It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Fall is my personal, favorite time of the year. From now on until the day after New Years, I am in season.

Living in Houston has changed my expectation of what fall looks like, but I am still, in my height of glory when this time of year rolls in. When I lived in Ohio, this was the time when I would really shine. Fall has always been my favorite time, especially in the month of October. The leaves would change color and crunch beneath my feet, the air was crisp and cool, and the smells...How can one describe the smells of apples, cinnamon and pumpkins all bundled together in a whirl of autumn colors. Fall in the north is sight to behold. Even true Southerners, who adore their homeland, have to hand it to the northern fall foliage. There is nothing like it! It's living artwork, full of sensory riches. Soft, thick sweaters that absorb the curling smells of smoke from a camp fire. Hay rides through the woods, with the deep,brilliant colors of the leaves and the last sights of wildlife before the threat of snow.

I told you, I really like fall.

I have had to change a few things, since moving to the deep south. I do not get to see my beloved trees change colors, so we planted a blooming Argentinian silk floss tree that blooms great, beautiful pink blossoms in the fall. Sweaters are only worn in the extreme cold of January, when the weather dips down to a chilly 50 degrees (burr). So instead, I wear short sleeve shirts in rich fall colors. I have to buy apples at the store, rather than pick them in an orchard, the pumpkin display is right next to them rather than the trip to the pumpkin patch, and the smell of fall leaves actually can be purchased in a bottle and put into a diffuser, so that my imagination can carry me home, even if for only a moment.

Halloween, I must confess in some ways is better down here. There weather is much more stable, so we can keep our elaborate decorations out and it rarely rains on the precious little trick-or-treaters. Being a fan favorite, Halloween is the time when all my gorey,gruesome decor is pulled from many containers to adorn my yard and house with skulls, jackolanters,goblins and gallons of fake blood. Bodies are strewn from one end of the yard to the other, and I play haunted themes for a month. Every year, Michael allows me a single purchase to add to my collection. Last year it was a light up skeleton called Napoleon Blown-apart. His heart glowed red and beat in a lovely rhythm.

I am really looking forward to fall this year. It will be my last in my house, so in some ways it will be bitter sweet. My kitchen will be renovated and I will be cooking up fall favorites like apple pie, pumpkin bundt cakes, chili and fresh baked bread on football Sundays, hot cocoa later in the season garnished with cinnamon and whipped cream. Michael and I will be taking more walks, now that the heavy, oppressive heat is starting to fade and the air will cool down as the love bugs appear to let us Southerners know that the humidity is once again fading into the years end.

I love fall no matter where I live. I feel very lucky to be able to keep my adoration for all that is autumnal, anywhere I happen to be.

Home Sweet Home

I am looking for a "day job" right now to support my writing habit. I am having very little luck. The economy is bad for everybody, so I am trying to not take it personally. Being a retired nurse and a massage therapist with carpal tunnel syndrome has caused me to apply for jobs I haven't done in 25 years. I am sending applications out to grocery stores, drug stores, you know, the usual suspects. I am trying to beat out all the high school and college kids for jobs, that I am normally cheer leading for them to get. I am in direct competition for work with my son. So far he is the one with the edge. It's a double edged sword to watch your son beat you out for an interview and yet feel so proud of him at the same time.

I was thinking back on my "career". Most of my time was spent as a nurse in nursing homes. I had a real love/hate relationship with my job as a geriatric nurse. I loved the patients and the feeling of making a difference, but I hated the system I worked in and the constraints that strangled many of my and my co-workers attempts to do right by the people we were trying to take care of. Insurance companies, Medicare, and profit margins, all put very limiting guidelines on what we were able to accomplish. I went to work everyday for over 20 years feeling as if I were smashing my skull into a brick wall. I watched other nurses get tired and bitter and burn out. I watched as some did the least they could just to get by in order to have the strength to face another work day. I watched many give up and stop caring and punch their time card day in and day out to get to retirement. I had promised myself I would leave the field before I became the zombie nurse, just going through the motions. I promised my patients I would do my best and if I didn't have it to give anymore, I would step aside and let the younger generation, fresh and hopeful, take my spot. I left my field in 2007 after twenty two years. The money was just OK, even though I was making less than a dollar an hour for every year of experience I had. It had never been about the money, so the reason I decided it was time to go was bigger than my check. I knew it was time because I couldn't find the joy in my work anymore. When things got tough, about four times a week, I would sit in the cafeteria and sing to my patients who were nearly catatonic or paralyzed due to strokes and other horrendous ailments. My friends at work would eventually join me after they figured out I wasn't going to stop singing and if they didn't help me out, I would make them the focus of the musical tribute. I would dance down the hallways in order to keep myself awake for the sixteen hour shifts I pulled, so that my family wouldn't go belly up. I told jokes, made faces and ran around like a maniac, all to entertain the troops and myself. I did "crazy" things in order to keep my sanity.

