Late

Posted on February 9, 2011 by daeja's view

I decided I was going to go to a yoga class after work tonight. It was only the second time I was going to this particular venue.   Of course, fifteen minutes before it was time to leave work,  I got held up with the kind of things that often only happen when you really are trying to get out the door. I swear, the place I work at  is like a vortex.  If you have anything you really need to do, you better do it before you arrive in the morning, because once you are there it sucks you in and you can’t get out.

Finally got on the road and realized I was going to be late for the yoga class.  I hate being late for anything.  Totally hate it.  I am an on-time type of person.  Sometimes I am even an early person, but being late stresses me out.  And who wants to walk into a yoga class after it starts, with everyone all serene and meditative?  It’s just so…obvious.   So as I am driving closer and closer, I am deciding that if I get to the parking lot and the class has started, I will just drive by and go home, but if I make it on time I will go in.  I was ambivalent at this point.

Traffic was light.  I was going to be on time.  Then I get into the parking lot and there is no place to park.  The yoga class is at a gym and this gym is always crowded at 5:30pm.  On a regular day, cars are parked haphazardly all over the embankments and any place they can manage to squeeze in.  With all the snow storms we have had, there is no place to put the snow anymore and every place has gotten very narrow.  So I circled behind a row of other cars all looking for that space. I went around twice. I even left the gym, went back up on the road and came back in again, giving it one more shot.

The Universe provided via a really good space up front that suddenly opened up, I snatched it, ran inside…and the class had already started.  I was late.  When I opened the door, it made a loud creak. I had my coat and boots on – the coat whooshed and the boots thunked.  The zipper was loud. Then I had to remember to turn off my cell phone and that made a musical tune.  The velcro strap on my mat made a rrrrrippp noise.  Then I had to find a place to squish in.  I unrolled my mat on the side against a wall (thunk), only to find there was no room to move freely. I had to get up and move, stepping around people, and finally I relocated to a spot up front.  It was all a little tense.

But then, I found that the girl on mat next to me had been at my daughter’s wedding.  It’s amazing what a friendly face can do!  Suddenly everything was OK.

So – not much to blog about in this one, just a little vignette from this afternoon.

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O Neti Neti

Posted on February 7, 2011 by daeja's view

During the course of a nasty sinus headache a few winters ago, a nurse that I worked with suggested I try using a Neti Pot. I had never heard of one, so she launched into an extremely animated explanation, mimicking its use.  She was extremely excited about it, and whenever I ran into her afterwards she would always mention her Neti Pot and ask if I had tried it yet.  This particular nurse was known for being sort of a nut case in other arenas.  Her tales of nasal irrigation (that phrase conjurs up unpleasant visuals) – how pouring warm salt water up one nostril and out of the other was almost blissful in its relief -and going on about how it loosened and  flushed everything out, were so graphic that I think I just needed to turn her and the whole concept off.  I nodded politely and then immediately blew off her comments as the ranting of someone clearly on the edge.  There was no way I was pouring stuff up my nostril and watching it come out the other side. No thrills there.

The following summer, while suffering from terrible seasonal allergies, I came across a ceramic Neti Pot in the health food store.  It didn’t look threatening, but rather like a cute piece of pottery.  I could almost hear the crazy nurse’s words about flushing and loosening, but mostly what I focused on was the word relief.  Deciding I would try almost anything to alleviate some of the stuffiness and misery, I waffled over which color Neti Pot was the most attractive (as if this made a difference) and then I waffled over which salt for the  Neti Pot was the best salt, as there was a variety.  (I tend to waffle over my shopping decisions in general anyway, which is a whole other topic).  I spent a long time investigating the Neti Pot section.  Supposedly very fine, pure sea salt is the best.  I got mine in a plain bag instead of the expensive jar (same stuff).

The Neti Pot looks like a little tea pot, a curved horn or a genie lamp and is made out of ceramic, glass, metal or plastic. There are some really cute ones with designs on them, and there are very generic ones.  After I got mine, I was so lost on how to use it that I went on the internet and found a few videos so I could see how it was done.  It looked kind of……. disgusting….but I figured I would give it a try.

Now, there is a knack to this. The first time I think I added too much salt, and the temperature was a little too hot, so there was quite the head rush when that water went up my nose.  But it didn’t just go up my nose.  I think I had my head tilted wrong.  Not only did it get in my eyes, it seemed to be going up my nose and coming out of my eyes.  It went down my throat because I didn’t quite get the right tilt you need to hold your head at to let it drain out of your open mouth, a vision which also weirded me out.   I forgot to put up my hair, so my hair fell in the sink and got in the way of the drain and all the Neti stuff got all over it.  Ewwww.  The whole event was a comic disaster – I felt like a jerk and I am glad I was alone for my Neti Pot solo flight. But after I was done, I actually felt a little better.   OK, maybe a little better than just a little bit. Then I called one of my more new-age friends to ask her opinion and she told me she used one too.

Well, I guess I was out of the loop – I found out our secretary and at least three other people in the office were using the Neti Pot.  Even one guy I never would have figured for a Neti Pot user was doing it.  Another one raves about it on a regular basis. People talk about their Neti Pot at the water cooler.  Really.  Everybody’s doing it!  I noticed they don’t just sell them in the health food store either; they sell them in the pharmacy.  This is mainstream stuff – they are everywhere.  Where have I been?  The next time I saw my ENT, I asked his opinion about it.  He told me it was the best invention in a thousand years and he highly recommended it.  Not only that, Oprah has sung the praises of the Neti Pot.  Oprah!

Neti is the Sanskrit word for nasal cleansing; it has been used in the Ayurvedic yoga medical tradition for centuries.  When I finally got it down, with the right temperature and the right amount of salt, the results became apparent.  To me, it feels sort of like the feeling you have after getting hit in the face by an ocean wave.  A little bewildered, but also very clear and alert, and sort of beach-y.  Also, this might sound a little crazy, but when I use the Neti Pot now, I sometimes imagine elephants blowing water out of their trunks…. and there is a little elephant jingle of a song to go with it (O Neti Neti Pot).   I don’t actually sing it, but it runs through my head for some reason (OK, am I getting nuts like that nurse?)

