if only I woof known, I'd have done this sooner

So, it turns out I might not need to maintain that fitness club membership. It served its purpose, got me moving, helped me loosen up the bad knee—but what I really needed? An active dog.

We recently adopted a female Vizsla. She came from friends, so it wasn't a completely clueless adoption; we had met the dog several times, had even spent a few days with her when we visited with said friends after Christmas last year. However. I still had some reservations. This type of dog is a particularly energetic breed known for running all day and hunting to exhaustion.

A high-energy, boundless beast? Probably not what I would have chosen for our family. I was thinking of something small, harmless, fuzzy and lazy.

And yet, the plan had been laid; after much preparation and many texted Q&A sessions between the previous owners and us, we brought the dog home. She was confused, we were confused, the already-tiny house suddenly seemed to shrink by half... What had we done? The dog alternately fetched a newly purchased squeaker ball and paced, barked at us a bit, quivered with fear the first night, and seemed generally lonely and depressed. I had doubts, my husband tried to assuage them, and our son watched it all with raised eyebrows.

Fast forward three-and-a-half weeks, and we are all adjusting rather nicely.

She's a lovely girl, well-behaved, polite, unbelievably pretty, and extremely expressive. Her light brown eyes can convey an expansive array of feelings, she accepts a biscuit in the dainty fashion of a fine lady, and we are all three of us completely smitten. The energy level is there, no doubt about it—but heck, we needed some shaking up, right? Who wants to sit around and do nothing? I've been outside more than normal, have been back in the woods and on farms, have smiled more, and have solemnly pondered life and the world much less. Pros, all of those things.

And the timing? Perfect. My son is old enough to help care for her. She gives our little family something else to hug, a warm wriggly body when I want to snuggle my son and he wants only to be left alone. And when he needs comforting or feels cuddly but doesn't want to compromise his newly discovered independence from his overly affectionate parents? There's the dog, begging for a belly rub.

Isn't it funny—and wonderful—how God gives you what you need? Even when it wasn't what you asked for, He knows best.

So, it's been an eventful month at our little homestead. Blessings abound. I have always believed that animal companions lend much warmth to a home, but this darling dog has exceeded my expectations pleasantly.

P.S. Learned the hard way to proactively repel ticks. On her and on us. Also? She's going to cost us a fortune in food, toys, and various accoutrements. Oh, well. I'll get back the fitness club fee, I suppose...

Fissures and closure

I have wanted for weeks now to write about the past presidential election. Happily, I've waited, rewritten, reconsidered, and have shortened my rather bitter diatribe. I guess God's hand reached down and helped me erase the hurtful things I'd written in reactive haste; hopefully what I've penned more recently will be a more intelligent, sensitive response to how I've been feeling.

But still, the election. Wow. Sordid stuff overall. The entire experience has left an aftermath of division and hard feelings on all sides. Such an ugly campaign leaves behind a foul flavor in the mouth of every decent human being, and also a slew of destroyed friendships.

Now, some of the lost were "friends" (insert emoji or thumbs-up icon here). And most of those lost friendships don't hurt much. It's upsetting, yes, but I'm guessing that most of you, like me, can't feel too distressed over the loss of someone with whom you rarely (or never) spoke.

The lost friendships that I write about today are the at least somewhat genuine friendships. The people with whom you have a history other than online. These are the folks you are quite likely to see in the real world again, maybe even on a frequent basis. The ones you might have actually enjoyed talking with. When members of your meaningful circle dump you? Yeah, that stings a bit.

At the same time, though, these losses have begun to feel inevitable to me. What I mean is that in the cases of now-dissolved friendships killed by the election, I can't say that any of them came as a complete surprise. There were signs all along, funny looks when I spoke my true opinion about things, awkward laughter and raised eyebrows in my general direction, or just silence as a reply... Am I sad that these people and I cannot have a calm, informed dialect about important subjects? Yes. However, the past months have confirmed my suspicions as fact: those former friends and I had irreconcilably different beliefs about some pretty fundamental things.

It is much easier to get along with everyone agreeably when there is nothing on the line. In peacetime, at coffee dates and school events, and in the virtual world of cat videos, we can gloss over a lot of differences. Everyone likes pizza and puppies, right? Here's a funny meme, haha! Your child scored a point, hurray! We're friends!!! Companions are plentiful when there is no real-life tipping point forcing our hairline relationship cracks into the light.

For that is what this election has done: it has exposed pre-existing relationship cracks. The invisible lines have given way to small fissures; they weren't even discernible before, but now they yawn before us like small crevasses. That stress fracture was there all along; it required only the conversational beating of dead horses in order to be revealed. And then? Unfriends abound.

I'm going to choose to view this election season as a small but effective hammer that has brought my social stress fractures into the light. And in the same way that I've decided never to finish reading an unassigned book that I don't like, I am also coming to realize more and more that it's okay not to keep up appearances of friendships. Life is too short to expend physical and emotional energy by pouring into unfruitful relationships.

