The Road to Hades is Paved With Good Intentions

As the day of reckoning approaches I sit, wondering if I dare to commit in writing (one more time) my resolution to lose weight and get in shape.  We all know where the road of good intentions leads and it seems I am doing a bang up job of paving the way there.  But then, I’ve been telling everybody, anybody, who will listen that I am moving to a warmer climate one way or another.

With this annual pondering of cleaner, better living, self-improvement, and getting in shape, I have to ask myself, what shape do I want to be in, really?

I am reminded of my mother – the prototype for Hallmark’s infamous Maxine. I don’t care what the guy who draws her says about Maxine being based on his mother it can’t be true (unless he is a half-brother I never knew about).

I am so convinced that my mother was the inspiration for the sassy, cynical, hilarious spokeswoman for old broads everywhere that I once coerced her into posing for a snapshot. Wearing her bunny slippers, a baseball cap over her mop of snow-white, curlicue hair, and swilling a cup of coffee she was a dead-ringer.  I told her I was going to send it to Hallmark and threaten them with a lawsuit for using her image without permission.

“Make sure you ask for future royalties along with the settlement sum,” she said.  “I plan to live out my days in high style.”

Anyway, Mom had an enviable collection of Maxine merchandise thanks to her smart aleck kids.  After she passed, I kept the bookmark that she’d taped to her bathroom mirror. It extolled the importance of staying in shape, and true to Maxine’s wit, concluded with, “I’ve chosen the shape of an old lady.”

Now that is the kind of wisdom that can only come with age!

Sooner or later in life, you have to admit that there is no wrinkle erasing miracle cream, fat absorbing super food, or flat-abs crunch contraption, at any amount of money, that is going to preserve youthful perfection.  If you have money to spend you may as well spend it on something that’s fun and you enjoy doing.

I am not twenty-six anymore.  I am never going to look like I am 26 again – despite the fact that my doctor seems to think I should still weigh what I did when I was barely full grown.  Heck, I am never going to look like I’m 46 again – nor will I weigh what I did then. I remember complaining about that weight too. I remember my sister telling me that in five years I’d look back and give just about anything to weigh that much less than I do now.  I will always remember that she was right.

There is no perfect size-eight in my future ever again.  Nor a perfect ten, in size or appearance.  I am the size and shape of a healthy woman my age.  And what vegetarian, gym-rat, fashion God says that’s not perfection?

So this year, my only resolution is to think more like the MAD Goddess that I am.  When pondering choices, contemplating my actions and making really big decisions of all kinds, I’ll ask myself, “WWMGS – what would MAD Goddess say?”

Still, a good plan for regular exercise is important at this age.  I think I’ll mosey over to the park and shuffle, (very, very slowly) along the fast lane of the busy jogging path.  I wonder how many of those running fools I can get backed up behind me.  After all, laughter is the best medicine.

Maybe I’ll give up snacking.  Instead, I’ll just eat the whole pan of brownies (a la mode), wash it down with a couple of mugs of Kahlua and coffee and call it a meal. Heck, I’ll even toss in a few chocolate dipped strawberries.  Fresh fruit is good for me.

I also plan on getting a pool membership so I can sit in the whirlpool and sauna on these particularly cold winter days.  Then, I’ll buy my clothes two sizes too big and tell people I’m losing weight.  When they ask me how, I’ll tell them it must be shrinkage.

I’ll take the stairs whenever I can.  Of course, there isn’t a single public building in my little village with more than one story so I don’t foresee that happening too often.

And come summer, I’ll use an expensive moisturizer with sunscreen every day, religiously – just before I go outside to worship the noonday sun.  I figure I may as well get used to the heat now.

. . . . . . mid

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SUNDAY DRIVES - DAY TRIPPING INTO RETIREMENT

 “What are your plans tomorrow,” the hubby asks me as we sit in our double recliner after our earlier-all-the-time evening meal.

I briefly recall the recurring line from a cartoon my youngest child (and I) used to watch, Pinky and the Brain.  “Same thing we do every night, Pinky, plot to take over the world.”

It’s seems the concept isn’t that far from true after we’ve watch too many hours of CNN and Fox news, all the while debating the solutions to all our country’s challenges.  WARNING news was never meant to be broadcast nor watched 24/7.  There should be a surgeon generals warning put on screen every 3o minutes.  WARNING:  Watching this program for long periods of time will alter brain cells, raise blood pressure, contribute to weight gain and intelligence loss and may cause depression, rage or acts of violence in certain individuals!