I  have learned to appreciate the benefits.  Given that, I have now tried to pass along this discovery to my children, who also suffer from allergies.  The older one is totally skeeved out by the thought of it (“Mom, I think that is really gross and I’m not even going to try it, don’t bring one here”) and refuses to even to discuss it, even when she is miserably congested.  As a matter of fact, she specifically stated to me “Do not buy me a Neti Pot”.  That is pretty direct.   My younger child at least reluctantly accepted the one I bought her and has actually used it a few times, experiencing some of the same comic Neti mishaps that I have had. If anyone could benefit greatly using it, I think it might be her.  I am convinced that if she used it on a regular basis, her sinus issues would be dramatically relieved and reduced.  Being a mother, I just have to keep checking, so I am regularly suggesting to her on the phone, “Why don’t you use the Neti Pot?  Did you use the Neti Pot?”

So here I am now, singing the praises of the Neti Pot, with visions of elephants and a Neti Pot song in my head.  Have I become a crazy mom?

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Just One Small Thing

Posted on February 4, 2011 by daeja's view

The past couple of weeks seem to be especially dragging, both in a physical and emotional way.  They could be connected to each other.  Those pinpoints of notable stress and probably a little bit of the winter blues hanging around have cast their shadow.  Subsequently, when I awoke Saturday morning, I was just not inclined to move from the bed.  As if drugged, I lay there and imagined myself grounded by some terrific force of gravity from some other planet that I must have landed on – but it was only the density of the memory foam mattress holding me fast (see Soporific).

Immovable, and having the delicious realization that, aside from the usual weekend catch-up chores, there were absolutely no immediate obligations, I decided to indulge in a little reading.  Propping up some pillows, I reached for this month’s issue of The Sun and the previous night’s glass of water on the bedside table…….but the glass was gone.  In its place I discovered that the Significant Other had left a hot cup of sweet Masala Chai waiting for me to awaken to.

Now it’s no secret that many, many people are familiar with the experience of someone bringing them a cup of java in the morning, but I am not much of a coffee drinker and that ritual has never been part of my reality.  Given that, I cannot tell you how totally wonderful that small yet considerate act made me feel.   It was a seriously sweet start to the day.  Just a cup of chai, and yet I felt acknowledged.  I felt cared about.  I felt remembered.  I sipped my chai and luxuriated in the morning,  then  carried that feeling with me throughout the day.  It’s amazing what a little bit of kindness and recognition can do.

In acknowledgment of the power of benevolence and thoughtfulness, for the Friday post I would like to propose that everybody do one small kindness for another this weekend. Call your eighty-five year old grandmother or aunt.  Send a “hello” postcard.  Make someone breakfast.  Help your neighbor push his car out of the snow.  Tell someone you love them. Brighten someone’s day. They don’t even have to know what you did, just do it.  Just one small thing.

~ Pass it on ~

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The Febs

Posted on February 2, 2011 by daeja's view

The Febs

We have officially slipped into February, the groundhog is a wimp, and I think I am coming down with a case of “The Febs”.  It was in the middle of one of those endless winters a number of years ago that I was sitting around with a very old friend who has a notable knack for “naming the moment”.   He mentioned that he had The Febs, and his title for this annual phenomenon has stuck with me since.  He had also mentioned that it is very difficult to escape them when they hit, and indeed, it has been a challenge.  Sometimes I have come pretty close but I have never totally transcended The Febs.

Around these northeastern parts it’s been this cycle of ongoing snowstorms and sleet with a couple of mega-frozen days (see One Redeeming Feature) interspersed with more  snowstorms and then  a few teaser days where it’s gotten up into the thirties, followed by even more snowstorms.  I have missed a number of days of work due to either not being able to or not wanting to commute, even though my workplace has been mostly open.  I am trying not to feel too paranoid about the vibe I feel that this is a political faux pas, even though I have plenty of time on the books and there is nothing so pressing that requires a nerve-wracking drive.

Although it has its perks, I have to say that my current chariot – the Mighty Subaru – does not handle the road as well as my former, smaller and very basic Wall-Climbing Subaru.  Perhaps it is because I made the switch from manual transmission to automatic (among other car issues, my knee was starting to kill me from clutching in stop and go traffic) and I really think you just don’t have the same control with an automatic.  Maybe it’s the all-season radials that are supposed to go in any weather but really aren’t a fraction as good as a set of snow tires.  Maybe it’s because all-wheel drive vehicles are no better on ice than any other vehicle.  Ice is ice.  You don’t grip ice unless you are wearing ice crampons.  Ever notice all those SUV’s flipped into the ditch on the side of the interstate during a storm?  They blow by you as if they have some magic pass to speed on ice (and walk on water…) where others can’t.   I have taken on the attitude that unless something is crucial, it can wait and I am not going to risk my life and limb or fender for anything besides my family and loved ones.

So you would think, with all these snow days, that the same wonder and magic that you felt when you were a little kid – that wave of giddy relief you get when school is unexpectedly closed – would continue to swell over you as an adult.   Snow Day!  The whole day is yours!  Anything is possible!  Except – it’s February and the weather is not giving us a break.  The novelty of the snow day has long worn off.  The slippery steps.  The black ice. The temps.  It’s getting a little old.   Although the days are becoming longer now, it’s not happening fast enough.  I have resisted and resisted, but I have to admit that The Febs have struck.

I am not sure if they get The Febs in the south.  I know I have experienced The Febs in the northeast and northwest, and even a little in the lower west coast.   I will have to ask my Floridian friends and family to share their opinions regarding The Febs. They don’t deal with snow and cold, but do they struggle with less light?  I know they struggle with tourists and snowbirds.  Maybe it’s a different kind of Febs.  Perhaps some of you could weigh in on that.