In one of my favorite books, Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, the author mentions how difficult is to keep up with expanding social demands: "For life today in America is based on the premise of ever-widening circles of contact and communication." If that woman thought it was tough over 60 years ago, then imagine the challenge now! There is no feasible way you can keep up with every single contact you've encountered. There is also, I would suggest, no real reason whatsoever for attempting to do so.

Trees and bushes benefit greatly from a timely, informed trimming. (Hats off to a former co-worker, Facie, for coining this great concept!) Our social contact list can often be enriched by a good trim. That doesn't mean I will be trying to alienate anyone, or that it's acceptable to be mean or rude. Be cordial, be kind, be respectful—especially to those who disagree, as they're the most challenging. But be honest with yourself when you encounter and recognize a time- and energy-sucking situation that isn't going to change; see it truly as the fracture it is. Acknowledge it. Then smile, bite your tongue, let go the friend, and skip away to freedom and peace.

Ssshhhhhh

Wow, life has sped up recently and doesn't show signs of slowing anytime soon. I am trying to find my [figurative] sneakers so I can keep up.

And once again, Thanksgiving is upon us. A lovely holiday, truly. Like any holiday, though, it can become fraught with idealistic expectations and high drama. Will the turkey be perfect? Will everyone make it to Grandma's on time? Will anyone eat too much and feel ill? Will someone make awkward comments about when so-and-so might finally get married and/or have a baby? Will anyone fight in public, or loudly discuss matters that should remain private?

Well, you'll have to see for yourself. We'll all be celebrating in our own little worlds, or choosing not to participate in the over-fed madness. Some folks will not be celebrating at all, and will be alone; I am hoping God puts those people on my heart, because for many folks, that emptiness will be a sad state, and it doesn't have to be that way...

Re: expectations and drama, I'll say only this. In the Bible study I'm taking, we met in our small groups, and were all instructed to take turns telling about the happiest time of our lives. Many of the women in my group mentioned the obvious big days: birth of children, wedding, anniversaries... But one woman who's a cancer survivor mentioned how she's begun to cherish the quiet, un-momentous occasions in her life—those moments when she is subtly aware of contentedness, when she can hear God's still, small voice, when she feels blessed and fully aware of her blessings. Those glimpses are more precious to her now, because they offer views into a deeper happiness that is based on much more than circumstances.

And she is right, I think. I pondered how big, happy moments tend to make me feel uneasy, suspicious—when I experience that state, I immediately begin waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. In my pre-diabetic sensibility, I suppose that "happy" has begun to feel like a sugar rush to me... A rush that, as we all should know by now, is followed shortly thereafter by a blood sugar crash.

So, like my acquaintance, I'll be seeking the softer, subtler happy. It's unlikely that the upcoming holidays will be perfect, and that's okay. We are, after all, more than our food and families. We are more than what we buy, or what we experience. Our lives are a tapestry, not all bright colors and splashy designs, but tattered sections and dull, sparrow-like shades, too. We need to adjust our vision to see all the moments around us, even the quiet beige ones. To my way of thinking, sugar-rush emotions will never compare to simple delights of this world.

Wishing you a grateful heart that can see blessings,

mel

Falling out of love

I come from a history of "stuff" people. I'm not saying that any of my ancestors were hoarders or anything; I'm just saying that a lot of my relatives really liked (and still like) to surround themselves with their favorite objects—all one billion of them.

Perhaps your lineage is similar to mine (rampant with collectors); or, it's possible that you just happen to be in love with stuff, like most of the folks in our country. If I'm talking about you, and you'd like to change, I have a wonderful solution. Read on.

First, get big piles of your belongings—not the stuff you use every day, mind you, but the stuff that you like and that isn't sentimentally loaded with meaning. For example, the bowl set you got on sale (but not Aunt Mary's measuring cup). The funky little lamp that was on clearance but doesn't really match anything in your home, the kitchen "convenience" that has been responsible for more dust bunnies than culinary wonders. Or you men: the third tool set, perhaps, or the great gift, years old now, that has never left its box.

Now, put all those items in containers and hide them completely out of sight—in the attic, a shed, the darkest corner of your basement.

Then, wait at least six weeks. Don't peek in the boxes.

And then, peek. Ponder how little you've missed the items. Think deeply about how their absence made not one iota of difference in your day-to-day life.

Take it a step further: picture in your mind all those same items, along with all your other truly necessary possessions, being hoisted, lifted, and cursed quietly by your friends who have to pick them up and move them to another dwelling.

Now, take all the items you've suddenly realized you can easily live without, and cull any truly valuable pieces for secondhand sales attempts on craigslist. The rest of that stuff? Place it all in the back of your car. Drive to a nearby charity. Leave it there, and drive away.

(Regarding the re-sale attempts, establish a firm, short sales window and stick with your deadline; if the items don't sell, get rid of them the same way you got rid of the rest.)

Finally, breathe deeply. Life is all about perspective. You just had to gain a new perspective about a significant chunk of your household trappings. All that was required was a mental image of people you know and like, sweating and struggling, working to transfer all those unused space stealers.

It's so easy to fall out of love. Isn't it?