 I answer his question in my sassy way. “S.O.S.D.D.”  Same old s*#!, different day.

Actually, retirement isn’t all that different from any other phase of life.  You carve out a routine, this time one you are pretty much in control of – as opposed to when you were a kid and your parents made the rules, or when you worked and your boss called the shots.

Still, it’s a routine and like all routines no matter how enjoyable, you get the itch to shake it up once in a while.  Much to my chagrin, we’ve become Sunday (substitute any day of the week here) drivers.  Oh yes, those old people who drive around and gawk at the scenery with no particular destination in mind.

We’re not driving 20 miles below the speed limit – yet.  I don’t think we’re an irritation to the people who rush from home to work, rush to school, rush to get groceries, pay bills and run other errands, rush to pick up or drop  Junior off at  soccer practice, then rush from work back home again.

“Let’s go to Hayward for lunch.”  The hubby suggests the hour plus road trip.

OMG!  That’s what my parents used to do.  My parents were old!  I am not old.  Still, the weather is pleasant and there are some early turning leaves.  It will make be an enjoyable day trip.

So we hop into the VW Bug, I settle back into the heated seated, which I explain to hubby isn’t necessarily because I’m cold, but the warmth soothes my aching bones.  Tune in the oldies station and off we go.

We have to turn the radio up and down alternately – down when we want to converse and be able to hear each other, up when an oldie but goodie comes on and we want to blast the radio and sing along like we did when we were young.

To keep it interesting, sometimes my better half will make a quick turn onto a road of uncharted territory.  I’ve taken to noting the names of cross roads to see if they come out somewhere further down the line – a potential new route for next time.

“What was the name of that road back there,” I asked when I couldn’t quite make out the sign with my cock-eyed, cataract-in-one-eye vision.

‘You mean that field?”

“What are you talking about?  That was a paved road.  You didn’t see that road back there?”

“Yes I saw the road.  Why are you asking me if I saw the road?”  And then he smiles.  “Oh, you thought I said that field, didn’t you?”

“You didn’t?”

“Bradfield.  The name of the road was Bradfield Road.”

“You know, if we’d have planned this little trip ahead of time, I could have made us appointments at that hearing clinic.”

“Avoid what steering gimmick?  I have both hands on the wheel, what are you talking about?”

“Hearing.  I said hearing clinic.”

“Oh, yes.  You should really go have that checked out. I think you're getting deaf.”  He reaches over and turns the radio volume back up. 

At least they’re playing our song. Enjoy (sorry I couldn't get the original version)

 

. . . . . . mid 
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ARE YOU MORE THAN THE SUM OF YOUR OLD AGE COMPLAINTS?

E-hem.  Excuse me a moment while I dust of my soapbox.

As I stand here today, I have a simple request to make – nothing most of you can’t do if you’ll put your mind to it.  Each day, as you hear that endless stream of mind chatter that rattles around in your head, try to remember that not all of your thoughts require a platform – and  if you can’t keep it positive keep it to yourself!

For those of you around my age, you’ve heard this sentiment before, likely from your mother, who instructed you, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

It was good advice then, and it’s even better advice now in light of the numerous forms of communication available today, including cyber formats which make it far too simple to give lasting exposure to fleeting thoughts.

Here’s an idea. Once you learn to zip it, maybe you can advance to a higher form of consciousness.  Instead of just remaining silent and continuing to mentally brew your negativi-tea, why not take those thoughts and turn them around?  Like the popular tune encourages us, “Accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.” 

What if the Higher Power, by whatever name we choose to assign – God, Goddess, Creator, All – is really that within us which aspires to manifest love in all things, that which reaches for the best possible outcome in any situation, that which strives for peace in all encounters?  What if, in the battle between good and evil, the deciding factor is the energy vibrations we send out to the collective?  Are you increasing evil’s number by your negative thoughts, words and actions?  Or are you building the ranks of good, filling the cosmos with positivity to outnumber evil? Ever notice that good and evil are each one letter away from god and devil? 

Heady stuff, MAD Goddess.  Bring it down a notch or two.