For those living the winter who are experiencing The Febs and do not have the luxury of an escape, I have a few strategies that have helped me, which I will share:

The full-spectrum light box.   People use it for Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which is a real diagnosis and I think a terrifically descriptive acronym too.  Winter Sadness.   I start to feel  low-octane around late September  when the days get short, and rebound about April as they lengthen.  Actually, that’s an understatement.  I tend to seriously bum out during those dark, cold months.    The light box was suggested as a natural alternative to anti-depressants, and as I really love the “alternative” road, I thought I would give it a whirl.  My light box is portable.  I take it out in the fall and I pack it away in the spring.  I have found that keeping the box by my computer screen at work and turning it on for about a half hour or forty-five minutes each morning has been a remarkable remedy for me.  I swear by it.

When It first re-emerges at the beginning of each season and the glow is beaming brightly all over my office, I think (OK, I know) some staff have made fun of me behind my back.  At least they used to.  People would get witty and say “What are you doing, getting a suntan?” or “Day at the beach?” and other cute comments.  I think they would look at each other and roll their eyes, at least in the beginning.  It would always get a laugh, and then I would launch into my science spiel and explain how it’s supposed to work.  I guess the word got around, because a funny thing happened.  I started getting these emails – quiet little private emails – from individuals (and some of the laughers) in other departments asking where I got mine.  I think many people might be susceptible to SAD, especially those who work in windowless environments.   Having SAD during The Febs can be a rough road.  There are many different kinds, but I got my light box here.   And no, I don’t work for the company – neither do any of my friends or family. I’ve been using it successfully for at least ten years.  Just sharing in case anyone is interested.  So that is one strategy to use during The Febs.

Flowering plants.  If you go out and get yourself some plants from a garden center or the greenhouse area of your local home improvement store, they will make you feel better.  Even the act of going there and standing in the greenhouse (with its climate control) and absorbing the smells and colors of the plants is uplifting.  I like to walk into a greenhouse and give myself a mini tropical vacation.  You can also get some flower bulbs and try forcing them in pots at home.  The early blooms will give you a perk.   It’s a good thing and it gives you a little bridge into spring (see A Little Piece of Sun).

Walk It.  I could hibernate in the house all winter.  I hate the cold.  My boss likes to be out in it and he is always pushing the staff to go out for a “non-mandatory” group walk, which could end up being in the freezing snow/rain/cold as well as in the good weather.  I am not sure if this is a team-building strategy on his part, or if he just doesn’t want to walk alone, but I always hate how this starts out.  I feel like if I don’t go, I am the inflexible old lady in the crowd, and who wants to stand out and be the pooper?  I always make a face but I end up doing the winter walk because I want to appear to be a cheery, compliant good sport.  Honestly, at first I am usually freezing and miserable, but as I go along, I warm up and start to feel better.  By the time it is over, I realize this has just been an uplifting thing. I am usually glad I did it, especially if the sun is out, which feels delicious when it beams on your body on a very cold day.  Getting some winter sun on you I think is as effective, if not more, than the light box.  This year I got myself a decent coat to walk in, and that really makes a difference, which leads me to –

Having the right attire.   When I see women walking around in winter with their shorty-short stylish jackets  that practically have their midriffs showing, or shivering while wrapped in thin little coats, wearing no hat and prancing like ponies on their high heels in the snow, I feel like telling them that their style is negated by the fact their lips are turning blue and that they appear vain and not-very-bright. I know I am sounding like my mother here, but I will now humbly concede she was right….. If you are warm enough in the winter – if you feel cozy and immune in your winter coat and hat and mittens and scarf and boots that are meant for the weather, you have a serious part of the situation beat.  This year I finally made sure I was totally equipped. I have a coat that covers my butt and has a hood on it.  And I don’t care if they all laugh at my woolen Tibetan hat with the ear coverings and the pom-pom tassel on the top or my wooly beret. I really don’t.  Suddenly I.  don’t.  give.  a. crap. about fashion when it comes to practicality.  Dweebs rule!  Very liberating to have gotten past that! Very!

Do something you don’t like.   Today, home with the weather, I tackled my taxes.  I had to wrench myself from my email, from Facebook (the ultimate time-suck), from the telephone.   It took me a few hours.  I really, really did not want to do this.  I kept stopping and thinking “This is a bummer”.  Now that it is finished, I’m relieved. There are also other avoidance projects like clearing out closets and tackling other cleaning chores, writing a paper, studying for a course.   I think if you do something you really don’t want to do but should and then you finish it, all of a sudden the fact that you accomplished something gives you kind of lightness afterwards.  Any lightness you can get during The Febs is a plus.

Create something.   Sew. Write. Draw. Make music. Paint. Rearrange the furniture. Make a new recipe. Bake.

Find Other Friends With The Febs.   If you know someone else with The Febs, you can complain and commiserate about The Febs together.  You can joke about The Febs.   When you laugh about it, it lifts a little. This is helpful.

Getting Cozy.   Sometimes you just have to shut down, stay in your sweats or jammies, get cozy in your bed with some tea or cocoa and a good book or magazine, or become engrossed in a TV show.  I am not very good at knitting but when I think of the word “cozy”, sometimes I envision someone knitting somewhere (but not me).  Also it is extremely helpful to have some chocolate on hand.

Chocolate.   Dark chocolate.  Never leave home without it.  One in the purse. One in the drawer at work.  A supply of it in the kitchen.  A secret stash for emergencies.  Legal drug.

I will concede I don’t always follow my own advice, but when I use the methods above I have had some success.

We are expecting another snow and an ice storm tomorrow. Will be implementing the above.  *~*~*~*~*~*

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Enlightenment For the Rich

Posted on January 31, 2011 by daeja's view

Since the new year, and especially during the long winter months, I find myself pouring over catalogs with a focus on how I imagine my new life is going to be when I make all these changes.  Every year I am so sure that these new changes are going to bring out the real inner me that has been waiting to be set free, once I get myself disciplined and on the right course.

We are getting hammered with catalogs. Even though I am on one of those don’t-send-me-anymore-of-these green lists, they seem to have followed me from the last place I lived to the next.  Not only have they located me again, but they even arrive under a few slightly misspelled versions (so yeah, I know who has been selling my name and I wish they would stop).  I would say that about three-quarters of these get thrown out or recycled without ever looking at them, but some of these catalogs are real eye-candy and it is so easy to get sucked into the fantasy.

