Updates

I’m not very regular about posting here, but I did update my 101 Things list a bit.  Some things I expected to do next year are coming to be this year, and vice verse.  The items least likely to get done are the ones that involve me, as opposed to the house or yard.

My last post was about an idea I have for a book.  What I really need is an idea for how to find time to work on it.  The problem there are so many things I want to do.  Occasionally, I get hot and bothered about something, only to realize that there is not time in my already busy life for one more activity.  If only I could retire!  Right now!

Eureka!

I recently read a novel that has the same premise as a novel I have been contemplating writing for a quite a while now.  The details are different – different characters, different time frame, different storyline – but the same basic premise.  And that really griped me, because the only real difference between the book in my hand and the book in my head is he wrote his down and I didn’t.

But you know what?  Reading that book really goosed my imagination about my book, to the point where I could not sleep the night before last and had to spend the whole next morning writing, writing, writing.  (Yes, I was at work.  What’s your point?)  Never have I been so consumed about telling a story.

I’ve settled down a bit since then, but ideas are still percolating up there.  Which is totally unlike me.  Usually I am moping around in my head, wanting to be a Writer but not believing I had Anything to Say.  But now I do.  Me so happy!

(And, no, I am not going to tell you what my idea is.  There is already at least one book out there with the same premise.  No sense flooding the market.)

Once

I liked this movie.  The story is sweet, if a bit slow in places, but like most musicals, the story is really just a platform for the music.  And the music was great.  In fact, I ordered the CD so my SO can enjoy the music without enduring the film (he likes action).

(I didn’t realize “singer-songwriter” was a music genre, but apparently it is.)

Blessed Are the Odd

At a job interview I was once asked what I wanted to be remembered for.  I responded, “As a ‘people person’.”  My kids got quite a laugh from this story when I related it to them.  My wanting to be remembered as a people person was not just wishful thinking, it was downright delusional.

My nephew’s wife, on the other hand, must be quite the people person, as she has completely charmed my dad.  She must have a not-so-nice side, too, as she is a lawyer.  I have never met her, but I’m sure she is everything my dad says she is.

And I’m not.

When Dad carries on about how nice R is, I get a little pang in my heart.  I think there has always been some parental disappointment in me, or at least I perceive there has been.  I’m not very feminine (but not butch), not very pretty (but not ugly either), I don’t wear makeup (it makes me feel like I am in costume), and my fashion sense is virtually non-existent (my daughter helps me shop).

And I’m not very nice.

While I doubt any professional would diagnose me with Asperger’s Syndrome, I think my friends and family would definitely classify me as odd.  Some have used the phrase “honest to a fault” or the terms “brash” and “bitch”.  It is only in recent years that I have learned to invent nice things to say in various social situations.  Sometimes I am actually sincere, too.  But just as often I simply keep my mouth shut because I don’t know how what I might say will be received.

A favorite mantra of mine is “I hate people” but I think I am softening in my old age.  For example, I bawl shamelessly at weddings, even the weddings of people I don’t know.  Despite superhuman efforts to gird my tear ducts, something incredibly sweet invariably happens and I am weeping.  Sometimes a simple courtesy from another driver brings tears to my eyes.  And don’t get me started on animals.

So I’m not hopelessly misanthropic.  I have a few good qualities which hopefully balance out the not-so-good ones.  Maybe that is what my dad sees, and my friends and family.  And maybe they have simply learned to accept and forgive the oddness.

Aren’t I blessed?

I Don’t Get It

Michelle Obama states “For the first time in my adult lifetime, I’m really proud of my country … not just because Barack has done well, but because I think people are hungry for change.  I have been desperate to see our country moving in that direction and just not feeling so alone in my frustration and disappointment.”

Well, me too.

The Rev. Jeremiah A. Wright Jr. says, “Racism is alive and well. Racism is how this country was founded and how this country is still run…We believe in white supremacy and black inferiority and believe it more than we believe in God.”

Duh. 

And people are offended.  I guess they can’t handle the truth.