Take aging, for instance. I’ve noticed that there are those who grumble endlessy about everything to do with aging and its particular challenges, and those who take it all in stride with a sense of good humor and grace - laughing all the way. I myself am guilty of more than a few snarky remarks about the aging process, but most often I have my tongue firmly in cheek when doing so. 

The problem with complaining and never coming around to find the silver lining is that it’s a complete waste of time. It rarely, if ever, solves the problem and it’s contagious.  We’ve all been caught up  in that group of senior citizens who list their age-related ailments as if comparing war stories, each teller trying to outdo the other with their personal harrowing details of surgeries, replacements, aches, pains and general discomforts.

There are certainly plenty of challenges to aging, but there are rewards as well.  Come on now, you know you’ve heard of them.  More patience for one thing; it’s so much easier to watch your grandchild color on his mother’s walls and chuckle about it than it was when you caught her coloring on your walls.

With advancing maturity comes more self-confidence, less worry, and better understanding of the human condition. Who has time to sweat the small stuff? I think all these qualities fall under the label of wisdom, that proverbial acumen that settles upon us with age.

Surely all of this is worth the price of my stiff joints, failing eyesight, loss of hearing . . . you get the idea. The thing I don’t get about the complainers is, if aging makes you feel unwell, how does grousing about it make you feel any better?

To all the glass-half-empty people out there, regardless of age, have you given any thought to how your verbal downers can possibly lift your spirits? If not, have you at least given thought to how the negative nature of your words infects all those around you, let alone the unnecessary hurt inflicted on those at whom your judgments might be aimed?

It’s been said in many ways, by many people far better than I, but I believe that thoughts become words, words become actions, actions become habits and habits become your life.

So if you must speak, choose the good thoughts before you open your mouth.

. . . . . . mid

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I'D RATHER LOSE MY CAR THAN MY PRIDE

I told my daughter, a stay at home mom to two of my four grandchildren, that she has to get out of the house more often. She told me that was the old mom calling the young mom stuck in a rut.

Since entering semi-retirement, I haven’t ventured far from the comforts of my country confines during these past winter months. I even managed to take all of my degree courses online this semester and the thirty-five mile trips to have lunch with a friend and do a little shopping have dwindled down to none.

Even the lure of spending less on groceries and other necessities doesn’t tempt me the way it does in summer months. But the recent warming temperatures that promise spring and hint at summer bring cabin fever. So when daughter called to say she had a childless afternoon on her hands,it was all the prodding I needed to agree to a chicks’ day out.

You know the chicks have been cooped up too long when they get lost in not one, but three shopping area parking lots.

My hubby tells me that the alarm on the key fob works like a charm for locating misplaced vehicles. Of course, that’s after he asks me why I don’t make a mental note of where I park when I get out of the car. His mistake is in assuming that I don’t. Like cheap sticky notes with inferior glue, my cerebral reminders just don’t stay put.

Besides, pressing that little button is way too close to having one of those "Help me I've fallen down and can't get up," alarms dangling around my neck.

I mentioned the car alarm trick to my daughter and she asked why I wasn’t pressing the button. What? And draw attention to my forgetfulness obviously brought on by advancing age?

She agreed that the two of us wandering around a parking lot shouting to each other from two lanes away didn’t draw attention. She gets her sarcasm from me.

“I guess you had your eyes closed when we parked.” I said.

She responded that she never pays attention to where she parks. Why would she? The vehicle her hubby and she chose to accommodate two active kids and all their trappings is so large she can spot it from a block away. I practically need a step ladder to climb into the monster and elevation nosebleeds can't be ruled out.

She can be smug now, but she only has a year left of her twenties. It won't be long before her eyesight goes the way of her size skinny jeans and she won't be able to rely on the crutch of clear vision any more.

Things change as we get older. We become more thoughtful, we develop a desire to make a difference, we hone in on the important things in life. I like to think that my preference to keep my business local is based in those maturing values.

Things have become less important to me than people. Community is like a family. I like chatting with my neighbor who works the checkout at the grocery store. I like seeing the familiar faces of the couple that owns the hardware. I like being greeted with a smile and called by name.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I could wind my way around any expressway cloverleaf, make a fast lane change to an exit or entrance ramp, and find an access road to arrive at the Mecca of a suburban shopping mall. Now, it just doesn’t seem worth the effort.

Okay, so maybe the truth is that I don’t like driving in “the big city”. But by navigating my way through the maze of traffic lanes and poorly planned parking lots of an urban shopping center, even one as tame as that in our nearest city, what can I find there that I can’t find closer to my rural home?