Garden catalogs especially are a lure during the cold months, although it’s great to look and plan and then go to your garden center later.  But all that color!  All that green! How can anyone resist? Thanks to a few very generous gardener friends who  shared  perennials from their own gardens in order to bring life to the pathetic triangle of dirt and weeds that was mine, our back yard is now packed with a variety of botanical wonders.  And yet I see all the possibilities and want to keep planting.  I envision riots of continually blooming color throughout the growing season and peaceful, shady alcoves interspersed with tasteful garden ornaments to soothe the soul.  I visualize lush herbs bursting with flavor just waiting to be plucked and used in all the recipes I am going to be making out of that complimentary food magazine which has mysteriously started to appear unbidden in my mailbox (with my misspelled name on it). Of course, while I am doing all this (in my head), I am also wearing those cute garden clogs, raffia sun hat and airy, new age clothing from those airy, new age clothing catalogs.

I want to be one of those athletic, fit women hanging on to the side of a cliff in their Patagonia wicking-action capris, or arching gracefully into a full bridge back bend while wearing a Prana Mahdia Prima microfiber yoga pants and a Chakra Crossover StrapTank.  One of those people sprinting along a sea wall in their Asics running shoes and Om Shanti Hoodie. Yes I want to be them.  I want to be that woman wearing the Natural Organic Cotton Travel-Essential Zen Wrap, the one embossed with the Lotus Motif in Soothing Meadow that transitions easily from sporty day adventure to casual evening.   I also want to be the girl in the slip-proof, stay-in-place, action bikini on the boogie board.

And even though I already have the non-skid yoga mat in Deep Ocean Blue rolled in the trunk of my car in order to be ready for those unanticipated yoga moments, and the Meditation Transcendence Ultra Organic yoga mat in Monastery Saffron in my house, I really, really should have gotten the new two-tone reversible organic yoga mat in Jade/Fern that the woman wearing the Switchback Asana Top in Heathered Slate is practicing on to enhance my own feeble practice.  (While I am at it, I will want to have a figure like her and also be her age). After the energizing, vibrant workout, I will then shower with Super Organic Ylang Ylang/Hyacinth Lunar Eclipse Gel and wrap myself in a thick, Unbleached Organic Cotton thirsty Yantra Towel before lounging in my Iris Tadasana Kimona Robe, have a cup of Super Anti-oxidant Yin Zhen Tea with Goji Extract and tuck myself into Indigo Cloud 900 thread count Organic Egyptian Cotton Sheets.  I mean, really, doesn’t this sound like Nirvana to you?  It is all I can do to ignore the credit card burning a hole in my wallet as I desperately try not to reach for it, I kid you not.

But mostly what I want to do is take the new age workshops and courses that are being held in various well-known holistic retreats around the country. Because I know that when I do this, my entire life is going to change. I know that once I go there I will be on the path toDiscovering My Bliss. Once I achieve that, I can take more courses in order to learn to Share My Bliss by Manifesting My Soulmate. I want to learn to Feed My Inner Goddess and Ignite My Chakras and Experience Mindfulness through the Transformational Path of the Eagle while I am Awakening My Inner Vibrations by Integrating the Intensive Power of the Tantric Dance.   All this while arising for meditative morning yoga or Tai Chi classes, taking long walks in the beautiful, natural environs of the retreat centers, and eating fresh, organic foods and juices meant to Detox, Awaken and Unleash My Hidden Joy while experiencing healing Thai Massage.

Journey. Rejuvenation. Transformation. Nourishment. Healing. Vitality. Immersion. Power. Balance. Nurturing. Health. Intimacy. Release. Intuition. Therapeutic. Energy. Vitality. Relaxation. Renewal. Spirituality. Reflection. Connection. Beginnings. Retreat. Bhakti.  These words flow off the page and into my brain like balm on sore muscles. They lure me in like a fish on a hook. I want to Be There Now. The words and descriptions are aimed to hit me right in the Third Eye.

I have actually attended workshops at some of these retreats in the past, and honestly, a few of them have done exactly that. It has happened enough to bring me back year after year, exploring the synchronicities of life with like-minded people and opening new vistas for myself.  This really has occurred.  These workshops can be transformational and filled with moments of connection and inspiration.  Some of them have propelled me onto other Paths.  However, there are a couple of glaring issues with these places, and it has become apparent that the original focus of providing community spirit and enlightenment regarding alternative avenues has become just another Big Business. They are not for everyman – they have become focused on providing Enlightenment For The Rich.

It is disappointingly no different from what goes on everywhere else.  The people with  wealth are able to pay hundreds of dollars for a weekend course, hundreds more for the necessary accommodations, and sometimes even hundreds more in transportation to get there.  If you are well off, you can stay in the better rooms – the ones with private bathrooms – or dwell in the more comfortable cabins.  If you have less money you can sleep in dorms with bathrooms down the hall, which are still not cheap.  If you can’t handle that expense, you can perhaps pay to camp in areas off the beaten path. This is the way of the world. But I have to wonder –  why should there be such a disparity of accommodations in a holistic learning facility, where we are supposed to be All One and of the Same Spirit? Why is not everyone deserving of the same privileges? There is something about this discrepancy that does not sit well and appears to cheapen the entire concept.  It should be the same for all, shouldn’t it?

But wait – if you are impoverished, you can apply for a Scholarship to attend a workshop!  If you are approved, you will have the choice of many, but not all, of the courses in the catalog (provided they are not filled by other paying customers, in which case you will be bumped).  However, if the presenter happens to be someone very famous or popular, your scholarship is not valid to attend these. Only people who can afford it get to participate in these courses on enlightenment. And if you are the middle class, you are screwed at both ends the same way the middle class is screwed out of everything else.  You make too much for a scholarship but not enough to easily afford the workshops (at least not without having to compromise some other vital parts of your life  – like a couple of car payments, or putting off your outpatient surgery, or selfishly not taking your children on a family trip this summer).