When old friends change teams

I've already mentioned here how you're likely to run into people you know in this city. It happens all the time, especially at events in the downtown area. Throngs of people are milling, milling, and the chances are always good that a familiar face will surface. I saw an old friend recently, one with whom I'd lost contact for several years. Last time I saw her, she was married with children. A dedicated mom and wife. Settled. Committed.

Well, I ran into her downtown, and this time, she was arm-in-arm with someone other than her husband. A woman, in fact.

I did a double-take, because surely, this person only looked like the person I had known. But no: closer inspection revealed that it was, indeed, my old friend. And there was no doubt that she was "with" the woman by her side. I could distinctly sense their partnership.

Now, I've worked at creative firms before. I've known some folks who made no effort to hide the fact that they preferred someone of the same sex. Some of those folks I've liked and respected, and some I've avoided... So, I've responded to them pretty much the same way I've responded to heterosexual people. Twenty years ago? This scene might have made me more uncomfortable. Now? I've seen it. It doesn't freak me out as much as it used to.

BUT. This person was married with a family. Was I to assume that she was meeting a gal-pal on the sly? That this downtown foray was covert? That she lived a double life? That I was the only one to know her secret? I pondered it as I watched the couple from behind the safety of my sunglasses. I used to know this person pretty well; she's not a secretive sort. That's why we got along well; we were both rather obtuse; straight shooters, if you will. Would I have the ability to lead a double life, let alone a lesbian double life? Hell, no. So, it was pretty unlikely that she was doing that.

Then I started to wonder whether not saying anything would bite me in the bum. Would she see me, recognize me, and wonder whether I avoided her because she was with a woman? I honestly liked her when I knew her, and I would feel bad if she thought I'd give her the cold shoulder even if I did feel a tad weird about her date.

In the end, I approached her and said hello. And she knew me in an instant, and was happy to see me. I met her girlfriend. We caught up on the past decade or two, on the events of our lives—both of us had much to share, although my story couldn't begin to compare with hers for sheer surprise factor... I was glad I'd spoken, but it was a bit awkward; she's divorced now. Her kids are pretty much grown. I wondered how they had reacted to all this change... but it's no use wondering, really. It is what it is.

Still. I just keep thinking about that brief interlude. People change, yes. People pursue different careers. People marry, and break up, and have children and lose children. But to change teams: that's big. It's a whole new level of change; it's sort of like meeting an old colleague who's found religion, or become a fanatic about a cure for some illness or a weight-loss plan, or emerged after a sad period to a whole new existence of possibilities. The person is fundamentally the same person you knew before, and yet. And yet. There's been such a serious shift in the person's priorities and interests that he or she is almost like a new person.

I'm truly not certain where I stand on the whole same-sex thing. Do I think people of the same sex can marry? No, I don't. The Bible states pretty clearly that marriage occurs between and man and woman. That said, I used to know two men who were better at being an "old married couple" than most heterosexual couples. Can people of the same sex love each other? I'm sure they can. Is being a couple always about the sex part? No, of course not; I'm certain almost any married couple who's been together for many years would agree that sex isn't the ultimate glue that holds the pair together.

To me, union with another person is about commitment, about sticking to that person even when you don't feel like it, about companionship when no one else will come near, about helping to lift heavy objects both literal and figurative. Union is sometimes as boring as going to the store for the other one who's sick, or being the voice of encouragement and affirmation during hurtful family occasions. It's sharing coffee and meals, or unloading on the other after a bad day and knowing that the someone will listen. And I feel pretty certain that same-sex couples can do all those things for each other just like married people can.

Yes, it's not biblical. I know that. It's not the way a union between two people was intended. I hate thinking about same-sex lifestyles being presented as a normal option, I do; however, I also balk at most of what's considered normal these days. There are plenty of really messy "normal" couples out there who are lousing up their kids and cheating on each other and making awful, destructive, and selfish decisions. I detest the idea of young, homosexual singles out looking for some fun; I also hate the idea of any young heterosexual person selling him- or herself short by participating in tawdry, meaningless flings. None of it is right; it's all sin, it all cheapens the human soul. I've seen it and was even part of it in my younger years, and none of it is pretty; it's all shameful. We all sin and fall short. Whose sin is worse doesn't seem worthy of argument.

Do I think people choose to be homosexual? I have no idea. I can honestly see how sometimes, consequences might lead a person down that path; abuse by someone of the opposite sex, encouragement in that direction by an influential adult, the confused hope that embracing something less standard will make the person feel more important and unique. But I honestly believe that most people who gravitate to that lifestyle and stay there are drawn to it because it's just part of their makeup. Perhaps it's genetic, perhaps it's determined by the brain, perhaps it's none of those things—but I can't imagine most people would choose to practice any lifestyle that pretty much ensures a tougher road for nearly everyone who takes it. Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know. I've never had any inclination in that direction. But it doesn't seem like an easy choice, and I don't think I would choose it.

Still, people do sometimes prefer someone of the same sex. Some animals, too, or so I've read. Occasionally, the person who prefers it is a person you know. I'm not sure what to make of the whole thing, except now I'm a bit more certain about one aspect: it's a whole lot easier to have opinions on things when you don't have any friends who practice those things.