Nursing homes are depressing even for those of us who chose to work in them. They smell of urine and decay, they are worn and old looking, like the residents that inhabit them. They aren't portrayed in sitcoms, because for most of us, they are the beginning of the end and there isn't anything funny about that. I felt the best name for a nursing home would be "The Last Resort".

My goal is to write full time, so I can go volunteer in one, rather than try and work in one again. I was right to retire when I did. I was tired and getting very cynical. As much as I loved working with older people, I felt defeated in the substandard care I was providing. The state mandated I, as an LPN, was able to take care of 50 people; 30 people, if they required increased care, such as Alzheimer patients in a lock-down unit. I tried to do what the state said I should be able to, but the truth was I, nor anybody else could pull that rabbit out of the hat much longer. I got out before I made too many mistakes, or caused harm because I was tired ands beaten. Being burned out, means at it's core, that the fight has gotten bigger than the warrior.

I was reminiscing with Michael about the jobs I have left behind. "It's really not much of career", I said feeling as though I have wasted much of my adult life on work that no one cares about. "You put your money where your mouth was. You did what a lot of us are afraid to do. This will come back to you in a good way." Michael, ever the cheerleader, tried to make me feel better about my choices in jobs. He's right , of course. The work I have done throughout my life is something I feel very proud of. I have given 110% in every position I have had. I have no idea where I will end up from here. I won't be a nurse, or a massage therapist, and I will continue to write not knowing if I will ever get to have another book published. The "day job"? Today, I will go out and talk to people, see what feels right and be grateful that I am still here, able bodied, and mostly of sound mind. I will shoot up a prayer to those I had cared for during my time in "the home" and see if they can intercede on my behalf. That may well be the good Karma I am looking for.

A Fool's Paradise

The saying goes, "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." I get that. I have my time where I have and still rush head long in with the best intentions only to get squashed like a bug. And let's be honest here, I am no angel. But I can't help but wonder how lightly to tread, and where the line of being too cautious lies.

Some of the best things I have ever done or received was because I was the big dork who wasn't afraid to ask. Had I been cautious or tiptoed into the situation I would never have have gotten to do so many things. I freely and joyfully admit that I am a blurter, who throws myself out into the world trying to do things that are way out of my element. I go in with best intentions. Sometimes people recognize the good in me and sometimes, more rare than not, they don't. Either way I go in and at least try. Am I a fool for trying? Probably, but I still can't reconcile within myself that there has to be a detailed plan for every attempt. Sometimes I think I have to throw myself out into the wind and see what I come up with. Flying by the seat of your pants takes a certain amount of bravery, but more than that it takes stamina. Tenacity, I think is a virtue that is greater than patience. I never ask to receive patience when I pray, fearful that lessons will come my way that require me to have more of it. I feel as if I have plenty of patience and utilize it often. I don't pray for tenacity, either. I have that in spades, too. When I get an idea in my thick noggin, I am like a dog with a bone. What I pray for is opportunity. It is believed that good luck is the combination of opportunity meeting preparation. I tend to agree. Those who are prepared are the one's who get the jobs, houses and great deals. Everybody has a moment in their life when they missed out on something because they weren't prepared enough. It's good to be the boyscout and be at the ready for what may come your way.

But what about when opportunity knocks and you're naked, dripping in the hallway because you forgot your only towel at the beach and your only clean clothes are still in the washer down in the basement of your apartment building? What then? I say pull out your "The Emperor With No Clothes" face and go for it. Pretend you have the most beautiful outfit on and fake it until you make it. Have I done this? Yeah, not literally of course, but I have thrown open the door and let the cards fall where they may. Look, sometimes it's disastrous, truly, but sometimes I get something so great, I never knew I wanted. The disastrous parts are usually only painful to my ego, as if I flung open the door only to have Opportunity physically wince at my appearance. It stings, but so far I haven't died of embarrassment, yet.