These venues have become more and more upscale to accommodate the people who can afford to live the image presented in the catalogs.  On a walk around campus you will encounter them posing like new-age peacocks strutting their dharma, wearing their Heathered Fawn “Zen” tank tops, Chakra-Balancing Earthstone Earrings and a Big Attitude. There is a subtle but palpable caste system happening.  I guess this is human nature, but I can’t get past feeling the hypocrisy.

An incident that really illustrated this occurred during a workshop by Pema Chodrun, an ordained Buddhist nun who is renowned for teaching meditation and helping to interpret Tibetan Buddhism for Western audiences (no scholarships granted to this one).  You would think that the people coming to attend her workshop would be seeking to attain inner peace and strive to practice tolerance.  And yet here were these rude, urban chic “guests” – wealthy in money but clearly not in awareness – making petty demands of the staff and treating the people trying to accommodate them with arrogance and disrespect, as if they were some sort of nobility and the staff were harijans – the Untouchables. Ironic, isn’t it?  All their immersion into these workshops has not raised the consciousness of these people one bit.  It has gotten to the point where I really have to think again these days about giving up something else of value in order to fork over my middle-class wages to attend these venues and be subjected to what can only be called snobbery.  This could surely not have been the original intention of the original founders.

It’s obvious that the shallow but none-the-less enticing accoutrements are not a necessity on the “path to enlightenment”.  However, that  has not stopped the enjoyment of the daydreams that the catalogs invoke.  These “wishbooks” have a place, I suppose. The place they have found in my home is as bathroom reading material – which I think, somehow, puts it in perspective.

Posted in Humor, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Hiding the Patchouli

Posted on January 28, 2011 by daeja's view

Hiding The Patchouli. It almost sounds like some dirty party game, doesn’t it?

(but it’s not).

My daughter and her husband are planning on coming for a visit with the baby, weather permitting, so I am making a point of remembering to Hide The Patchouli.  Prior to their arrival, I always make a careful sweep of the bathroom and gather up any soaps, bath gels or lotions that contain this scent. Then I stash it all on the top shelf of the closet until they leave. Not that I wear it a lot, but I make a point of not wearing patchouli oil during the period they are here.  The reason I do this is because the Son-In-Law abhors the smell of patchouli.  I want him to be comfortable during their visit.  I think this is a respectful thing to do.  

The scent of patchouli often seems to evoke passionate reactions in people, in either direction.  Some individuals hate it so much that when they get a whiff, there is a knee-jerk moment of intense revulsion and it is all they can do to control their natural flight response.  Others manage to wear it with an exotic tastefulness.  And then there are those patchouli-lovers who seem to think everybody else must like it as much as they do.  They drench themselves in copious amounts and invade the air space with it, so that you are forced to inhale it as part of the basic act of breathing. Their presence can overpower anything else that is happening to the point of an unpleasant distraction. The force of their aroma can easily drive someone out of a room.  Actually, this does not just go for patchouli, but for any perfume whose overindulgence rudely assaults the senses, although patchouli has a distinct place at the top of this list.

I am sure many of you have at one time or another experienced it.  Ever gone to the movies, secured a great seat and then had some stinker sit nearby?  You have to endure it for the entire film or give up your seat to get away from it. Or in the restaurant, someone has the perfume on so thick you can taste it instead of your food?

There was once a woman who worked in our office who wore “Hugo” so heavily that her arrival immediately induced migraine headaches in her coworkers.  Repeated, almost blatant hints to tone it down went obliviously unheeded.  She was the nicest woman, but she just wasn’t taking the cues that her “Hugo” was a real show-stopper. It was a very delicate situation, trying to get her to moderate without hurting her feelings.  She never did catch on – or if she did, she didn’t care –  and when she moved on to other employment we all inhaled a deep breath of fresh air…….. literally.  She wasn’t the only one – we have had a few guys in the office that appear sheep-dipped in their after-shave.  It is a fact that the management team where I work has actually not hired otherwise good candidates if they showed up at their interview with no discretion regarding their cologne habits.  A perfume OD at an job interview can easily destroy the prospect of getting the position (a little employment hint there, in case anyone happens to be looking for work at the moment).

In my own timeline, the first introduction to patchouli oil happened around the era of the original Woodstock Festival.  I sometimes tend to put on the rose-colored glasses when I think of those times, idealizing that magical mystical renaissance of groundbreaking music and political changes, although in all honesty it was filled with plenty of difficult situations and not all of it was as amazing and wonderful as many idealize it.   I can still see the black lights, head shops, peasant blouses and paisley bedspreads of my early teens though, and that is what I initially associated that scent with – a coming of age – lying on the floor of my bedroom, which was decorated with Richard Avedon Beatle posters and peacock feathers in dusty wine bottles, burning incense and listening to The Doors and Jimi Hendrix while my parents yelled up the stairs “What is that smell?”

For the most part, it was a good connection. That was, until encountering Christine, Christine, Patchouli Queen.  Queenie sat directly in front of me for (thankfully, only one) high school class and she single-handedly ruined my relationship with patchouli for years.  When I think of her, a line from a Paul Simon song comes to mind – Roly-poly little bat-faced girl.  Vampire in coloring, with Keith Richards eye-liner and a hard, emotionless face, it would be an understatment to say she reeked of patchouli oil.  It was nauseating.  Sitting behind her in class could set off your gag reflex – like being trapped in a room filled with urethane fumes, her patchouli enveloped you in toxic clouds.  You could smell Queenie coming down the hall a full three minutes before she would appear through the crowd.  You could smell where Queenie had been long after the bell had rung.  Her patchouli could not be savored or appreciated due to the sheer force of its volume.  Add the fact that she was not particularly friendly (and appeared not especially clean either), and you can imagine how my patchouli association took a negative turn.

