that roof doesn’t leak and you’re not delinquent on your mortgage (as 14% of homeowners now are) or under water (23%).

Good health. Temporary setbacks do not count as poor health. Everyone will have something break in them at some point. Is it life-threatening? Self-inflicted by lifestyle? Repairable?

A job. With official nationwide unemployment at 10.2% (Indiana at 9.8%), and actual figures hovering around 17% (if you include those whose unemployment benefits have been depleted and those who’ve just plain given up), you’re lucky to have work. Go say thank you to your employer, even if you can’t stand the sight of him/her. Money may not buy happiness, but it does give you the opportunity to try to find it. It also affords you the big three (see above) – food, clothing, shelter.

Reliable transportation. Necessary in order to keep that job. Whether bus or bicycle, motorcycle or (most likely) car, it gets you from Point A to Point B every time. Bonus points if the vehicle is less than 10 years old.

Someone in the world loves you. Your life on the planet will not be for naught and someone would care if you were gone. You matter.

Conversely, there is someone on the planet that you love. A good sign that your heart is not so scarred by betrayals that you’ve lost the ability to feel, or that you were not born without a heart at all. If you can’t love, you might as well be a houseplant. Triple bonus points if the folks in #7 and #8 are the same.

Scoring:
7-8 yes: You’re leading a charmed life. Maybe a few things aren’t going as you’d wish but, on the whole, you’re above average. If you’re whining, you’re throwing a pity party for no reason. Keep in mind that pity parties are not well attended events.
5-6 yes: Things could be better. You’ve had your share of setbacks. One good thing would make you feel better. Can you find a way to make that happen?
3-4 yes: You’re having a bad year, but you’re fighting and haven’t given up hope. You’re a survivor. Without hope, there is nothing.
1-2 yes: I don’t know what to say….other than, it will get better. I don’t know how. It’s a mystery.

There is no zero score. If you’re reading this, you most likely live in the United States of America, preparing to celebrate our country’s founders. Living here is worth a “yes.” Count your lucky stars that you do.

Happy Thanksgiving!

every pilot's memory

Today is the third anniversary of my solo flight. I remember the day, though through the fog that remains when events snowball before you’re quite sure what’s happening to you. Every pilot you meet will tell you he/she remembers solo day like it happened yesterday. I have to say that I don’t. If it weren’t for my journal and the photos taken by MK and her husband, I’d probably not remember it at all…

Early morning airport weather showed nearly no wind, straight down the runway, the ceiling marginally low. My girlfriend’s husband had his flight lesson directly before mine, and MK had driven to the airport in case this turned out to be S’s solo day, as we all assumed it would be.

When I arrived, the three of them – MK, S, and our instructor – were walking in from the plane. S had just solo’d, and MK taken photos of the shirt ceremony. I told them I was going to lock myself in the bathroom. Instructor P said you go ahead and do that, but we have a master key.

MK and her husband headed to breakfast and I walked out to preflight. Every move I made felt focused this time, no idle chatter on my part. It dawned on me that I might know what I was doing. We stayed in the pattern and did three touch and goes. My third landing was good. A surprise go-around was next.

The airport VP radioed up to ask if we wanted to go on today’s fly out. Instructor P told him no thanks; we’re going to work on some other things….and that’s when I knew. I completed one more trip around the pattern, then a full stop landing.

“You don’t have to if you don’t feel like it.”
“I might as well get it over with.”

I remember being preternaturally calm while P filled out what seemed at the time like dozens of endorsements, signing both my log book and student permit.
While he signed, I watched people milling around the office door. I thought I saw S and MK and some others, but it was too far away to be sure.

Then… he got out, walked around back of the plane, up the left side, and waved.

I taxied to the hold short line, called that I was backtaxiing, went to the end of runway 36, and turned. Wasting no time, I lined up, took a deep breath and did my departure call. Takeoff was no problem. On downwind I heard and saw a plane backtaxiing; he said he’d be out of my way in time, but there was no chance in hell. I was on base and he was still only halfway down the runway. I called down to Instructor P and told him I was going to go around. Not a big deal; power up, flaps up, regain pattern altitude. I heard Instructor P on the radio telling that pilot that this was a first solo. On downwind for the second time, I saw a second airplane moving on the south ramp and thought now what. I kept calling intentions. The second pilot/plane radioed the first and a discussion ensued regarding which of them would depart first. The second pilot/plane announced he’d taxi for departure as soon as the Cessna completed her first touch and go. I had two mini-jets sitting there waiting on me, which cracked me up.