For the big things in life, I think I need to try and be more angelic. My marriage, raising my kids, buying a house, speaking to people, even the writing I do here and in my book(s) all require a certain amount of tiptoeing with angelic feet. I also feel that if I hadn't been the fool who giggles inappropriately or rushed in to help someone or even grabbed onto an opportunity that was way beyond my current knowledge, I may have missed out on so much. Every time I say, "I am an author', I laugh and turn red. It seems ludicrous to me that I actually wrote a book, let alone the fact that so many people have come to me and said they liked it. I get "fan" mail from folks who have read the book and it inspired them to remember their own stories. The letters I have gotten are deeply touching and I can't express enough how grateful I am to get them. I plan to keep every one in a scrapbook with the rest of my book paraphernalia. Had I not thrown myself out into the publishing world I would have none of the wonderful, heartfelt experiences I have had in the last year. Although I had written forever, I had very little knowledge of the computer and spent much of the last year learning how to navigate the Internet. Still, the knowledge I have could be stored in a thimble. What I knew about the publishing world was even less. If I hadn't been such a fool, so naive as to believe this might all work out, I may have missed out on finishing the book I dreamed of writing.

I wish for all of you today- a fool's bravery to try the unexpected, a pair of angel wings that enable you to take flight into your own dreams and a pair of sturdy chukka boots in case it all turns to crap.

Teachable Moments

There have been many "teachable moments" in and around my household lately. Broken down, this means there has been plenty of failure to go around for everybody. I believe, failure has gotten a bad rap. I have noticed, at this point in my life, that somewhere along the way failure has become the thing where we dare not speak it's name. No one wants to admit failure, discuss failure or even allow for failure to be a part of our current existence. I find this puzzling, considering without failure there can not be true success. To fail is to perish. Hogwash! To fail means that someone, somewhere has attempted to, at the very least, make the attempt to do something different. Now, that is a change I can get behind, even when it doesn't go smoothly and falls flat. I will concede that if and when failure comes into play, that one must go back and revisit all the details of the attempt in order to figure out what needs to be tweaked or scrapped in order to find the success. In other words, admission is the first step to recovery after a failure.
At some point someone will surely "invent" a rehab for non-admitting failures. It will be a lovely grass covered hill, where inventors, students, teachers, teenagers and parents can all gather and learn how to say, " I really screwed the pooch on this one." There will be a large group hug and they will break into small groups to discuss how to rejoin the masses as someone who made a mistake.
We can call it "My Bad, Rehab".
I believe that "teachable moments" are not just so we can learn that we are not perfect and make mistakes, but rather a moment in time where we learn a great lesson that we should be trying to teach others , so they don't have to go through the same trials. We are in sense being asked to responsible for others. Making a mistake and realizing it is merely one singular part of a very large equation. The second part is damage control and the third is to attempt to pass the lesson on to anyone who can benefit from it. The "teachable" part isn't supposed to be just for our benefit but to benefit others. My 82 year old accountant says this,"Experience is not the best teacher. You don't have to get shot by a gun to realize it can kill you." He should know, he is retired homicide detective from Cleveland, OH. When he first told me this I was a single mother, raising my 4 kids, right after their father passed away. His point to me was to tread carefully and gain the benefit from someones mistakes in order to reduce the odds of me making my own. It was a light bulb moment for me. I took my pain out the closet and went in search of anyone who had suffered from grief of any kind. I was on the hunt for wisdom. By opening myself up to the idea that getting it wrong was much easier than getting it right, I allowed for other women, mostly, to tell about their experiences as being grief stricken. I went from being completely alone, to grateful that things had not been ever so much worse. The gift was they were able to learn from their experiences and teach me how to avoid the same pitfalls.
Back to what is happening now in my life and the lives of the ones I love. I am watching mistakes being made. I am making some rather large mistakes myself. But I am also watching young adults in my life take responsibility for their own mishaps and reach out to try and help their peers from falling down a similar rabbit hole. They are actively passing on their own wisdom, freely, without judgement, in order to help anyone they can. It is a beautiful thing to watch, as these new grown ups rally around each other in their own community guarding their friends and family.
My mistake was thinking I hadn't been heard, so I did what I had always done. I became the hammer and looked at everything as if it were a nail. I decided that I would be heard or else. I ranted my one way conversation, not noticing the look on my children's faces as I squashed their opinions. I had witnessed some of their mistakes and thought I had the right to take control. I was WRONG!!!!!!! Once I settled my ass down, I actual heard them tell the lessons they had learned and that they were in the process of trying to make amends and find a new way. There have been things of recent time where my child made large mistakes and needed to be called out and I did just that. My intent at first was to be right. After a brief period, I knew that just being right wasn't going to cut it. I need to be open and understanding too. My child was failing and if I wasn't careful, the "teachable moment" was going to be that you are never forgiven for making a mistake. I am encouraging my child to tell his story to anyone who can learn from it. It is the only thing that takes a failure and turns it into an attempt to be better.