Obviously not my car.

. . . . . mid

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Some of you might notice that I run Google AD Sense on this blog. It’s making me fabulously wealthy  – NOT! Of course, one can’t disparage Google for that. I think it has more to do with my outstanding number of followers – more specifically, the lack thereof.

My college daughter recently posted an installment on the blog she started as a class assignment for critical writing. She didn’t waste any words in pointing out that the million or so bloggers looking for their fifteen-minutes of fame would do better to stop writing what they think people want to hear, and instead write their passionate, unvarnished, maybe even ugly, truth.

So, for now, I won’t worry about followers or fans, I’ll just try to write closer to the bone of my truth (not always easy when I know the whole fam damily is reading – oh well, sucks to be them.)

Back to Ad Sense. The idea is, that based on the blog post content, random ads for products and services that should interest my readers will display.  Clicks on the ads accumulate cents for me (cents, Ad Sense, get it?).

Let me just say that I never did this hoping to make money.

 Well, okay, I hoped that maybe I’d make some money from it, but I never really thought I would. Looks like I was right about that.

Anyway, I recently noticed a trend in the ads that are displaying.  Weight loss products would be the nice thing to say, but these are blatant  LOOSE BELLY FAT ads.  Then there are the sales pitches for anti wrinkle creams and cosmetic dermatology.

One installment netted me an ad for Goddess Dresses.  Now that’s what I’m talking about! Just one nagging little detail though – it was on a post that contained a picture of my middle daughter and two of her diva friends at their high school prom. Hhmmm.

Where are the ads for cruises to the Greek Isles?  How about luxury health spas, Jaguar sedans and little blue boxes from Tiffany’s?

What on earth did I write that netted me the ads for a popular piney-scented cleaning solution and another well known germ destroying spray.  Yikes!

Okay, maybe I understand the ad for a marriage counselor practicing in my neighboring state. I do rant about the institution of marriage now and again. But am I to glean from this situation that some powers that be, sitting on their sweat-pants clad butts in ergonomically correct chairs at Google headquarters, are presuming that my readers are an unhappy bunch of, germaphobic, desperate housewives who shop
for their daughters prom dresses in the mini-diva, designer department?

Goddess! How depressing is that?

Here I was thinking that my audience was made up of strong, confident, self assured women setting their worlds on fire and dancing across their bridges one step ahead of the flames.

I apologize, dear, loyal (few) readers.  I’ll try, in future, to follow my daughter’s advice and give you a little something to set it off.

. . . . . mid

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THE DEVIL MADE ME GET FAT.

 I haven't done any holiday baking yet, 'cause - you know . . .in our midlife and beyond house, sugar, butter,chocolate and taste have all taken on a four letter pseudonym - EVIL.

Did you ever notice the connection between evil and devil (or good and God for that matter?  Think about it.).

Anyway, these things are evil in our house, the devil incarnate that makes my hips blossom and fills my hubbie’s already clogged arteries with more plaque.  They are taboo, forbidden, off limits . . .  

 

 . . . tantalizing little temptations promising to delight my taste buds and satisfy my tummy in a way that indulgences of the non-food variety could never do.

Oops.  Sorry.

But it’s the holiday’s right?  We need to indulge a little.  If my husband croaks any time soon, I guess you can blame me for taking a week or so off from my food-police duties.

I'm beginning to get an idea of how Eve felt, branded throughout time as the inadequate mate who fed her hubby the wrong thing and cast him into abject misery outside his happy little life in the garden.   Uh, he heard the Word too.  Think he might have been capable of saying, "No thank you, Eve.  I'll pass on the apples."

This afternoon, I’m whipping up some of my Aunt Mug’s (Margaret if you must) Toffee Squares.  Auntie Mugs was a Buxom Babe.

A few days ago I started contemplating the word buxom.  While it technically refers to a womanly part of the anatomy that lies above the waist, I believe it’s general implication is of a shapely women in the Reubanesque style.  Let's face it, for the most part, assuming nature is the underlying architect, if the womanly figure is full up top then chances are good she's shapely at the belly and hips as well.

What’s not to love about that?

(FYI, Mattel leveled a "cease and desit order against that ad campaign)

Or this?

