Dad

My father was the best dancer.  He loved playing his Big Band albums on the hulking stereo system that lived in the living room.  He would grab me up and with patience and happiness he taught me how to be his dance partner.

I think he found freedom when he danced. To this day I am told by his friends from childhood what a great dancer he was.  As a teenager, to me weddings meant more than a couple's nuptials. They were when my father and I could spread out on the huge wooden dance floor and have fun.  I couldn't help but have a silly grin plastered on my face whenever we did that because he had one on his face, too.  The last time we danced at a wedding he took my hand as we walked out onto the dance floor and cautioned me that he could probably safely only manage one dance.  He had had a couple of heart attacks and heart surgery.  He was outliving the doctor's predictions but he was feeling his physical limitations more acutely.  

We got out on the floor and once again entered the world we created together with music and steps.  I knew when to turn, when to look for his hand, what he would do next.  The moments we danced together were golden.  My best memories are of those times.  I can still feel his cheek pressed against mine.  I can still smell his cologne.

Being his daughter was not always easy so when, after not making it out of his last surgery in 1992, he passed on, I didn't cry.

He is buried very close to where I live.  I drive past him every day commuting to and from work.  When I think about it I wave and turn my head in his direction and say, "Hi, Dad!"  This afternoon on my way to run errands, I visited his grave.

I parked, turned off the car, and reached for a stone of sorts that I had found at the beach a while back and was still located near the cup holder.  I was getting choked up as I swung the car door open and got out.  It had been a couple of years since I was last there and I meandered a bit as I headed in the direction I knew to be correct.  Tears were running down my face as I looked and when I saw his name I started sobbing.  As is Jewish custom, I crouched down and put the stone from the beach on his tombstone.  The sobbing and the tears kept coming.  Standing up, taking off my sunglasses, wiping my eyes, still crying.  It took 22 years but finally the anger was gone.  My heart could break for the father I lost way too soon.

No Waste

Rickety tickety tock
Blickety flickety flock
Running around, arms on a clock

Blippety flippety flop
Strippety mippety mop
Running hard
Heart wanting to pop

Racing, keep pacing
Flying, keep trying
Speeding forward ahead of the line

Fingers gripping the life
Out of life
Squeezing, forcing the seeds of
Despair, disdain, dislike, distaste
No waste

My Bedroom

My Bedroom

How strange is it that my bedroom, at 53 years of age, looks like it could also be a 16 year old's?  I guess it is okay since otherwise I am a responsible adult.  The bills get paid on time, I go to work where I am a conscientious employee, and the oil in my car gets changed as recommended by the sticker on the windshield.  

I like to play.  I certainly don't feel my age although there are times when I feel 100.  Have you noticed that my lamps don't match?

  

I am an Introvert

I am introverted.  I talk only when I feel that what I have to say is something of substance.  I will add my input only when there is a large enough lull in the conversation as barging in with my two cents is uncomely.  I will make small talk when the situation forces me into it but am very uncomfortable doing so.  I usually end up kicking myself under the table because of the stupid things that Hai Karate themselves out of my mouth attacking the listener in the brain.  More often than not I walk away from the conversation feeling like a moron.

A couple of years ago I was talking with a co-worker and he started to chuckle.  As far as I knew nothing funny was said so I asked him about it.  He very bluntly stated, "You are Sheldon."  For those of you that watch The Big Bang Theory, this needs no explanation.  For those of you that don't watch the show, Google it.

It's weird.  Half of the population thinks I am charming and gets a kick out of me.  The other half are offended by me.  I am actually much less introverted than I used to be.  As a teenager, in social situations it was hard for anyone to get two sentences out of me.  As a young adult, when I went out on my first date with my soon to be husband, he carried the whole conversation all night.  As an adult, I find that I gravitate towards the more outgoing and forthright individuals as they allow me to be me without thinking that I hate them.  I think these types of people find me soothing to be around because while at times I may be a horrible talker, I am always an excellent listener.  Just don't abuse my ears or my patience because while I can be quiet, it doesn't mean I am enthralled or, to the contrary, not being thoughtful, analytic, and empathetic.  Quoting a friend, "Don't let this dumb look on my face fool you."

In a world where being outgoing, friendly, and the life of the party is extolled, us introverts get a bad rap.  Our quietness can be intimidating, unnerving, and misunderstood.  Oppositely, we find those that jump on tables and swing from the ceiling fans gives us cause for burrowing even deeper into our protective shell.

Lastly, please don't confuse introversion with being shy.  I have no problem walking up to you, shaking hands, and introducing myself.  I am unafraid of being judged.  I just find large social situations to be way too stimulating.  For further information on the difference, please click on this link:

http://www.thepowerofintroverts.com/2011/07/05/are-you-shy-introverted-both-or-neither-and-why-does-it-matter/

I once lamented to a friend that I wished I could be more extroverted.  She said to me, "If we all were talkers, who would be there to listen?"

Now let's all channel Julie Andrews and sing, "Getting to know you, getting to know all about you, getting to like you, getting to hope you like me....."

Rules do apply to you, too.

Yesterday morning Poppy and I were in the car waiting for the light to change from red to green.  We were just starting the drive from home to Mom's house, as we typically do on Sundays.

I was the one driving and Poppy would soon start the battle of wills as he believes he should help.  He has full access to look out the passenger side window but instead pointedly tries to cram himself between the steering wheel and me.  Placing his front paws on the steering wheel and his butt on my stomach, he uses my chest to lean back on.  This way he is able to comfortably see the activities in front and to both sides of the car.  This is important to him as he polices the other drivers and with either silence or barking delegates them to either the "Good Driver" or "Bad Driver" categories.  I'm not sure what the parameters are, but he's got the checklist memorized.