Food, wonderful food!

I do this thing when I am down, where I cook like a mad woman. When ever life gets tough, this cookie gets going into the kitchen. It is something I have done for as long as I have been an adult. I didn't cook when I was a child and trust me, no one wanted me to. The few things I could produce back then were barely edible and often times had the odor of something decomposing from years gone by.

It's different now. I love to cook and almost never use a recipe. I am an accomplished cook. I became one when I had my family and had to produce enough food for 5-6 people on a single person's budget. With Jesus nowhere in sight, I was left to pray over the food and try and help it multiply. Since those days so long ago now, I turn to the kitchen for refuge when I have a problem I can't figure out or am just feeling the blues. Some snappy music on the radio and an idea for dinner will keep me off the streets and out of trouble for hours. In my kitchen I can let my mind think about savory and sweet, the right aromatics, the perfect garnish and temperature control. I surround myself with colorful food and spices and allow myself to try new things, experimenting with textures and flavors. I immerse myself fully into my flurry of activity without a thought to what drove me there in the first place.

One might project with my kitchen dependency I might be over eating. Not so. I love to feed others. I am almost never hungry while I am cooking. Cooking takes concentration and diligence and anytime eating is merely a taste here and there for quality assurance. It is a win/win situation for me. I get to cook and savor every aroma and morsel carefully laid out on the plate all the while giving it away to my family and friends who lavish praise on my abilities.

I am not depressed, I am thinking. Being in a quandary is not the same as being depressed. Depression keeps you from doing much of anything. This is me having an unsolvable problem, albeit temporary, and getting my mind off of it. I am a writer. We are thinkers by sheer nature, so often my thoughts are rambling around bumping and crashing into each other with no productive outcome. In these times it's time for me to step back, preferably into the kitchen and forget about it. The problem doesn't go away, but I will admit for one of the very few times, that I am not always required to fix everything as often as I think I am. Sometimes the problem or the other person does the fixing without any help from me. Stunning isn't it? I could hardly believe it either, when I first discovered that could happen if I just butted out long enough to allow it. Not everything needs my direct input. Having said that, I will tell you this...Sometimes I actually make things worse by trying to "fix" it all the time. I will let you absorb that for a moment. I, too, was gobsmacked at the very possibility.

Once I figured out that my "help" might turn things to an even worse place, I decided I needed to have some activity to keep my nimble and nosey mind occupied. I go to my kitchen and let my creative juices flow. I can "fix" dinner without compromising big personal ethics or stepping on innocent toes. I can "fix" every dinner from now until the end of time and no one will complain.

Right now, we are eating exceptionally well. The good news is I am in the kitchen producing some of my best work. The downside is I am still stuck in a quandary, but I am letting go of it long enough to see my family enjoy the fruits and vegetables of my labor.

Yesterday was a decadent plateful of homemade fried ravioli stuffed with four cheeses, spinach and Porto Bella mushrooms, lightly topped with a garlic cream sauce and a side of roasted asparagus garnished with sweet red peppers. Tonight it will be seared tilapia, topped with sweet and spicy apricot, ginger glaze, whipped cauliflower with a chipotle seasoning, steamed vegetables and homemade ras,black and blue berry pie. I announce the menu in the morning as if I were bringing another child into the world. Michael, my biggest fan, oohs and ahhs while producing thunderous applause. He pulls me in close to me and whispers gently inmy ear, "How are you feeling, Baby?" I see his concerned expression on his face and smile at my love. "I'm OK." Michael kisses my face and says, "Take all the time you need." With that I look at my darling, knowing that this is his personal quandary. The longer I am pondering, the better his packed lunches are. He would never admit it, but I think he gives me my space, so I'll wallow just a few days more and keep the home fires burning, so to speak. I can't blame him, the food I produce when I am totally happy is crap.

