Currently Browsing: Silly I Tell You
Mar 30, 2015
The sainted shrub did not resurrect itself this Spring. As I suspected, I had killed my birthday present to myself. The forever lusted after beautyberry bush, with its sumptuous purple berries clustered up and down its languorous limbs, was decidedly dead and was probably doomed to be yard waste from the moment I laid eyes on it last September at the Adkin’s Arboretum’s native plant sale.
I blamed it on last October not being as rainy as I needed it to be. The truth was that I didn’t remember to water my special shrub enough. It died of thirst right there is its driveway grave, expensive and neglected. I really hadn’t wanted the bush to die, I was just busy keeping a toddler alive and in check inside. So last week, I ceremoniously yanked the beautyberry’s carcass from that specially dug hole and surreptitiously tossed it over the side of our yard. I was pulling the band-aid off quickly to avoid the constant pain of staring at its dead shell in my driveway anymore.
I have a self-proclaimed brown thumb. Not as if the pre-Spring weather last year didn’t make it that much worse when a final frost killed this giant Lady Rose shrub above and my rosemary bush plus took the fig and hydrangeas down to the ground. Yes, I had help putting my garden into their present shambles. But somewhere along the way, I lost heart too.
Before the children became my omnipresent purpose, I spent hours and hours outside playing in the dirt of my house’s 9 flower beds. I have horrible luck with plants but what did survive managed to make me feel kinda good. Now I go out and all I feel is overwhelmed and like a failure. Worse, I do things like leave perfectly good planters and pots out in the weather to freeze and crack. Nothing can escape my doomed touch. Neglect and decay and ruin seem to be my decorating theme outside.
Thankfully, my husband Mark has gotten the planting bug and I watched him practice his own garden therapy last year when he lost his father to congestive heart failure. Gardening was really so very good for his soul as was the ritual distribution of his bounty. I hope to be back to gardening again some day. But until that day, I’ll try not to think about my garden.
Of course, this is also me hoping that those of you out there who love digging in dirt and like me, can find pity enough in your hearts to help me out of my dark doomed garden place. Anyone? Perhaps your name starts with M?
Mar 27, 2015
When I forget what I’ve been up and how much I appreciate my writing, I end up reading something and remembering.
I felt very privileged to have written this piece entitled My Face for the Talbotspy.org here. In honor of its three-year anniversary, I’m republishing it on my blog. Enjoy the fun read.
If you met me at a party, you’d notice my laugh is the loudest. I’m extremely social. Yet this fun time Charlotte has had a whole lotta nada for the social networking. I figured Twittling and My-facing were perfect ways of busily avoiding intimacy like the plague. I wanted no part of that universe made of desperate ego maniacs with short attention spans. The over reaction gave away the doubt beneath.
Like so many people of a certain age, I defensively declared I had no need for this Facebook phenomenon. Perhaps this was a knee jerk reaction to new-fangled technology making me feel stupid. Both fear of the unknown or of assimilation by the Borg are still fears. I have heard many fearful declarations to this specific anti-alliance. And sometimes we encounter our destiny on the way to avoiding it.
I was writing and publishing articles online and chose to rise to a new terrifying challenge of creating my blog. I fully understood I needed to socially network for this cause. And I was anxious. This was the ego-maniacal unnecessary and unacceptable activity. And my precious privacy was hard-earned. But I was seduced by the ability to pontificate to an enraptured audience. My ego “liked” this. Therein lay the carrot.
I asked my (very popular on Facebook) friend to convince me to join Facebook. She said flatly, “Three years from now, Social networking will be a given and this conversation would be ludicrous.” Just do it. Everybody’s doing it. She reassured me no one could see or speak with me there without my permission. Vampires need an invitation to come in.
So my angst and I joined the Facebook extravaganza on Friday May 20th, 2011, at around 2PM. I was typing away about my fab self in my profile when, Wham! , I get a friend request… from an ex-boyfriend? One of these search buttons must be for all the people you’ve schtooped. I don’t hate this guy but I had no plans to ‘party hardy’ ever again in a tavern of his choice. I rode out the panic and nausea and you know what I did then? I “friended” him. Because that was what this exercise in mass marketing and conquering fears was all about.
I returned to the FB flame on Saturday, finally found the link back in my spam folder, and, Wham! , it happened again. My all-time biggest crush ever from long ago and far away was requesting my friendship. My present husband was the long awaited exception to this boy who gave me hope when I wanted to give up on men altogether. I felt guilty for even reading the benign message from crush-man. In a ten minute span, I went from stunned to giddy to devastated. Of course he was married and had two beautiful children. I shut the computer down. Either these Facebook people were a specific kind of crazy or I was missing something.