The first landing was acceptable. I took off again. The air was starting to get bumpy at 1500.’ My second landing was an impressive imitation of a ping pong ball. Mortified, I muttered to myself I would do the third and final one right. One of the two planes has departed. I radioed in, botching the call, saying both full stop and touch and go….”wait, I didn’t mean that.” The third landing is OK. I radioed in “can I go home now?”

I didn’t realize I had an audience until I got in….MK and S, two other female pilots, one with her husband, the VP, and another couple I didn’t know. All were there for the fly out, but had hung around to watch until I was done. Just as well I didn’t know!

Solo day reminded me of sitting for the CPA exam…terrifying until the test begins, then all you’ve studied and learned comes tumbling out when you need it.

A spectacular day for Instructor P, as well…two solos, back to back.

knitting lessons

Several days ago our local newspaper published an article about the trend to handmade Christmas gifts this season. I hope they didn’t pay for that conclusion. I’m way ahead of their bell curve here. I’ve always loved making gifts. However, the realization that I need to do this in a big way this year only dawned on me a month ago. It would’ve been helpful had I faced this reality in July. Adding to my panic/urgency is the unfortunate fact that nearly every friend I have also has a November or December birthday. Frantic painting and baking have begun. Even though I have entirely too much spare time, I concluded that I’ll never be able to manage a painting for each friend. Besides, they could hate what I paint. They could hate what I bake too, for that matter.

My best friend suggested that I try knitting a hat for my flight instructor’s birthday (this coming Monday). This idea popped up on Thursday, and within fifteen minutes, smitten with the idea and visions of stunning needlework dancing in my head, I found myself in the car on the way to the yarn shop, via the wine store (and OH there could be very good reason for that). Yarn shops are an artist’s paradise (colors, textures, just like paint), and finding beautiful yarn took no time at all. Mesmerized, I watched the mechanized wooden winders turned skeins of yarn into manageable balls. The machines are elegant in their simplicity.

Home, I am instructed to practice on a scrap of yarn first, before diving into the alpaca yarn. It’s been 15 or so years since I’ve knit a thing, and I was never good at it to begin with. I see why she (for this post, anyway, referred to as Master Knitter) told me this. I literally forgot how to purl! I was whizzing along yesterday, practicing while I was baking, turned the needles over for the next row, and literally screamed out loud.

MK has already taught me two things - how to knit on your cast on row (I’d never seen that technique before), and how to recognize a purl stitch from a knit stitch. I think to myself, maybe there’s hope.

Or not.

I rushed home today and started casting on with the good stuff. I knit/purl the first row after that. Something is not right. By the time I’ve called Knitter’s 911, and MK arrived to rescue me, I’ve torn out the beginning twice and there’s a wad of tangled yarn on the floor. She identified two problems – the yarn is a little light for the pattern, and I don’t have the right number of stitches cast on either, so the pattern’s not working. She doubled the yarn, and I tried again. This time it looked better. Even so, I managed to do some odd thing again…it looks like I’ve dropped or not dropped a stitch. There was much gnashing of teeth on my part and I’m positive I’d have a much better chance of flying an ILS approach down to minimums than knitting this hat. The amount of sweat generated by either task is nearly the same.

I finally start to get it right, and I’m safe to continue, unattended….for now.

All of a sudden, I look down…and there it is. I can see the beginning of the pattern, and a light bulb comes on.

But more than that….to think that someone, long ago, figured out how to take what are essentially a simple piece of colored string and two sticks to create something beautiful. It’s like any other art. Just as painters paint, and sculptors sculpt, I see why knitters knit. Creating is addictive.

Monday at Panera

I had a long lunch with a girlfriend today, the kind of lazy, chatty, catch-up lunch you can only have if you’ve nowhere to go. I savor those, even though I hope it won’t be much longer (surely not!) before I’ll have to relegate them to weekends. We’ve known each other since 1972, so there are few unknowns….but I always manage to make K laugh. My current life being barely controlled chaos, lots of topics pop up on the agenda…the traitorous ex-girlfriend (follow the money), her ex-future-daughter-in-law (it’s all about me), my ex-boyfriend (narcissist of the most inconceivable kind), my ex-husband (raised by wolves), estranged family (what have you done for me lately), the economy, the job market, the stock market, and the market next door.

I’m exhausted! But in a good way.

time to start...

Blogs, by nature, are narcissistic creations. Who is one to assume that random thoughts put to paper and scattered into cyberspace will be of interest to anyone else?! Maybe it's our 21st century way of leaving something behind, hoping to be remembered when we're gone. Hoping to make a difference.

So, to begin....