Country Mouse, City Mouse

A hint of spring is in the air, which means, first and foremost, the mower needs to be serviced before the grass turns from brown to green.  For many years, I took it to Tiny Tuneups, back when they were located southwest, near where I work.  Development encroached on their little slice of exurban heaven, though, and when I called them a couple of years ago, their phone had been disconnected.  Last year, too late for my mower, I found a flyer in my paper box with their new location, which now is north and close to where I live (“close” being a relative term).  All the lawn mower services are local folks, but I like to support the little guys, so today I drove my mower out into the countryside for its annual physical.

I used to live out in the country, on a dead-end gravel road, and sometimes I think about moving out of town.  But to find something I could afford, I would have to buy a place ‘way out of town, and the commute would be a burden, especially now that gas prices are rising and time is a limited resource.  And I think I have been duly urbanized.

But it is fun to get out of town, even just a few miles, and see what is what.  And around here, what one sees is a lot of new development.  When I bought my house 17 years ago, the neighborhood was nestled in farmland, the main roads still two lanes, the traffic signals relatively far apart.  Now the roads are widening and the farmland is giving way to strip malls and upscale additions.  It’s convenient to have so many shopping opportunities close at hand, but I miss the peace and quiet we once enjoyed.

I worry that our addition will become a target for development.  There may come a time when our houses will be considered tear-downs or disposable non-assets.  But since the city annexed us and brought us water, I feel a little more secure.

Development is what drove Tiny Tuneups out of town.  The last time I dropped the mower at his previous location, the open expanse behind their property had been replaced by a wall of apartment buildings.  “Whoa,” I said.  “Yeah,” Mr. TT replied.

Today I stopped at the ATM to get cash, as previously TT had required pre-payment.  I stopped at Higher Grounds for some coffee, then headed into the countryside.  Every mile I drove, I could see development was marching north, bit by bit.  The further north, the fewer developments, but more land is exiting agriculture and entering estate status, McMansions sitting tall in the middle of ten-acre lots or hiding in woods, accessed by long winding lanes.

 Eventually, I found the county road and the cluster of buildings – house, garage, shed – that constitutes TT.  His area looks (and smells) rural, but thanks to a nearby microwave tower, my cell phone still worked.  TT must have a higher quality of clientele now, too, as no prepayment was expected.

I took a different way home, along a more traveled road that led past more and bigger developments, all with look-alike houses, all bigger than mine.  My neighborhood may be in transition after all.  Our houses were once considered more than adequate for raising a family, but now they are “starter homes” and a few have crossed the line into rental property.  It is a good time to buy a home, but not a good time to sell.

And where would I go?  Right now I have a third of an acre, a well-built house, blue birds in the backyard.  My commute is short, a library branch is nearby, and I like my neighbors.  I could move into the country for more space and wildlife, but spend more time in the car and have a meth lab next door.

I guess I will stay put.  At least for now.

A Survivor, Not a Victim

When the doorbell rings, I know who it is and grab my checkbook.  I ran into her earlier, while I was walking the dog.  She was sitting on one of those rocks the neighbors with corner lots put near the street to keep drivers from cutting the corner and damaging the lawn.  She was drawing in the melting snow, a clipboard of papers nearby.  I thought maybe she was a neighbor teen, and I asked if she was okay.  Just a bad day at work, she replied. 

We chatted a bit.  Turns out she works for a “liberal” PAC whose primary reason for existence seems to be to fight utility rate increases.  I donate something each year, but thought they had discontinued the door-to-door canvassing as the past few years I have been contacted by phone.  The PAC’s help wanted ads read as appeals for activists, so they attract the young and idealistic.  This young one, though, was meeting with a lot of resistance in the nabe. 

I explained that many were feeling the pinch of higher property taxes plus being socked for the installation of city water, and they probably were not feeling too generous these days.  She explained the expectations of her boss and how she worried she would lose her job.  After a few minutes, I grew chilled and left her to her thoughts.

Now she is at the door, shivering but delivering her spiel in a determined voice.  Her red fingers force a decision I contemplated earlier and while she waits on the porch, I fetch a pair of hand-knit arm-warmers.  I then invite her inside, something I had not contemplated.  Our neighborhood has had problems with solicitors in the past, especially kids selling candy to stay off drugs, which hasn’t stopped them from committing larceny.  I want to be smart but compassionate, but am unsure where the boundary lies.