Tomorrow is going to be a wish come true!

O.K. so this is not a picture of me getting a massage but trust me tomorrow I will look just like this gal, here in the photo. Actually, I will probably be snoring. I was given a gift certificate for an all day spa experience. I had put that on my vision board. I really didn't see it happening anytime soon but here it is. My friends at The Conservatory Day Spa lovingly gave me the gift. How great is that?

Mike and I celebrate the day we met 27 years ago and became best friends. It is a tomorrow. We met September 10, 1982, I was only 3 at the time. OK, I was 19 and he was 22. We were babies. I like this anniversary better than my wedding day.It celebrates us as people together rather than joined at the hip being married. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I like this one better because Mike and I have been there for each other every time we needed to be. It is rare to be able to say that about someone you were not originally related too. This anniversary celebrates Mike and I as best friends.

The spa day couldn't come at a better time for me. Since working on the house my ever aging body has rebelled. I wake up completely stiff every morning and spend a good half hour stretching trying to get the kinks out.I groan and sigh deeply. If I put all the cracking , creaking and sounds coming from me to music I could produce an entire CD. Of course no one would want to listen to it, but I could do it.

Tomorrow I will spend the day being pampered, buffed and polish so that I can go out with my boyfriend/husband and drink wine, eat good food and fall in love with him all over again. I might even buy a lottery ticket, because these kind of magical days don't happen often, but when they do, I am more than happy to be grateful and saturated.

Opening Another Can of Worms

I can't tell you how grateful I am that the title is a figurative phrase, because the literal version would gross me out. The "can" I am referring to is house repair. We have all been there, where we start to fix one thing only to find out we have now cause an avalanche of something else. Open a wall only to discover it's only insulation is a 1963 newspaper. Yes, that actually happened to me. Pull out a fixture to discover the pipe is completely rotted and now has to be redone entirely. Replace the counter top and the kitchen cabinets collapse like dominoes. It really is always something.
All I had wanted to do was pull down the bad 1980's wall paper. It was a simple and meager act, until I started to remove it and the previous "handyman" had put the wall paper on bare drywall. With every piece that came down all the plaster came with it. I was stunned by the "can" I had opened and realization that a simple 2 day job had now become a 2 week project hit me on my head like the plaster itself. Every room with wall paper had to be re plastered. Day after day I go up into the bathroom like a prisoner in solitary to chip away at the wall paper in order to start the next phase of the project.
Michael and I have come to the realization that we cannot do anything half assed in a house when it comes to repair or remodel. Even when we are certain we are selling it; there are even less short cuts instead of more. We are truly Midwesterners. You can move out of Ohio but the work ethic and need to pull farmer hours stays with you long after you leave.
Have someone else come in and fix it? Are you mad? Do you not realize where we were raised? Where we come from, it is more than just money at stake here. Being from working class families we were taught to do things yourself and any inability to do this would cause great shame.Back home it would be embarrassing for us to have to hire someone to do what we should be able to do.
Michael and I also have to admit that we have trust issues. Not so much with each other but definitely someone else who might not care as much as we do about our property. I will admit that every once in a while we turn on each other. Usually this happens when we are exhausted, so it's all done in passing with apologies and regret.
We do because we can. I was once accused of being cheap because I did so many things myself. To that person I say,"So be it." I am careful with my money and assets, including my house. When our jobs are finished we can look at what we have accomplished and know for certain it was done right. We never have to go back or call someone to come back and fix what wasn't done right the first time. It may take us a lot longer, but I can guarantee it is always worth it.
Well, it's back to solitary confinement for me, with a scraper in one had and a bucket of hot water in another. From there I will be putting plaster on walls and taking names, so to speak. When the house sells, and it will, this will all be worth it. My next house needs to be about 900 square feet covered entirely in tile, so cleaning is the equivalent of hosing down the house. Actually, we just want a small simple one story that we can fix the first year and be done. Next year, I will be writing about bike rides, camping, travel, dinners out and the release of my next book, not plaster, mortar and paint, oh my!