It has been my observation that patchouli oil is not often worn in professional work settings – I don’t associate it as very professional scent.  I believe the more corporate the work setting, the less apt you are to find people wearing patchouli.  It is also well known that patchouli oil is viewed as sort of a Left-wing scent.  It has a Lefty reputation and is often found in heavily Left–frequented venues…the parking lot scene at Grateful Dead shows, college dorms, ethnic gift and apparel stores, and even attached to the clothing of an occasional social worker.  Correct me if I am wrong, but of all the patchouli-wearing people I have come across, I have noticed a marked deficit of Republican patchouli wearers.  It appears that the farther to the Right that you politically lean, the less apt you are to wear patchouli.  Has anyone else noticed this? I wonder if anyone has done a study. 

Of note, the first time I ever knowingly detected patchouli on a Republican was in the office where I worked, which was a multifaceted surprise. A Workplace-Republican-Patchouli triumvirate seemed like such a total anomaly.  What’s more, the woman who wore it happened to wear it tastefully and in moderation, actually providing the impetus for me to re-explore the use of patchouli and transcend the damage that stinkin’ Queenie had done. I never thought I would, but I got back on the patchouli bus.

Not all patchouli oils are the same. There is such a thing as bad patchouli oil (and really bad patchouli oil) and there is the quality stuff.  I would never wear it to any sort of business meeting or within close quarters or confined spaces , but I have a few different patchoulis that I like to occasionally use lightly, in the right setting, and I have grown to appreciate it.  Sometimes I mix it with sandalwood if I am feeling especially exotic. But not when my Son-In-Law comes to stay.

My SIL is a police officer.  I have wondered if all police officers dislike the smell of patchouli. I could be totally wrong about this, but I tend to imagine that police and patchouli are not much of a combo.  Perhaps it’s the association with hippies, or that it is has been known to accompany the smell of marijuana (ie. those Dead show parking lots).  Perhaps a whiff of patchouli has been a historic highway sign leading up to an imminent bust.  Or, maybe, well…maybe my SIL just doesn’t like it.  Having been there for a while myself, I can relate.  My daughter who is married to him says she is not fond of it either, although she does not display quite the same aversion.  In any case, when they come to visit, I dutifully make an effort to remove the offending substance. Olfactory associations are incredibly powerful.  I want their visit to be comfortable and not filled with negative connections. I don’t want him to end up relating his mental image  of “The Mother-In-Law”, which is historically a tenuous position at best, with his aversion to the scent of patchouli.

Unfortunately, the peace I have made with patchouli was threatened by an event that flashbacked to the days of Queenie.  When my daughter became engaged, the family got together and took the happy couple out for a dinner celebration.  A very special member of the extended family had just become involved in a new relationship, so in a gesture of inclusion and welcoming friendship, I invited the new girlfriend to join us.

The dilemma became apparent almost immediately. You could smell  it in the rush of air that came through the open door before they had even gotten into restaurant  – she stank of patchouli.  When I say stank, I mean serious stench.   It was so overwhelming that it masked everything else in the room.  You were literally unable to taste your food.  It was so intrusive that it distracted from conversation.  It was so noxious that it made your eyes and lungs burn.  It was so totally overpowering that it was an embarrassment. The sheer intensity of it threatened to ruin the meals of every other paying customer who happened to be dining in that small bistro.  That is how heavy her eau was.  Eau My God.  I kept expecting the management to ask us to remove the source of irritation from the premises.  I felt very badly, knowing how my future SIL hated that smell, and I admit I was upset at the manner of the imposition, especially on this special evening, even though I had to rationally acknowledge that she clearly did not realize the situation she had created and was unaware of the olfactory faux pas she had made.

But I have to wonder about scent ODers..….How could someone not know?  Do people not realize how obnoxious the Perfume Drench can be?  What is the concept?  Does anyone honestly think this makes them seem attractive? Is this supposed to be sexy? Am I missing something here? Could it perhaps be an attempt to cover up some shameful body odor?  Is it a cop-out on a bath?  Has their sense of smell been damaged?  Do they have a permanent sinus condition? Or is it more like the heavy garlic eater who is not aware of their own sweat and breath? I truly cannot fathom the purpose of Too Much Perfume.  In this arena, more is never better.  It is rude.

We politely bit our tongues, wiped our running noses, ate our meals and said nothing – at least not until afterwards.  That is the hardest part about things like this. If you are a good friend, or at the very least an honest person, shouldn’t you at least make an effort to tactfully say something? But if you say something and the person becomes offended or hurt, regardless of your how much tact you may use, then what?  Your good intentions end up causing alienation instead.  Conversely, is it fair to yourself (let alone anybody else) to have to endure such a toxic assault?  It was a dilemma that has had no resolution.  Personally, I would want to know and be spared any future embarrassment….. and I would hope those close to me would do that…….but that’s me.  Social relations are sometimes so tricky to navigate, aren’t they?

Following that uncomfortable event, I developed an aversion to patchouli all over again, and unconsciously I guess I took another serious patchouli vacation.  But it eventually found its way back into use by way of a wonderful blended bath soap.  I have actually discovered I really like the faint trace of it that remains on the Significant Other when he comes out of the shower.  In moderation, it has its positives.

But this week, I will respectfully hide all things patchouli as I look forward to my family coming home.

Posted in Humor, Rant, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

One Redeeming Feature

Posted on January 27, 2011 by daeja's view

I made this discovery only because we are experiencing some feisty weather around here this winter.  A couple of days ago it was -14 degrees Farenheit here.  That little dash is not a typo, it’s a minus; that is fourteen degrees below zero that you are reading,  While I know other parts of the country can boast of even greater plunges, this is certainly impressive enough for me.  There is “below freezing”, which is one thing, and then “below zero”, which conjures up a whole new set of images.  While it’s been valid to miss a day or so of work due to dangerous, snowy road conditions,  sub-zero weather is not an excuse (unless your heat goes out or your pipes burst or your car battery is dead and you have to deal with it).

My car is parked in the barn/garage combo in the back of the house.  It’s not attached to the house, which means you have to carefully shuffle about 60 feet across a frozen expanse of paved area which is covered with ridges of ice to get to it.  While it’s not the most ideal condition, it’s still not so bad.  I am ever so grateful that I even have a sheltered place to park my car and that the Signifcant Other has cleared out a space amongst all his Stuff for me so that I don’t have to scrape ice or dig out before leaving for work.  Winter dwellers know that scraping and digging prior to the morning commute can really put a dent in the routine.  I don’t have one of those remote starters, so I walk across the frozen tundra to get to the car to warm it up. Normally, by the time I get there, I am already miserably cold and it’s kind of a bummer before even starting the day.  I don’t know about anyone else, but  I can honestly say that this disturbs my chi a little bit.  That was, until I discovered the one redeeming feature of The Hot Flash.

