Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Friday, October 10, 2014
Well, I am listening to Mahler. Even I am impressed. I have successfully poopooed him all my 70 years, but I decided that if I am going to be an art music afficionado, I need to broaden my taste. So I ordered a set of all the symphonies minus one. I guess he wrote on stinker in ten. Pretty good batting average, Gustav. And in spite of some rather abrupt volume shifts, I find his music really romantic. If he hadn't written such looooooonnnnnng works, longer than the staying power of the average human bladder, he might actually be popular. Or maybe he is, and I just didn't know it. Nevertheless, here I am, steeped in culture. Other jarring things happened today, too. Big bang not too long ago announce yet another collision on the very busy cross-street to my halcyon little neighborhood. I trooped down to get a gander. Sweet little old lady was being trundled away in the ambulance. Little dear was just planning on some shopping at the market, and out of nowhere, a pickup slammed into her. There are a couple of these dustups a year. I am really careful when turning out of my country lane onto this thoroughfare. It is a war zone. And then, oh, this is the worst. My favorite character on Days of Our Lives got snuffed out. Just like that. No warning, and really, folks, this is just too much. I have been watching faithfully since 1997. I am breaking up with you! No more DVRed episodes to faithfully attend to. Done.
Thursday, October 09, 2014
Monday, October 06, 2014
My favorite blue and white shirt got a hole in it. Not a smallish hole that one could stitch up on the inside with just the faintest pucker to attest to its existence. Oh, nonono. A great honking hole that would showcase my admittedly more evident than usual collar bone. The rest of the shirt is likewise as fragile and thin from multitudeness wearings and washings, a couple of decades of love. What is more appropriate as a blue and white shirt for a trip to the Cafe for a non-fat latte and cinnamon walnut croissant on a Sunday morning? There was a time when I had to be trained to change out of my workaday outfit every night when I came home. Now I live in those comfy, roomy garments that are soft and well-loved. I missed my blue and white shirt. Actually, I still have it, on a special hook in the itsy bitsy closet, where I can adore it on occasion. And, blasphemies of blasphemies, I replace it. My new blue and white shirt is not striped, that would be like buying a puppy just like Boo and hoping for the same dog to show up. No, my new blue and white goto shirt is blue with tiny nosegays of white flowers in between very discreet polka dots. It, too is soft, already, and worthy of having croissant crumbs caught in its cuffs. God bless Anthropologie.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Tuesday, September 09, 2014
The check engine light came on the other day, in my car. My previous MO was to drive around for a few months, sweating and muttering and praying it would not blow up. (I actually had one that did just that.) Not now. Now I am totally on top of everything. So I got out the Yellow Pages, and found the ad for the place that checks this malady, free. That cost me $150, just to diagnose the problem. I had to re-schedule for the actual repair. I managed to get rides from dear friends on both ends of the transaction. Today, I took it in again, and decided to just find my own way home. This process began with noticing the number on the bus that I often pass on my way into town. Then I looked up our transit system online and found that, as a venerable senior, it was only $.75 to ride. Pretty affordable. My mechanic is on a well-traveled route, too, but I decided to walk the mile or so to the downtown bus mall, a lovely 20 minute stroll past several auto repair places and a couple of tatoo parlors. I waited there by the sign for the #3, and considered mumbling to myself like several of my fellow passengers. The driver was very nice, and did not need to see my Medicare card to accord me senior rates. The bus was clean and fairly cheerful, the ride was smooth, up until the end when I pulled the cord on top of my stop. Nevertheless, I am heartened that I can take such good care of my little self in the big bad world without my wheels. On the return trip, I can get a transfer!
Wednesday, September 03, 2014
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Seriously, your would think that rich and famous people would know better. I am thinking that Julia Roberts needs to rethink her hairdo. That peeking through tie-back drapes thing she has going on is not at all attractive, and much too young for this maturing so beautifully woman. I rebelled against my mother's admonition that age means shorter, lighter hair, until I quit dying it and found that it was a delightful shade of silver, that I had actually been trying to get with hair coloring, and quite attractive in its own right. Then I cut it all off, really short, which makes it kind of wave and nestle next to my admittedly finely rounded head and gives me a kind of imperial look, like Napoleon. Everyday my hair is different. It is sometimes kind of fluffy and I look like a throwback to the 50s, with a bubble do. Then it is kind of flat, and I spike it up a little for a kinkier do. And then, like today, it does both, looks really young. The hair, not me. Okay, I'm over that now.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Hello. Cowwoman here. Yes, still vertical and kicking. I am in the last stages of intensive therapy. Happy to report it was successful. Now, after navigating through shame, scapegoating, worthiness, and just plain misery, I have emerged with a new perspective of my self. Big revelation: my mother is not the way she is because of me, which has always been her take on the situation. However, I am the way I am because of HER! And, as sick as I felt in the beginning of this trip through the cerebral soup, she is the one who has been, is, and will always be, sick. Now, at the venerable age of (gulp) 70, I feel free to be who I am, having finally discovered who that is. Gee, that's big. And the cause of all this mental anguish, the core belief, was that if I loved myself, I was not a good person. Both are terribly important to me. Early in my recovery, I learned that alcoholism is a symptom of a far more pervasive disease. The Big Book never says what that is, however, leaving me to ponder. I decided my underlying problem was self-loathing, and started a campaign to learn to care about me the way I cared about others. And in the end, what the Steps taught me was to have integrity and kindness, always, in other words, be a good person. This included visiting my very old, very unhappy mother, even though she worked very hard each time to let me know I was a worthless piece of work, and I would walk away suitably flayed. Big paradox, you see. Being a good person meant opening my little self to yet more self-hatred. Not. Any. More. (I am wiping my brow as I write.) Often, as I sat on the couch in Ian's office, he would throw out a notion about how I could let go of going to see mother, and I would run up against this interior wall that said "Hold it! How can I be a good daughter if I do that?" And then, mother shut the door for me, appropriately on Mother's Day, a year ago, proclaiming that I should be ashamed of myself for actions in the past (50 years past), that my visiting her was seen as obligation only, and that she never wanted to see me anyway. In fact, she never wanted to see me again! And so it is. Ian said I was free. Huh? Only a year later, and I get it! No longer fearful of losing the quarter of a million dollar inheritance (brothers get over a third of a million each), no longer nose out of joint over being overlooked and discounted for lack of a penis, no longer mourning family that I was never a part of anyway, DONE! And FREE! So, expect upbeat and less whiney posts.