I queried fellow members about the true meaning of the Facebook “friend”. Die hard FBers were bewildered by my bewilderment. It was a true friend who said she too had been freaked out initially when she joined. Now it’s her nighttime ritual. She kindly added that, in an ideal world, I would be allowed my fantasy crush forever. So it’s still me, I thought. I endeavored to try again and to pursue this friend-making thing with zeal.
After a month, crush-man became a human being. As his real life continually popped up on my news feed, I was able to release him from my heart to his happiness. Simultaneously and slowly, I sent “friend requests” to people from schools, social gatherings, neighborhoods, and workplaces of my past and present. As I connected with more people, I began to see my real deal.
This precious privacy I’d clung to and coddled was also known as isolation with a capital ‘I’. I‘d chosen to hide my life, ashamed for growing old and fat because, you know, I was the only one getting old and fat. Who’s crazy enough to deliver themselves on a silver platter for the judgment of the free world? Apparently me.
I had worried about dredging up past resentments with this reconnection with people from my past. Instead, I found myself cheered by them. Our lives connected in unexpected ways. I caught important news I would have missed, like the birth of one friend’s twins and the loss of a beloved old cat for another. Snail mail cards went out immediately. I saw that Facebook is friendship “light”, a safe way of sharing without having to invest much. Showing up outside of this medium is how you solidify the “real” friendships.
As similar pieces of a larger machine, we need to connect to fellow human beings. I recognized how it’s not always about me as the interconnected web of humanity was scrolling up my screen. This online community cleverly coaxes people out of dark corners, away from the whisper of past shames, to a place where they are empowered to speak and be heard. I was blown away by the hope this deceivingly simplistic medium brought into my life.
Gratefully, I reconnected with the used-to-be-me, one person at a time in a memory lane parade of where I’ve been and who I’ve become. I missed the girl these people seemed to still think well of, or at least didn’t dislike. Today, I’m still timid at requesting the friendships of complete strangers but I’m gaining courage. Remember, I have a baby blog I have to feed.
When the next ex-boyfriend found me, I was ready. I asked why he had friended me and he professed he wanted to see if I was doing well. I sensed he also wanted to show me how well he was doing. Maybe, when they put my name in that search box, my ex-boyfriends sought the closure and self-forgiveness I had yet to seek. Or maybe I was a good schtooper. I am good with either possibility.
Feb 23, 2015
Each of us is a storyteller. We tell our tales to our friends with big belly laughs over beers at our Summer Barbeques. We tell our children tales of our memories from our childhood about spinach and bullies. And we tell ourselves stories about our competency and our past woes and our futures possibilities.
Everyone is entitled to tell their story. Right, wrong, half told or badly told, it is still yours to tell however you want to. And in doing so you can keep what you love and edit the heck out of the rest. It’s yours to tell and yours to rewrite.
But yesterday, I realized there’s a third choice. You can embellish. You can create a magic that you didn’t have before with details that may be slightly true but add a lot of pizzazz.
Eamon had to fill out a questionnaire that asked what his favorite food/snack was. He said he didn’t really know. Then Mark said he was in a seminar yesterday where everyone was asked to give a highlight of their life. He said “being a Dad” but realized that was kinda boring but he had just blanked out. He said he could have mentioned touring the world with the Michael Jackson History tour.
I thought about how there’s a culture of personality online where you see people condensed to their absolutes. They have fabulous catch words such as Kelly Rae’s “possibilitarian”. They have edited pictures and manicured lives. Meanwhile and comparatively, we feel so dull, we don’t even know our favorite color or food or what’s interesting about us. That’s because we’re thinking truthfully.
Truthfully, life’s a little dull. It can be funny but it’s dull. The drama is up to us. So why don’t we just inject it ourselves. Why don’t we each spin ourselves a little and make it more fun. Playwrights take liberties and that’s what we really are. Authors of our life scripts.
Why can’t we take a few minutes and come up with a cheat sheet for ourselves on ourselves to amuse just ourselves. So when people ask what do you want to be when you grow up, you can give them something to think about. I want to create a new national holiday devoted to laughter. Like Trade Jokes Day. This week, my favorite food is egg rolls and Oreos. As always I still remain devoted to gravy, crunchy Cheetos, and really nice olive oil. Next week, schnitzel and nutty buddies.