P.S. It doesn't matter who. Please don't try to guess who—at least not here. Thanks.

Pleasant rediscoveries

I've recently rediscovered a few things that delight me. I love when that happens.

Painting. A couple of months, maybe more, had passed since I'd attempted to paint anything. There wasn't time, there wasn't inspiration, the blizzard's natural lighting was poor, and then so much time went by that I began to psych myself out of actually doing it. I'd find a momentary opportunity and I'd start to get ready, but then laundry would beckon, or I'd realize I had nothing for dinner, or I'd look at the clock and notice I really only had about 40 minutes and that's not nearly enough time to gather supplies and prepare the easel and—you get the idea. Maybe you do this, too, especially with pastimes you love that can be intimidating after long absences. But then, I did it: I forced myself to grab the measly window of time, to get out the paints, to dive in. And now, the gourd family portrait is finally complete. Aaaahhhhh. Painting.

Shortening. The thick, stiff, white stuff that looks like lard. The totally unnatural substance that was every housewife's necessity, every baker's dream until the words saturated fat and trans fat and olive oil and margarine began to cloud people's perception of the stuff. I had sworn off shortening years ago, embracing butter for all baking needs and making no excuses for the heart-clogging properties it brought with it. I was not about to let shortening into my home, because it didn't go bad, ever! And then I read online that it doesn't even attract bugs or flies! And I couldn't begin to explain the process of partial or complete hydrogenization, so anything created by that process could not live in my kitchen. And yet, years later, it was still on the shelves, and had not yet killed anyone. I relented recently, because a cookie recipe I wanted to try called for the nasty, white, flavorless stuff. I bought some. I baked the cookies. Whoa. The cookies were fluffy. They were soft and chewy yet crisp on the outside. They were divine. It had to be the shortening. Now the can of it that I bought is half-empty. Why did I stay away so long? All those good old-fashioned bakeries can't be wrong. Just wait until I use it to make icing...!

Hoods on coats. They rock. Now that I'm old, I don't care quite as much as I used to about whether my appearance is pleasing to others. Now, in winter, I just slap the giant, oversized hood of my coat atop my head, and step out into the dizziest blizzard with no fears of sticky hairspray head. Feeding the birds in a storm? Not a problem with my huge hood head. Rushing into the office through yet another snow shower, sporting just-styled hair? No worries, mate—just don the hood and tread onward. Best of all, I can't lose the darned thing like I do umbrellas, because the wonderful hood is attached to the coat or jacket it adorns (sort of my like my proverbial head which, thankfully, is attached and therefore cannot be left somewhere inappropriate or misplaced in a hurried shuffle). And hoods look so perfect with tall boots, which are also fabulous... but I've already waxed poetic about one item of winter gear, and that's enough.

Good friends and neighbors. I forget their utmost importance until times of need arise. My folks have had a rough couple of weeks; their offspring and various family members rally around them and do their best, which is great—but some good pals and caring neighbors of theirs recently stepped up to the plate and hit a home run or two or five. Convenient rides, big snow plows, and just plain helpful hands have all been proffered and very much appreciated. It's one of the positive things about hardships: the stress reveals not just cracks, but also partners and supporters. I need to appreciate those people more, and also work on being one of them whenever I can.

Have you had any great rediscoveries lately?

Straight outta Seinfeld

There are many aspects to Pittsburgh area living. There are disadvantages and disadvantages, opportunities to grow and learn as well as opportunities to have your purse stolen or be harangued by a crazy person. You can drive past the theatre (that’s “re” at the end, not “er”—as IF) and be surrounded by the cultured and privileged few in furs and heels, but you can also drive past a pyrohi festival or a bunch of people tailgating somewhere and see the very common masses.

Saturday was a day for the masses, I’m afraid.

I planned to meet my gal pal and take a nice, long walk after lunchtime. We consulted our schedules, consulted various other schedules (OK, no baseball game, we’re safe), and decided the North Shore would be an optimum place; it’s in the middle, there’s a fairly new bike and walking path, the views are lovely but we’d avoid the nonsense of parking too close to the big arts festival.

We confirmed the time and I began the short drive. Why so much traffic? Boy, was the arts fest really this popular? We always go on weekdays… I continued on my trek, and then the cell phone rang. My friend was sitting in the Fort Pitt tunnel, not sure why… We decided to keep the plan but see what developed. Five minutes later, it all became clear to me. People were partying in the stadium parking lots, grills going full tilt, country music blaring, there were hundreds of Y108 signs (a local country station—no, I’m not a listener)… It suddenly hit me that there was a B I G concert today. I had a vague recollection of seeing Kenny Chesney’s name in the paper that week. Bet it’s him, I thought.

I called my pal, who still sat hopelessly in the bowels of the tunnel. I told her the sad news while she watched the other, non-concert-bound lane move past her, and we made the revised decision to hit the South Side instead. North, South, who cares? They both have trails now, and on Saturday, only one neighborhood featured a bunch of sweaty, scantily clad people drinking heavily and singing along to a country crooner.