Finally, a wonder woman archetype to which I can live up - uhm, out? (I didn't find any information of Marvel Comics requesting a cease and desist on this one.)

And since I’ll be parking my buxomness in Florida soon, for a whole month of decadent deck lounging . . .

how about this?
I like her, she reminds me a lot of the Queen of Cups card in my Tarot deck.
(click on the pic to see more beautiful, one of a kind creations at the artist's website)

This Goddess is growing weary of the pursuit of perfection to be had in a size 8 mini skirt.  I think for the new year, I’ll resolve to embrace by rubenesqueness  (I made that derivation up.  I like the way it sounds) and free the buxom babe I am meant to be.

Now, that's a plan I can wrap my mind around, if not my arms.

. . . . . . mid

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SHOW ME THE WAY TO SHAMBALA

I’m an eternal optimist – always looking for a silver lining. I turn the other cheek with a firm belief that I won’t get slapped a second time, I believe that good triumphs over evil and I’m sure that a positive outlook is half the battle.

Take this current economic downturn. Could it possibly have a more optimistic label? What our grandparents called a Great Depression, our parents called a Recession. Leave it to the Baby Boomers to call it an economic downturn, just a little obstacle along The Road to Shambala.

Or perhaps, it’s a redirection from the detour that had us traveling the fast lane to play-now-pay-later, where the credit card companies set the pace in a pied piper’s parade.

Maybe as a midlifer unafraid to sieze opportunity, you were on the route to early retirement with a high yield, high stakes, quick return investment portfolio. That didn't exactly turn out the way we'd hoped.

If there is any good that can come from this financial crash, I am hopeful that it is the return of a couple of old concepts – cash and carry and slow and steady.

When my parents passed on a few years ago, they left a house full of furniture, appliances and electronics. I’m not talking faded flora sofas, an avocado refrigerator or the old Hi-Fi record player. In my mother’s life-long quest to remain young at heart, she refused to let her lifestyle, or her home, date her. At eighty-plus years old, Mother still took every chance available to redecorate, rearrange and restock.

I was often the recipient of this or that piece of furniture or some small appliance, which she told my father I needed. Usually, it was indeed something I could use. The fact that my mother then purchased the new and improved version (or maybe just a different color) certainly didn’t negate her generosity and resulted in a houseful of some pretty good loot at the end of my parent’s days.

When that day arrived, being firmly ensconced in middle age with all the accompanying accoutrements, my siblings and I wanted little more than a few keepsake pieces. With six adult-on-their-own-children among us, we opened the house up to free shopping. Three floors of inventory was reduced by a few glass end tables, a bed frame and some small kitchen appliances.

Then came the estate sale. We couldn’t give the stuff away. Two, almost new 27” televisions finally sold for $10 a piece – to go in a cabin on the lake (this was long before anybody knew about the digital change to come). We did manage to give a computer away, just to save us the disposal fee.

I’m not trying to imply the stuff was worth a fortune. I was just shocked that there weren’t young people anxious, dare I say grateful, to find a kitchen table with four matching chairs for $25. They spend that much to go to a movie or have a manicure.

And then I got it. They can’t shop estate sales with a credit card – that little, magic piece of plastic that allows them to purchase a new kitchen set at three times the price, for the promise of making a payment less than half of what we were asking.

Except now, too many people are realizing they’ll be making that payment for the rest of their natural life-time. Or that all of their pre-tax dollars invested for fast growth, fat retirement accounts, might have been better kept in a simple (FDIC insured) savings account – or maybe used to pay cash for all their stuff.

So where is my bright side? First, there’s the satisfaction, of course. As a parent who never stopped nagging her kids about the dangers of accumulating credit card debt, I have the time honored privilege of saying “I told you so.”

Second, these financial challenges we face are forcing all of us, across generations, to take a look at what’s important in life.

We have to ask ourselves, is that bigger house with granite countertops and quarried-tile floors, an SUV or the latest electronic, virtual experience game worth the price owed in the end? Do my children or grandchildren really have to go to Disney World?

How about the simple pleasures of life? How about having time to spend with family? How about a day at the State or County Park (there are plenty to choose from around the Twin Ports area).

Instead of granite and tile – a weather worn picnic table and sand will do just fine. Let’s actually throw a ball, jump rope or just play tag, instead of exercising a joy-stick. As for Disney World, we saved, we went, we saw. In my opinion it’s overcrowded, overpriced and overrated.