This is the first light I encounter when leaving my house.  It is also the longest light on the planet.  I have sat in front of this light for 2 minutes anticipating moving my foot from the brake pedal to the gas.  It really is 2 minutes long.  I have timed it.  This is FOREVER especially on work days!  It is also teeth grinding when you are car number 5 and car number 4 is being driven by Mr. Slow MoFo who takes a 1/2 an hour to move then another 1/2 an hour to make a right hand turn causing you to have to sit through the light again.  The good news is that recently there was a pneumatic road tube counter laid across the road so that traffic volume could be counted and since last week the light doesn't last more than 1 minute tops so just as I am ready to break out into hives from the anticipation the light changes.

It is about 10 am when Poppy and I are at the red light trying to be patient.  We feel pretty good because he knows we are going to see Teddy, the terrier, at Nana's house and I have the upcoming week off of work.  A pedestrian starts to cross the street in the designated crosswalk and then the light turns green.  Depending on the walker's speed, I may have to sit through this light again.  Eventually he makes his way to the other side of the street and the light is still green!  Foot on gas, moving forward, making our way into the intersection and then movement in my peripheral vision causes me to look to my left.  I am still moving forward.  I look up and check.  Yes, my light is green which means the opposing traffic should be stopped at a red light....which they are.  All of the cars are stopped.  What the hell?  It is a bicyclist running a red light.  RUNNING A RED LIGHT.  He is peddling bent over his handle bars in his bicyclist helmet and tight uniform ignoring the red light.

Without braking, he corrects his trajectory and scoots behind me.  What if there was someone behind me?  I continue driving and look in my review mirror while calling this person all kinds of names from the benign moron to more colorful adjectives.  I am experiencing the after-terror adrenaline shakes and my breathing is jagged.  I have to loosen my grip on the wheel and as I come back to being present in the moment I look for Poppy with my hand to check on him.  Sensing something upsetting just happened, he is quiet and his ears are folded down submissively.  I talk to him and tell him everything is okay and he recovers much more quickly than I.  I could have killed that man.

I don't understand why bicyclists don't think the traffic laws apply to them and this is where I get judgmental only because it has been my experience.  It seems that the ones that ride the expensive bikes with the fancy outfits are also the ones that think they are above the rules.  The thick-wheeled bikes being ridden by people in street clothes normally align themselves with traffic. I have even seen them get off of their bikes to walk them across the intersections.

This man put his life in danger and he also could have ruined mine.  For Pete's sake, bicyclists, when you decide to ride in downtown traffic, obey the traffic rules!  I hope what happened had an impact on him but I am not counting on it.  If he didn't learn this time then it wouldn't surprise me the lesson is put in front of him again.

You never have to ask

You never have to ask your dog how much he or she loves you.

Poppy snuggling with Senator

Mom

My mother and I have not been close our whole lives.  It isn't until the past year that we've found peace.  There has always been some kind of weird behavior from my mother towards me that she has a hard time controlling.  She has admitted to it on and off through the past 10 years most recently about three months ago.  She has apologized to me again and again for "not being nice to me" and I know that a large part of it is that she feels that if she had loved me properly and treated me kindly I would not be in the position I am in now.

One of my earliest memories of my mother is when I was somewhere around 4 years old.  I was in the front yard playing while she was taking a nap on the couch in the living room.  This was the early '60s in a small town at a time when it was safe to let your kid do that.  Being curious, I observed a bee a little too closely as it went about it's business in the bushes and I got stung.  Crying, I ran into the house to my mother asking for solace and help. Instead I was told to go back outside and play.  Everything was fine.

I no longer experience emotional pain when I recall this.  With age comes acceptance plus my mother has apologized enough.  She is 79 and I don't want her to be awash in guilt.

The position I am in now is I am making 36% less money in Florida than I did in Baltimore. I live in a house where 95% of the windows are painted shut and the ones that I can open don't stay open unless there is something propped up keeping them that way.  There are termites and the bedroom carpeting, despite my vacuuming efforts, is a luxury spa for fleas.  Since last fall my landlord has promised he will tent the house.

The appliances were new in the '70s except for the microwave that my landlord replaced last year.
Since the old one was part of a stove/oven/microwave combo, the new one sits on a table in the kitchen.

Because I left my abusive alcoholic ex-husband who wouldn't allow the 40 some odd potential buyers into the house I used to own to view it to make a possible $40,000 profit, I have been in the foreclosure process and have been notified I owe a lot of money despite the auctioning off of the house that was a couple thousand short of the asking price.

Getting back to my mother.  I routinely call her on my drive home from work.  It keeps me awake after a long day,  the hour long drive seems shorter, and I can give her the time she wants.  As we were talking yesterday afternoon, Poppy's allergies came up which was followed by the subject of fleas and termites.  My mother with a voice choked with emotion said, "I can't believe a child of mine is living this way."  I told her it was okay and I wasn't ashamed to live where I do.  Of course I wish I was living somewhere nicer but in the end we all die and we can't take it with us.  Whatever we do in our present lives will end and some day we will be back and I hope the next life, having learned what I have in this life, will be cushier.

I have lived through cancer and decisions I made hoping they would patch-up emotional wounds.  I no longer raise my fists in response to fists being raised at me.  I can admit to imperfection without losing my sense of self.  I can cry without feeling less than.  I can feel weak or strong without guilt and/or the sense that I am letting someone down or carrying them.  The only expectations I aim to fulfill are my own; the ones I set for myself.

I love my mother and I accept her.  She is not going to change and she loves me with all of her heart as best she can.  I am going to enjoy and cherish her and sometimes grit my teeth because of her but I will do it until I don't have her anymore.