(On a side note, I’m biting my tongue here because I could easily write an entire column on the hideous nature of many concert-attendee outfits. I saw far too much flesh that should not be revealed in the light of day. I saw cute ensembles that had to be 2 sizes too small for the unfortunate people wearing them. I saw sizeable portions of female rears peeking out, and enough cleavage to swallow a small town, and orange-peel skin gone wild. I won’t go on—there’s no need—but much of what was exposed in those hot, sunny lots was darned unpretty. Sadly, no one there was peddling any shame.)

So, on I drove, south this time, crossing two more bridges and finding my slow but steady way to the new meeting place. A-ha! A parallel parking place, with time left on the meter—I snagged it, slapped sunscreen on my pasty arms and legs, and scurried to meet the friend. We hit a restroom (always a must after 45 minutes of car time) and then found trail access and got moving. It’s a decent trail, albeit a tad hard to follow at times and poorly marked; we talked and visited and stepped out of the way of the hundreds of mad bikers speeding past us like the slow-moving scum we were. After what seemed like a mile, we surmised we were close to the busy part of Carson Street. Hey, let’s leave the trail for a bit, hit Carson, and get a water. What a great idea!

We came up right by Bruegger’s, and popped in to accomplish our simple task. Not so simple, apparently. Three people were in front of us in line to pay; they were together, had their order on the counter, and the front one, the only fellow among them (I use the term loosely), was throwing a hissy fit right there. Yes, I mean hissy fit. I was more masculine than this guy. He and his two older female companions were dark-skinned, probably Hispanic; as his voice rose, his accent became more pronounced.

“I am going to make a scene and be rude as s*** because he threw a pickle at me!” This spoken in the petulant manner of a wronged man-child. “I’m not paying for this sandwich because I didn’t want the pickle and he put it on there anyway!”

Now the manager (a.k.a. alleged pickle-thrower) stepped up to the cash register and stood next to the girl who was cashing folks out. “I'm the manager, and you cannot use foul language here! That is unacceptable and you need to leave the store! Please leave here right now.” What made the whole exchange so comical was the fact that as effeminate as the tantrum boy was, the poor store manager was every bit as much so. One was dark and street-wise; the other was slight and fair and, at this point, absolutely indignant at the behavior exhibited by the Mexican thug.

“You need to apologize to me for throwing the pickle!”

“I did not throw a pickle at you! You’re crazy!”

As they continued to shout at each other with increasing emotion, the other folks in the store looked around in disbelief, and my friend and I looked at each other, stifling laughter at the absurdity and wondering silently if we should take our water search elsewhere. The cashier had stood without comment next to the manager, but now she motioned for us to step forward while the argument went on. There we stood, paying for a bottle of water while the crazy border family stood right next to us. It was an awkward moment; I could sense the acute embarrassment of the two women. Finally, as the girl made change for us, the ladies turned and left the store, minus their sandwiches and their spoiled girly man. We followed them shortly, and as we exited, the crazy Mexican guy tried to coerce us into involvement in the bedlam. “He just admitted he threw the pickle. Did anyone hear him admit that?”

I could feel him looking at us as we passed, and I said, “No.”

He began to rant again, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps he was unhinged or armed or something, but by then I was reaching for the door handle and we were stepping into the bright, logical sun. As we made our way back toward the trail, we started to talk about the ridiculous scene we’d witnessed, but my observant friend hushed me when she saw we were walking right past the two women who’d fled the place in shame. There they stood, waiting at the car, avoiding our gazes just as we avoided theirs.

Yet the beautiful day took away our need to rehash the silliness. We talked briefly about how thankful we were that we don’t have that kind of anger, what a shame it is that young, green people end up in management positions and have to deal with such moments, and—most of all—how amazing it is that God loves everyone. And then, we were back on the trail and moving on to better, more productive topics of conversation.

You see how multifaceted this city is? Where else could you get stuck in a huge city traffic jam but be surrounded by people wearing ten-gallon hats, micro-minis and boots? Where else could you park in front of BCBG Maxazaria, then practically get knocked to the ground by people zipping along on bikes in outdoor gear? Where else could you walk past picnics and filch blackberries from wild bushes while gazing across the river at giant coal barges, expensive sport boats, and jet skis? And where else could you step in to buy a bottle of water and instead experience the drama of witnessing two flamboyant young men shout at and threaten each other over what may or may not have been a thrown pickle?

Quite a day, all in all. And the weather was wonderful—thankfully, it was only stormy in that bagel shop.

Monkey's parallel universe

One of Marcus’ favorite stuffed toys is a monkey whom he’s named—appropriately enough—Monkey. (So logical, my boy is. I love it.) Monkey doesn’t possess quite the same long-standing favor as, say, the twin teddies, but he’s pretty close. Monkey is a frequent player in Rescue Bunny, Doctor Bunny, and any other pretend game that goes on here. He is also known to ride in, and even drive!, various trucks around the house. He’s been seen bull-riding on Eddy Bunny’s dad at least once. He sometimes sits with us at meals, and he is always present when Marcus goes to sleep at night.