As Dorothy discovered, if you can’t find happiness in your own back yard, you won’t find it Oz, or for that matter, Disney World, Shambala or anywhere else. And as we are all discovering in the aftermath of easy payment plans, the more you own, the more you owe and off to work you go, and go and go.

. . . . . . mid
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CAUGHT IN MY MIDLIFE MICROSCOPE

Recently I was asked to read some of my essays to a group of women from middle age through golden years. About half way into the gig, I noticed that many of them looked like frightened deer frozen in the glare of oncoming headlights.

I realized that they had never heard another woman speak about mid-life frustrations with such candor - well not publicly at least. I admit it - I’m not one to mince my words these days.

One woman asked me if I’ve ever regretted anything I’ve written or said publicly. No. I haven’t. I dare to say out loud:

• Marriage isn’t perfect and is sometimes a hellofalota work. Oh my!
• Kid’s aren’t perfect and they are most times a hellofalotta work. Oh my!
• There are things about my husband I don’t like. Oh my!
• There are things about my kids I will never understand! Oh my.
• There are days I wish I had no husband and no children and I could just go where the wind blows me! Oh my!
• My humor is sometimes (okay, most of the time) sarcastic. Oh my!

"Doesn't your husband take offense to what you say?" an audience member asked me.

My husband doesn’t read this stuff but all of my children do. Some of my words get spit back out in conversation. I’m sure they all wish I would retire to my rocker with my knitting and crossword puzzles. Instead I get up on my soapbox and poke holes in the pretty bubbles of familial dysfunction.

51 lashes with a wet noodle to me – one for every year I have dared to live and not be always perfect, or always kind, or always understanding. After I’ve taken my lashes and paid my debt to society, might I be able to presume I’ve earned the right to believe that as an adult women, nobody has the god-given or any other kind of right to tell me what I should do, what I should think or what I can say? Might I go one step further and presume that any sane woman would get pissed off when she is told those things.

We all live and love, we all laugh and we all cry. As women we all share our joys and sorrows, our ups and our downs with the people in our lives. We do it over a cup of coffee at a friend’s kitchen table, with the phone in hand late at night, in an email or maybe in a blog. I write what I know, what I live.

I could be mistaken (it seems nobody is talking about this), but I think I have also said . .

• I love life and I love sharing it with my husband, children and grandchildren.
• I have thoroughly enjoyed being a mom and I couldn’t be prouder of my daughters.
• I am proud of all my accomplishments – those I’ve achieved on my own and those I’ve worked at with my husband.
• I won’t give up on my future happiness no matter how far out to sea my ship may be. And if it springs a leak, I only hope my loved ones are willing to keep bailing with me.

I have no interest in telling other people how they should live, but I certainly do hold an interest in telling them how I would like to be treated - or not treated as the case might be.

If any of you are fans of the Red Green Show on PBS, then you know the mans’ prayer (my husband hates whenever I bring this up). “I’m a man, but I can change, if I have to, I guess.”

Then there are the women. We have spent a life time giving to and taking care of everybody we love and for some reason we can’t quite figure out, they haven’t put us up on a pedestal like a queen. In fact, they kind of stomp all over us like a door-step. Can’t say I blame them. We’ve trained them to be well taken care of. The more we give and do, the more they come to expect it.

I would offer this as the woman’s prayer: “I’m a woman and I just know that if I work hard enough and keep right on trying, I can make everybody around me happy and they will treat me wonderfully. I just haven’t done enough yet – or maybe I haven’t done it right yet, but I’ll just keep trying, I guess, until I get it right.”

And then one day, we become MAD Goddess women. We become exhausted. Finally, we are transformed into that fury for which hell hath no comparison.

“I am a MAD Goddess woman and I am not required to contribute to the happiness of any person – husband, child, parent, friend or co-worker, who refuses to participate in manifesting my happiness as well.”

Think of it as a see-saw. It doesn’t work if each one of you isn’t lifting the other one up.

. . . . . . mid
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CIRCUS WORLD, HERE I COME

I’m sipping creative juices from my fellow blogger and kindred spirit over at Ann’s Rants. I noticed that a recent post had the label “circus freak”. She was recalling some of her on-stage theatrical moments and the attending get-ups.