I write a check and sign the petition, then we stand in the entrance-way and chat some more; I want to give her a chance to warm up.  She would fit in well with the street kids I saw in Tucson, except she is not carrying all her belongings on her back.  Her orange hair beneath the bandana has the au currant buzz cut, her lower lip the requisite stud, and while we discuss the finer points of selling blood, she admits her tattoos are too fresh for her to make a little extra money that way. 

She answers my nosy questions – yes, she has a place to live, no, she can’t wait at the library for her ride because she’s not allowed to leave the neighborhood – but there are inconsistencies in the details of her all-too-familiar story:  broken home, abusive father, alcoholic mother, in and out of CPS, etc.  But she did graduate from high school and she is studying criminal justice at Ivy Tech.

I can’t get a take on her.  I don’t find her threatening or deceptive.  If she is out-and-out lying, I don’t sense it.  She doesn’t seem broken in spite of the hardships.  And while she doesn’t come right out and ask for anything, she provides subtle opportunities for me to be generous.  In the end, I decide the arm-warmers and a half hour to warm up and some respectful concern are what I am willing to provide.

After she leaves, I have misgivings and wonder if I am going to get robbed or wake up dead.  She may be harmless, but what about her friends, especially the one that was arrested for B&E?  I double check the doors and take a few extra precautions before going to bed.  I try some magical thinking – I was nice to her, so the universe will protect me from harm – but I know bad things happen to good people all the time.

Now, in the aftermath, I keep thinking about our encounter and wonder what, if anything, she tells her friends about me, an old lady in overalls with the “awesome” beagle.  And I wonder what becomes of kids like her.  She seems like a survivor, not a victim, and I think she will succeed if she can hold to her center.

I also wonder what others might think about this whole encounter.  Was I foolish to let her in?  I was I smart not to give her cash?  Should I have fed her?  One way or another, will I regret my actions?  Or will this be just another Monday evening in the life of me, one that I will slowly forget?

How Boring

Eliot Spitzer.  Need I say more.

The Jane Austen Book Club

(Warning!  Chick flick alert!)

This movie was a lot of fun.  I probably would have liked it even better if I had read more Jane Austen and had read it more recently, as I’m sure I missed a lot of the references and parallel characters and plot developments.  but I enjoyed seeing “older” actresses in a movie with intelligent, funny dialog and interesting relationships and a happy ending.

Afterwards, I did have to look up the cast members to figure out where I had seen them before:  “Picket Fences,” “Transamerica,” “Elizabeth I,” “The Devil Wears Prada,” “Thank You for Smoking,” etc.  So many familiar faces made the book club seem like a bunch of friends of mine.

One Drop

I just finished One Drop:  My Father’s Hidden Life – a Story of Race and Family Secrets, by Bliss Broyard, which is about her father Anatole Broyard (book critic for the New York Times) “passing” for white, which he did so successfully that his children did not know their racial heritage until two months before he died.

At least, that is what the book is about on the surface.  But at a deeper and more universal level, this book is about identity:  how we define ourselves and how others define us and where those two views intersect or collide.  When race is involved, the issues are more apparent because skin color is visible and laws have been written (and fortunately, rewritten and unwritten) based on race.  But, as Broyard so ably demonstrates, even one’s race can be a blurry and vague concept.

The book bogs down a bit in the middle, where we learn a lot about the history of blacks/Negroes/coloreds/Creoles in New Orleans.  Not that this is not interesting and informative, and it does add substance to the questions raised about who is white and who is not, but I personally am more interested in the stories of the Broyard family members.

And I am particularly interested in the question of identity because, as an outsider of a sort, I have always struggled with who I am and who society says I should be.  While my struggle may not be as dramatic as passing for white, I do try to pass for “normal” everyday.  It seems easier, but at what cost?

What is ironic about Anatole’s passing for white is that, while his children were oblivious, hardly anyone else was, but they were willing to not make an issue of it.  Which makes me wonder just how successful am I when passing for normal?  Maybe less so than I thought.  But maybe as long as I act normal, I’ll be treated well.