The funny thing is that Monkey has taken on a strong personality of his own, and apparently it’s such a sparkling personality that it’s given birth to a whole alternate world. Monkey’s world is not a Bizarro World, where things are opposite what they are in real life; Monkey’s world is more of a companion world, where situations and events are similar to what goes on here at our house, on our street, with our friends, etc.

For example, a song will come on the radio, and Marcus will proclaim, “I love this song. Monkey plays this song at his house all the time.” Or, Marcus will be enjoying a particular food, and he’ll tell me, “We eat this at Monkey’s every day.”
Many days include informal play dates at Monkey’s: “I’m going to Monkey’s this afternoon to play. Hedgehog can’t come because he is sick.”

Sometimes, the exact same thing happens in Monkey’s World as is happening in ours; Marcus and Daddy saw an accident scene on the road as they drove home the other night, and sure enough, Marcus and Monkey had seen flashing lights along the road earlier that day. A water main broke on our street late one night, and wouldn’t you know it, a main broke on Monkey’s street the very next day. Monkey has friends at preschool just as Marcus does; Monkey also tends to suffer the same injuries as Marcus does… You get the idea.

I'm amused that this is the first obvious imaginary friend—a soft, bean-bag primate, a faithful friend, a fuzzy pal with whom Marcus can share everything that he can’t or won’t share with his live counterparts. Sometimes, in rare quiet moments when Marcus plays in his room, I can just barely hear him in there conversing with Monkey (whose voice is very high, I’ve discerned). I wonder what they’re talking about. I wonder what Monkey has to say about it all. I imagine him listening carefully to my boy, then lifting an eyebrow and commenting in sage fashion. I picture him hanging by his long tail, swinging idly from a bedpost while the two of them plan their next Duplo engineering feat. I picture him smirking in a silly fashion as they hide successfully from Eddy Bunny in a good-natured game of hide-and-seek.

The whole exercise takes me back to my youth, when I honestly suspected that stuffed animals came to life when I wasn’t looking. I suppose I knew the truth even then, and yet—can’t you picture Monkey going about his business in that alternate world? His existence isn’t really any more absurd than our own, when you think about it.

The downward “contacts” spiral

We ventured back to the zoo recently to see the baby elephant, and were fortunate to snap a photo. She was quite cute, hanging out underneath her mom and peeking out at the crowd of admirers across the fence. There was a baby tiger, too, although our only glimpse of him (through countless heads of other observers, of course) was of his furry body lying asleep on a folding lawn chair.

What with baby animals to view, and it being summertime and all, the zoo was crawling with folks. There were bazillions of kids. There were parents who spent much of the time just ticking off heads to make sure everyone was still with the group. There were moms, dads, and the inordinate amount of what appeared to be grandparents, all herding children through the park.

My old college roommate was there with her hoard.

I saw her just outside the monkey house, pushing a stroller with one child, surrounded by other small ones. I was pretty certain about who it was, as she was relatively unchanged from the last time I’d seen her a few years after we’d graduated. She looked great, slim as ever, unlined face, no bags or sags that I could discern (darn her). And then her twin sister came up behind her, also pushing a kid and leading another, and the kids were all cute and well-behaved, and this sister looked just as good as the first sister.

And I stepped back to let the masses pass, and I kept my sunglasses firmly on my face and said nothing. They never really looked at me, intent as they were on keeping the gang together, and I never spoke up or tried to get their attention.

I don’t know why, really. The last time I saw that girl, we spoke and were friendly and things were fine. We’d parted a little roughly after being roommates, that’s true; we had shared a dorm room and for the first half of the year, things were great and we had a lot in common, and then she had the nerve (tee hee) to become a Christian and suddenly we had nothing in common, she hated my music, was against all parties, was a tad aloof with my friends… Needless to say we did not room together again. But honestly, there are no hard feelings that I’m aware of. I just didn’t feel like a reunion. (Well, I’d never liked her sister much, either—she always flirted shamelessly with my boyfriend at the time, the coquette.) But seriously, it was hot and crowded and there were kids everywhere and we didn’t go to the zoo to get together with old friends; we went to see the animals, to give the kids a fun time, to be outside instead of in. We did not go to reminisce. At least that was my stance.

It’s funny—in this day and age, it’s quite common for people to switch directions several times in a life: kid-dom, college/post-school, career with multiple jobs, marriage perhaps, maybe a family, another career with more jobs… The average person has known many more people than he or she can capably stay connected to. And yet, we have more ways than ever of being in touch with people—so there seems to be this palpable pressure to keep in contact with everyone you’ve ever known. I wonder sometimes how people used to keep in touch with so many folks in the “old days” before technology enabled us to communicate so easily… and then I ponder that perhaps there just weren’t as many people to keep in touch with. We’ve created our own monster, first with frequent and speedy life changes, then with crowds of people to accompany each change and beyond, and lastly with innumerable gadgets to help you blab with someone incessantly.