I can relate, that's me on the right (and, no, I'm not a natural blond but, yes, I was chewing gum and blowing a bubble when that photo was snapped). I’ve been performing in community theater for over 20 years. My costumes always consist of wild wigs, garish clothing that generally shines or glitters, gaudy beads and feather boas. People always seem not to believe when they ask, “Where did you find that get-up?” and I tell them it came from my closet.

For me, community theater is an excuse to dress up and act out – all on account of an altar ego that’s been lurking inside me for as long as I can remember. Now, the older I get, the closer she comes to the center ring.

When I was a kid, one of my favorite Dr. Seuss books was “If I Ran the Circus.” I wasn’t so much interested in running the circus as running away with it. I thought living in a wagon (okay, an RV) and traveling across the country with a band of equally eccentric make believers would be the life for me. No worries about acting a fool or past regrets ‘cause I'd always be leaving town the next day. Goodbye cruel world, I’m off to join the circus!

My ancestors hail from south-central Europe. (The ruling governments and borders in the region have changed so frequently, let’s just say north of Greece and East of Romania). Wanderlust runs like blood in my veins. I just know I’d be a hit with the circus as the mysterious, veiled fortune teller.

Can you say, “Cross my palms with silver.”

I’d probably have a thang goin’on with the lion tamer. I’ve always wanted a pet tiger.

I almost made the break one day, back when I was very much stuck in the middle of my child raising years (talk about a three ring circus). My oldest was out of the nest but still ruffling my feathers. The middle child was testing her wings now that big sister’s shadow wasn’t blocking her time in the sun anymore, and the youngest was, well, young - and I was tired.

A tiny little circus came to visit our tiny little town on a warm September weekend. In fact, I will never forget because it was the Labor Day weekend that Princess Di – died, proving that there are no real fairy tales and contrary to having it all, the best we can hope for is make believe.

I dragged myself from beneath the covers where I’d retreated after the last exhausting battle with oldest child. Daddy, toddler and I trotted off to see the show.

At intermission, the ring master (a woman – fyi) announced that they would be paying for help to take down the tents and pack up the show after the last performance. Then she said the thing that made my heart stop. “If anybody has ever dreamed of running away with the circus, now's your chance.”

My brain and mouth connected so fast there was no stopping the words that leaped from my lips. I jumped right up, right in front of the tiny population of our tiny little town, raised my hand as high as it would go and shouted “I want to go!” Visualizing it in hindsight now, I must have looked like that clumsy, pigeon-toed, knock-kneed kid that never gets picked when choosing teams. “Pick me. Pick me! OH Please! Pick me!"

My daughter looked up at me with a mix of terror and hurt feelings bringing tears to her eyes. ‘Mommy." Her little chin quivered. "You can’t join the circus – you’re my mommy!”

She was right. The saw dust and smell of greasepaint would have to wait until she at least graduated from high school . . . which happened two years ago this May! Last summer I bought a 1970-something travel trailer. My husband doesn’t believe me when I tell him I’m going to paint Gypsy Woman on the side in letters two feet tall.

Oh ya, and the best thing about circus folk? They have their very own world in Baraboo, Wisconsin and they winter in Florida baby.

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GET A ^ LIFE at MAD Goddess

THE OLDER BUT WISER WOMAN

I am not a teacher by profession, but I have held many positions in which I work with young adults (or older teenagers if you will). They are a mixed lot, just like any segment of society. Today, I was confronted by a particularly vocal young woman who apparently has everything in her life figured out and needs no help. She answered my queries with “Got that covered,” before I could even finish the question.

She needs no guidance on job interviews because she’s has secured every job she's applied for – two. She needs no suggestions on how to polish her presentation (first impressions you know) because she has spoken in front of an audience and she knows all that stuff - she just doesn’t like it. Her future is entirely secure because she is joining the service after she graduates and she believes (I’m assuming, because I grew weary of trying to ask her questions which she wouldn't let me finish) that our government is currently stable and safe enough to provide her with everything she will ever want or need.

It’s okay. I know that I, too, once thought I had the world by the tail – though I can emphatically state that I was never as flippant and rude as this young woman. Still, it’s okay, because even though you think you know it all and I really know you don’t, I won’t bother trying to explain it to you. Life will do a bang up job of making it all too clear.

Some day you are going to be 50 (or older) like me. You will have experienced love and heartbreak many times, because even if you stay with your first love for the rest of your life, you will break each others hearts in various ways both big and small .