I decided my favorite colors are Aubergine, Tangerine, and Emerald Green. These sound really cool together. And you can’t just pick one. Eamon said his was Maroon. I told him my theory and suggested Ox Blood instead. He said he’ll think about it. He’s the kid who had a favorite three digit number and is constantly asking you what your’ favorite Star Wars character/Yugio card/super hero is.
I’m so serious and so honest most of the time that I’m missing an opportunity to play. And to be ready when someone asks me those questions that make me feel like I suddenly have to know myself deeply, which I never feel like I do. Instead, I can give them a story and let them sort it out. Because instead of cringing, we should be having fun telling our stories.
Oct 17, 2014
In an attempt to keep moving forward, I follow and read lots of different blogs. One I read is written by a reputable business coach who suggested beginning a Pinterest page to conceive of your ideal day. It’s called vision boarding. If you visualize it, it is more likely to happen. As much as I wanted to say “Heck Yeah”, simultaneously I was all like Bill Cosby with my, “Riiiiggghhht”. Ideal days are a fantasy when your reality is a poopy diaper and the bad attitude that proceeds it.
Although my sarcasm got the better of me, I figured we could all have a little fun today. So here’s my ideal day portrayed in Pinterest pictures. It’s pretend with Pinterest.
Let’s say it’s 20 years from now in the year 2034. (Yeah well 2000 seemed unreal when we were 15 but it eventually came if you were lucky enough to live to see it.)
It’s a beautiful fall morning in 2034 and I’m getting my hair professionally dyed and styled at some ridiculously hip expensive salon.
Professional dye Job and styling
And they’re also apparently doing some botox and secret anti-aging voodoo there too. And they’re serving nice wine.But it’s too early for that. No really. So it’s a nice cappuccino instead OK?
I’m also getting my nails done. Something funky and cutting edge for the future. This will be retro then.
When my nails are dry, it’s time to go see my personal trainer. It could be either a hot guy…
or a very inspirational gal.
(While trolling Pinterest for these pictures, I read a caption which said, “Celebrity Secrets to lose baby weight fast. Ha! -meal service -nanny -house cleaner -personal trainer -photoshop for starters-” Keeping it real. But back to fantasy reality).
I grab a shower and my devoted hubby picks me up in whatever car is his fantasy and takes me on a gourmet picnic. Because maybe it’s our anniversary and we’re making up for the lost celebration time from 20 years earlier.
Rare roast beef sandwiches, YUM. And whatever the heck this raspberry wonderment is.
Back at home, with a little buzz from what’s in the mason jar with the out-of-season raspberries, cute plumber boy shows a little butt crack while installing our new multi-headed shower in our master suite bathroom renovation.
Because I need more reasons to ogle handsome young men’s bodies in this post. And the husband’s getting lucky tonight.
Late in the afternoon, I drive to DC to meet with my Book Agent and planning team about the upcoming book tour I’ll be embarking on.
As I’m about to go into the meeting, my oldest calls to tell us he’s officially made his first million on his video game creations.
He’s got stock and stuff.
And he’s also giving a piano concert at Radio City Music Hall next month.
Then it’s dinner at a new hip fine dining restaurant in DC and attendance to the opening for my artwork at
the National Museum of Women’s Arts museum.
While waiting for our table at the bar, the other kid call to tell me she’s gotten her Master’s Degree paid for
by the Foundation she’s been doing
groundbreaking research for in genetics and cancer.
As if my perfect day couldn’t get any better, then Oprah texts me that we’re on for dinner at either her house in Hawaii
or the one in the South somewhere, to chat about the top secret project we’re working on. Hush. hush.
Oct 10, 2014
Yeah, I can be a hater sometimes. Remember this post where I listed the things that got on my nerves? Well today, I’m sharing my
Top 9 Reasons I Hate Top Ten Lists
- People seem so focused on quantity instead of quality. More for cheap is how we like it. I feel shame.
- I feel further shame of our society’s monkey minded need to package quick answers in lists. Wham bam…
- Writers are dumbing down content and catering to the stupid so the rest can get it.
- And they’re selling out by making more and more of these bloody lists and feeding the public’s need to read them.
- The only exception that proves the rule was Dave Letterman’s top ten lists written by professional funny people. They made it look easy and good.
- Oh and because I just want to hate them.
- I hate myself for reading and/or liking them ever.
- If there’s only 9 items and you have to add one to make it a top 10 then it’s not truly a top ten list. Cheating is encouraged.
- And the number one reason I hate top ten lists is because I can’t seem to write one well.
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