Something similar happened to me last spring; I was shopping with the kid, minding my own business, and the next thing I knew someone was saying, “Mel, is that you? Mel?” And sure enough, it was another girl I’d known in college, a friend of a friend, who’d spent time in some of the same circles I had. She was shopping too, with her children, and we chatted and caught up a bit and then she whipped out her cell phone and asked for my number so we could get together sometime. I dutifully whipped out mine, too, and we exchanged numbers and parted ways with warm smiles. And that was that. I’ve never called her; she’s never called me. And it was honestly nice to see her. But that doesn’t mean we want to see each other again, intentionally.

The truth is, if we wanted to get together, then chances are good we’d have kept each other’s phone numbers handy for years prior to bumping into each other at the department store. I know there are exceptions, people lose touch or someone moves and the new address is lost, etc., but in most cases people who want to keep in contact do just that: they keep in contact. They go out of their way to talk, to meet, whatever.

I’m hesitant to admit that I have very few contacts that have remained with me through my many life changes. The truth is, I’m just not the same person I used to be. If I’d talked to that former roommate at the zoo, it would have felt like talking to someone who used to know someone I knew… but that’s all. That woman doesn’t know me any more than she knows a stranger. At least that’s how far away that world that we shared seems to me now.

Or am I just a bad friend, the one who lets the relationship slip? I know a handful of dedicated folks who still write letters to the people they knew decades ago. My own parents are still close to the same people they were friends with over 50, even 60 years ago. I try to tell them how rare that is…but maybe I’m the rare one.

I don’t know. All I know is that if I start to recall all the people from my past who I haven’t seen or spoken to for years, my head hurts and I feel guilty. And Lord knows there’s enough of that going around; I’m not going to encourage it. Now, please excuse me while I put on my dark glasses.

How I came to be diabetic

By the time you've finished reading this post, some of you might think I’ve flipped my lid. Ah well, that’s the beauty of the blog: No one is forcing anyone to read it...or to affirm its contents.

Many of you already know that inside my big file at the doctor’s office, I’ve been diagnosed as prediabetic. It showed up during my pregnancy as gestational diabetes, about two thirds of the way through the experience. It was a pain in the hind end, and I really missed ice cream, cake, real yogurt, chocolate, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, and all those other staples of pregnancy…but my GD wasn’t as severe as it could have been; I never had to take insulin, or give myself a shot, and although I still hate to stick myself for blood samples, it really wasn’t so bad. I lost my pregnancy weight pretty quickly, and the diet worked because my dear little boy was just under 7 pounds—not a huge kid at all.

Typically, the condition of gestational diabetes disappears as soon as the child emerges. However, developing GD increases your chances of developing plain ol’ diabetes later in life. In my case, I just felt weird in the months following the birth of Marcus, and even though the doctors felt no need to re-test me when all was said and done, I wanted to have it done just for peace of mind. So I asked them to do so, and they agreed. But just as with many other tests, getting results for the blood test that measures glucose levels can take a few days of waiting.

Now, during those months after I had my son, another drama was unfolding. A gal I know, not really well but semi-well, had discovered that she had cancer. She was going for daily radiation treatments even while I was waiting for my blood test results from the diabetes re-check. She is married, with a nice-sized family. Small children—and since this was a couple years back, the kids were even smaller then. She’s very nice, very sweet, has nothing negative to say about anyone, is a good mom and wife, and is simply a pleasant and friendly woman. She’s a great person.

And I was driving one day with my baby securely in the back seat, running errands, and I was praying. (With my eyes open, of course—don’t worry!) First I was praying for my test results, and I don’t remember the exact words, but you can guess the gist: Lord, please let those results come back negative, please let my paranoia be just that, etc. And then, I was praying for this friend, praying that the treatments worked, praying that she would be healed completely.

And suddenly I was convicted in my heart, because here she was fighting a much bigger fight than me, fighting to stay alive, to stay here on this Earth and raise her family… and I was bemoaning the potential loss of chocolate cake from my daily existence. Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it. I stopped praying for a minute to let that sink in. I felt a bit selfish.

And I heard a voice; it said, “Would you be willing to accept diabetes if this woman can be healed?” or something quite close to that. I kid you not, it was as if the voice was in my head. It was not a big, booming voice or a still whisper or anything like that—just a voice, a clear vein of thought. And I knew who was asking, and I knew what my answer should be. I am happy to tell you that my honest, gut response matched the response that in my heart I knew was desirable to the One who was asking: Yes, I answered. Yes, of course, if it means that she is here and well.

And that was that. The light changed or traffic sped up or something took my mind off the exchange—and it had been an exchange, at least to me. Within a few days, I had the call from the doc’s office, asking me to come back in. Yes, I was, indeed, still diabetic, but just barely so. Yes, I still needed to do what I’d done when pregnant, although not to the same extreme. Yes, it could worsen at any time—but thus far, it has not.

The conclusion of the story? My friend finished her treatments, and no, she has not had any recurrences. I pray that will always be the case. Would my answer to that inside-my-head question be the same today? You bet it would.