You will have won more jobs, or assignments, and you will have lost some.

You will have lost friends – to time, distance and death.

Perhaps you will have raised children. If so, you will have experienced even more heartbreak - in ways you can’t begin to imagine. You will better understand your parents and you might finally respect them. If not, at least you will have arrived at a peaceful existence with them. Hopefully this will happen before they die.

You will know what true fear is when you have to let your child go – out into the world to cross the street, to make friends, to go to school, to live life – because life is fraught with very real dangers and you can’t watch them 24/7.

If you have children, you will also have had the privilege of knowing the highest and most pure love that exists in this world. You will have experienced a sense of pride that you were certain would burst your heart.

I hope that you will not yet have suffered the loss of a sibling, as I have. I hope that you will never bury a child of your own, like my husband and I have.

Some day you will be older and wiser and will realize how totally clueless you are now. You may even wonder why some adult didn’t smack you in the head for the way you are acting now. That much I will explain. It’s because we are older and wiser than you.

SARAH PALIN IS NOT EVERY WOMAN

The Republican Party plucked Sarah Palin from obscurity and served her up on a platter as super woman-mom-politico. Her meteoric rise over the national landscape is far less due to any political acumen than it is to her own blind ambition.

Her supporters like to say that she is “Every Woman”, meaning (I think) that she represents the common every day mother and working woman. I am a mother, grandmother and working woman. Sarah Palin does not represent me in any of those aspects. She does not represent my best interests in areas of the economy, education or family values.

Really? What kind of values is a mother teaching when she delivers almost her entire acceptance speech, in front of her children, from a bully – or lipsticked pit bull’s pulpit? Our schools are enacting zero tolerance on bullying – why isn’t Sarah Palin demonstrating that family value?

She certainly does not represent the advancement of women’s concerns in America. I fear that what she does represent for women is the worst of gender-biased, stereotypical character traits that have kept women from breaking that glass ceiling for so long. Sarah Palin is not every woman, but every woman has known someone like her. If you are her friend, you are golden. Just don’t oppose her or stand in the way of her ambition unless you want to feel that proverbial knife in your back

It seems an astute blogger has discovered the facts in the book banning, librarian firing myth. “Turns out Sarah requested the librarians -- who was a big supporter of Sarah's political opponent -- resignation before she ever broached the subject of a potential book boycott.”

I have two thoughts about that. First, as an elected government official, Palin is sworn to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States of America – including all amendments in place. A move on her part to ban or otherwise remove books from a public library is a direct freedom of speech violation. Private citizens can question and take proper channels to remove materials that may be deemed objectionable – but Sarah Palin is no longer a private citizen.

Second, her effort to fire the librarian who didn’t support her during her campaign and/or in areas of ethics (and when she became Governor – a cop who wouldn’t cooperate with her very private, family agenda), is abuse of power. If that's not bad enough, it is divisive and reminiscent of the high-school-girl-drama antics most adult women have long since abandoned.

Sarah Palin has used her power to repeatedly advance her own agendas, often times in opposition to her ticket’s slogan – County (substitute neighborhood, town or state) First. She won her mayoral election with the promise to rebuild her town’s crumbling infrastructure. Instead, the self described “hockey mom” pushed through the building of a multi-use sports complex (big ice arena) that one citizen describes as a “huge money pit”. When she took office in Wasilla, Alaska “she inherited a city with zero debt.” Despite raising the amount of city collected taxes by 38%, “she left it with an indebtedness of over $22 million.”

Her new battle cry is for drilling in the Alaskan Wilderness. Whether this is a wise move or not, remains to be determined. It has the potential to provide short-term relief from the burden of rising energy costs in America. It also carries the threat of allowing us to become overly complacent in our continuing dependence of oil, thus pushing the advancement of new energy technologies to the back burner once again. It also contributes to the growing concern of greenhouse gasses and global warming, all of which is not the future I want for my grandchildren – even if it would make my tank of gas more affordable now.

Also, consider her motives for drilling in light of the fact that their family income has never come from her husband’s commercial fishing business. He works a high-paying union job on the North Slope for BP which allows him the flexibility to take a few months each summer for fishing.

In a move straight out of Pygmalion, Sarah Palin is being packaged as something she is not, nor ever has been – a common woman driven to public service. She might know how to talk the talk, but it seems she is barely beyond baby steps in learning to walk the walk.