The pesky middle-aged phenomenon. Some get them and some don’t.  Some people get them briefly and only occasionally, and some have them for a very, very long time and frequently.  I fall into the last unlucky catagory; the one at the very top of the hot flash hierarchy chart, the one with the flaming “Hot Flash Hell” label on it.   I deal with it (or don’t) as best as I can, incorporating it into everything else that “just happens” to me, and it has been a way of life for quite a while now.  I will admit they can be a major nuisance, and sometimes very embarrassing (see Tomato Face),  so it is with delight that I am able to share the one good use I have found for the hot flash (so far), at least for those of you who have them and live in the colder locales.

When it is time to go out into the cold and start up the car, you don’t leave the house until you feel a Hot Flash about to come on. You wait for the flash. Position yourself at the door and get ready.  When it begins, that’s when you walk out the door.  Now here comes the incredible part………….. I walked out into the sub-zero degrees the other day in only a sweater (no hat, no gloves, no scarf, no coat!)  made it to the car, got into the freezing cold car, started the car with the fan blowers on high and blasting frigid cold air all over me (because I forgot to turn the blower off when I shut off the car the day before), backed up the car near the house so I wouldn’t have to traverse the tundra a second time, and walked back into the house – all in the course of one Hot Flash!  I didn’t rush either, I actually strolled.  I was totally comfortable. It felt terrific.  It was like a walk on a spring day (except everything was white and steam was rising off my body).  Just in a sweater.  In sub-zero weather.  Is this amazing or what? Well, I was impressed.

But there is a flip side to the hot flash.  After the hot-flash has finished, it is as if all your heat has blasted out of your body, leaving you with a frozen, cold shell. You feel even colder than you would be normally.  Way colder.  Ice cold.  At that point, you bundle up.  And then get into your now warm car.  Works for me!

During the drive I had yet another cheap thrill.  The thermometer on the dashboard registers the last temperature it was at the time you turned the car off.   When I got in the car, it was reading a whopping 11 degrees from the day before.  As I got rolling, it started to drop one degree at a time, until about twenty minutes into the drive it hovered around zero and just hung there for a minute (as if in shock, almost as if it couldn’t bear it) before plunging into the minuses.  I had to keep checking until that happened.  I couldn’t look away.  That’s two cheap thrills for one morning.

I am making lemonade out of my lemons here, in case anyone hasn’t noticed…

Posted in Humor, Uncategorized, Winter | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

A Little Piece of Sun

Posted on January 26, 2011 by daeja's view

A friend gave me some Paperwhite bulbs (Narcissus papyraceus for you botanical types) for Christmas. For those who might be unfamiliar, you force the bulbs in a pot indoors with the idea that they will bloom in the winter and provide you with some uplifting greenery – a harbinger of spring to carry you over the long, cold months. They are like having a little piece of sun in your house – delicate white daffodil faces that are very fragrant.  Mine grew quickly and are emitting a very distinct Paperwhite scent.  I have noticed it seems to get even stronger in the evening. I could actually detect Narcissus wafting through the forced hot air vents and re-circulating from downstairs up into my bedroom last night.

You have to be very careful not to overdo it with the Narcissus.  My ex-fiancé (the EF) was an avid gardener, and in his typical exuberance tended to overindulge in the Paperwhite ritual.  He would plant at least twenty bulbs in a number of pots lined up on the living room windowsills.  When the flowers opened, the aroma would be so intense that it would induce a headache and cause family members to complain and guests to politely inquire.  After that experience, I have been very conservative regarding their use.

This gift of Narcissus consisted of seven bulbs and was part of a lovely goody bag containing some excellent dark chocolate in the shape of a Buddha, a wooden fan from Spain (for the unexpected hot flash) and some dense, very addictive homemade layered spice cake. I thought it was a really nice present.  I think that seven bulbs are just about the right amount, at least for this space.  They are planted all in one large pot and their fragrance has managed to drift through the house without over-doing it. I can’t quite come up with a word to describe what they smell like, although they are distinct. A very good friend who came to visit the other night mentioned that the Paperwhites smelled like paste to her. At least I think that is what she said. My hearing is not all that great and at first I thought she said they smelled like “piss”, which, of course, is always a possibility.  When I said “What?” she repeated, “I think they smell like paste”.  But she could actually have said “piss” again, I don’t know.  Because we are pretty straightforward with each other, she could have said either thing.  She is the kind of friend who will let you know if you have spinach left in your teeth after the meal, which is a very helpful trait to have in a friend.  If she thought the Paperwhites smelled like piss, I don’t think she would have any qualms about letting me know. At the time we moved on to other subjects, but I will have to ask her yet again.  To me, they don’t smell like either piss or paste.

I have a few strategies to help push the spirit along until Spring, and Paperwhites are just one of those little boosts that can facilitate propelling you into the next season.  After last winter’s batch was finished, I planted the spent bulbs out in the yard.  Hopefully, those will come up around April, if the squirrels didn’t get to them first.

Posted in Friends, Spring, Uncategorized, Winter | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

These Lovely Boots

Posted on January 24, 2011 by daeja's view

Every time I would visit my mother, she would dig the boots out of the back of her hall closet and urge me to take them.  As the story went, Aunt Rose, who had expensive taste in clothing and often bought things on a whim that she later did not use, gave her “these lovely boots”.  The boots were winter boots, about calf high, a heavy leather/suede combination with  fleece lining and rubber soles.  I don’t know that they were necessarily made for snow, but they were definitely made for cold weather.  My mother insisted that they were well-made, beautiful and that they would keep me snug and “warm as toast”.  She had only worn them a couple of times.  I don’t know why she was not keeping them herself, but my mother was hell-bent on having me take them.