(I’d love to see you right now, reader, and see whether you are shaking your head and compressing your lips in doubt. All I can say is that if you know me, you also know that I lack imagination and have often been accused of believing thing only when they slap me across the face. If you know me, then you know I couldn’t make this up. Enough said.)

How to advise others

In a word: don’t.

No one wants to hear it. No one is seeking your wisdom. No one believes you can really help them. And if they ask for your opinion? Confirm this: make absolutely certain they really, truly want your opinion. Then, refrain from giving it to them.

Most of the time, people don’t want another opinion. They want a voice, other than the one inside their heads, and they want that outside voice to agree completely with everything they’re saying or doing or thinking.

And I can’t blame them. I’m the same way. When people advise me, of anything, my gut instinct (once I’ve confirmed that they don’t agree with me) is to tune them out until they’ve finished imparting knowledge. What could they possibly know? They’re not me. They’ve never felt what I feel. Besides, they’re wrong, about everything. And so, I blunder on in my mistakes, holding tightly to my own weird thought system that keeps me bound in my current messes.

And we’re all that way. I heard a saying once that went something like this: “People do whatever they want to do for their own good reasons.” Meaning, they won’t do anything for my good reasons—only for theirs. I have to remind myself of that daily.

So, when I see people heading down the sure path of regret—bad decisions made but not yet realized, poor choices not yet played out, foolish investments just before the big crash—I simply bite my tongue. No one would listen anyway. What’s the point of creating all those hard feelings? The people I want to save are not eager for my two cents, and in truth, I’d probably be about as receptive as they are if I were in their boat. Even if they ask for my thoughts, I try to keep said thoughts as bland and meaningless as I can.

It’s taken me nearly 40 years to learn this truth, and I’m still learning it. My big mouth has cost me some friends; it may cost me some more before I really get a strong hold on it. But if I know anything, I know that in addition to having far too many opinions and predictions, I’m a pretty poor liar; if I can’t say what I feel, I’d better not say a word. Besides, if someone’s always asking for another opinion, chances are he’s not too certain about his own. More opinions coming that person’s way can only further confuse him.

One nice lesson learned is that every now and then, I’m completely off base. I clearly recall, a few years back, vehemently advising a gal pal to “dump the guy—he’s a loser.” She didn’t listen to me, thankfully; now, they’re happily married with a sweet little son. I don’t mind being wrong in a case like that. : )

A weird sort of camelot

I saw an old friend today. Reminiscing with her reminded me that many of Todd’s and my friends happen to be people we met at an old job. The same job where, conveniently, we also met each other. It’s odd; I exchange Christmas cards with one lady I taught school with, I'm still close to a gal with whom I suffered through a year at a law firm…but I keep close tabs on about 10 folks from that one communications firm, not counting my husband, and I stay loosely aware of the whereabouts of at least 10 more.

Why? What is it about the time spent there that keeps us in overlapping social circles? Most of us have discussed how it’s unusual, and the only thing we’ve ever come up with as far as explanation is that this particular company hires great people. Not to sound smug, but they really do. I met some of the brightest, most creative people I’ve ever known when they were my co-workers at that firm. I still wonder how I made it through their doors. Desperation on their part, I guess. ; )

But it has to be more than that. I can’t help believing there’s a deeper reason for us to keep reaching out to each other, even now—especially when you consider that the vast majority of us are no longer employed by this company.

I have a theory, and I’ve decided to dub it “The Camelot Factor.” When I first joined the firm, and for about two years after that point, the company was profitable and popular; they made every effort to wear that success well. The leaders didn’t do everything perfectly, by any means, but by and large, they were generous and kind. There were numerous off-site meetings, some rather luxurious, and there were parties and celebrations for every possible achievement. Even when people left the company, they received commendations and a luncheon of some sort. There were funky, artsy clients that amounted to great freebies and discounts for us. There were a number of singles there, most of whom actually liked each other. The result of all this is that a great number of my work memories are of genuinely good, fun times.

But the Camelot Factor requires more than festivities, perks, and social outings to seal that bond between workers. It also requires a majority of folks who are comfortable with who they are and who they’re becoming. It requires a lot of people in similar circumstances, with similar interests. It requires a shared appreciation for hard work well done, and respect for each other. Maybe it even requires some shared suffering. But not just suffering—Lord knows I’ve suffered at some other jobs, and still never formed any lasting bond with my colleagues.

For me, the romance of the place remains rose-tinged because, even though it drove me crazy by the time I left it, I honestly started to like myself when I worked there. I started to feel as if I had something to offer, talents to explore, amazing people to befriend and learn from. When I first started there, I felt so blessed to be part of it. I wonder if my former colleagues recall the same sort of glow, in themselves and others they knew there.

Even now, having chosen to leave the firm years ago, I still carry that blessing, those friends, that wide range of experiences and lessons learned there. I still feel pride that I was part of it in its shiniest days. Stupid, misplaced pride, perhaps—but I can’t deny that it’s in me. Mostly, I am grateful for the many contacts from those days whom I still enjoy on an almost daily basis.

It certainly was no Camelot. And yet—it was quite a “congenial spot,” if not for ever-aftering, then for making memories.