I resisted.  They looked like old lady boots to me.  They were not in style. To appease her, I tried them on and clumped around her living room to demonstrate that I looked and felt like a clod in them.  I actually did this a number of times.  She would beam at me in approval.  “Aren’t they lovely boots?” she would say. “Aunt Rose bought them. They were expensive”.  “They will keep your feet warm as toast”, she would reiterate. I would make a face of distaste and then she would make a face of disbelief, as if I was a total fool, too blind to see the value in such boots. She would then put them in a bag near the front door so I would take them when I left.  When it would be time to go home, I would conveniently forget to take the boots.  After I would get home from my visit, I would then get a phone call from my mother saying “you forgot to take these lovely boots”.  We played out this same scenario for years. By years, I mean almost a decade.

After my mother died, we were cleaning out her home and I came across the boots, these lovely boots, neatly standing in the back of the hall closet.  All of a sudden those boots, along with everything else about my mother, became extremely, painfully important.  I took them home and put them away in my own hall closet. 

On the first big snowfall after her death, I wore my mother’s boots for the first time…..and wouldn’t you know it, they were warm as toast. Not only that, but it appears that over the past decade, these lovely boots had suddenly come into style. As a matter of fact, almost every time I wore them, someone – men and women alike – would exclaim “What great boots! Where did you get those boots?  I LOVE those boots!”, to which I would always reply that they were “My Mother’s Boots” – and that is how I see and refer to them now.  I am never putting on my boots; I am putting on My Mother’s Boots.

I am not a winter person. I am not into winter sports and I don’t spend a lot of time outside in frigid weather anymore.  Honestly, winter is just not my season. I don’t do cold well and my tolerance of the winter months has lessened since I have reached adulthood. Except for the necessity of commuting to work and the food store, I could just stay in the house all winter long if I had the choice.  I like watching the snowflakes fall.  I like the sacred hush that occurs shortly after a heavy snow. I love the sculpture of drifts and the reflection of moonlight on snow. I enjoy making maple syrup snow cones from the first fresh snowfall.  But I am not into being out in it. I have been resisting it for years.  However, since I acquired My Mother’s Boots, my relationship with winter and snow in general has tempered. As a matter of fact, when I have My Mother’s Boots on, things seems to be a lot more right with the world.

My Mother’s Boots only come out after a storm and are only worn on the snowiest of days.  They are not for running through slush puddles, they are just for keeping your feet warm. Because of this, they have lasted many, many years, although they have begun to show some wear.  Over this past week we experienced a couple of heavy, icy snow storms.  I hibernated for a few days, but eventually it was time to get out there, get in the car and go back to work.  I put on My Mother’s Boots and headed off to my job, which is about a forty-five minute commute.  At first I chugged along in one open lane behind a line of cautious cars, but at the approach of the bridge that spans the river which is the heart of our valley,  I was met with a fairy tale view of the hills that sparkled like shattered crystal.  It was exquisite.  I wish I’d had my camera with me, and indeed others were pulling off the road to take pictures on this dream-like morning.  It was truly a National Geographic moment.

Taking my chances, I turned off onto a back road shortcut which was packed down with snow.  At 7:30 in the morning, there was hardly anyone about. The early sun was glowing through the trees and lit up branches laced with glistening ice.  Every bend in the road revealed yet another glimpse of such radiance that I did not want the drive to end.  I was so overwhelmed by this enchanted winter vision that I could feel the impact like a small explosion in my heart.   At that very moment, I wished I’d had someone with me to share this magnificent morning, and I realized that I wanted that person to be my mother.  As I thought about this, I was simultaneously aware of how cozy, how safe, how content, how totally present and connected to my mom  I felt while wearing her boots.  My Mother’s Boots.  My beautiful mother’s boots – these warm as toast boots;  these lovely boots;  yes, these lovely, lovely boots.

Posted in Perspective, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Saint Joe, On His Head

Posted on January 21, 2011 by daeja's view

For a brief period of time, I owned my own home, but there came a point when I could not afford the expenses alone anymore and I had to let it go.  One of the kids had gone off to college and moved out of state and I was in a transitional period with the Significant Other (the SO), so it was just me and the younger child rattling around a now too big space that needed to be heated and maintained. This dawning, sad acknowledgement arrived just as the housing market had reached its peak and was teetering on the brink before tipping downward.  This timing did not help me though, because the house required some cleaning out, basic repairs and sprucing up before it could be listed, and by the time this occurred, the market was already on the downslide.

The house was one of the nicer ones in the neighborhood – it had some character to it and was not a cookie cutter copy of every other.  It was an older home and had been built with some attention and care.  It was in an excellent school district, had updated systems, lots of sunlight, hardwood floors, renovated bathrooms, an attached garage,  porches and a patio, and sat on a somewhat private piece of property, which I had passionately planted with an abundance of perennials that would continually bloom all season.  Sitting in the back garden was a peaceful Buddha that you could see out the kitchen window while you did the dishes.  A lot of love and creativity had been poured into that house, and it showed.  It seemed like anybody who saw it would want to live and raise children there. At least I thought so.  I guess we all think that about our homes.

I signed on with a seasoned, local realtor who posted the place in all the appropriate venues and locations, held the open house and was in regular contact with me to provide updates and encouraging words.  I even painted the color of my periwinkle front door (which I thought was extremely cool looking) to a bland ecru to attract the mainstream.   However, interest was little and nothing moved.  I dropped the price and still nobody wanted to see my house.  The market kept slipping and it appeared I might have to stay and hold on to the place, which was a little scary, not only financially but because once I made the decision to give it up I had psyched myself into an entire mindset focused on leaving, and I wasn’t able to backtrack in my head.

When the contract with the realtor ran out, I decided to give it a shot at listing the house myself (which was rather daunting of me if I must say, considering I knew absolutely zip of such business).  It was at that point that one of my sisters gave me a little talisman to help insure that my house would be sold quickly.  This lucky piece that would deliver such results was a small, plastic statuette of Saint Joseph, which came with explicit instructions to bury him head-down and facing in a certain direction on the property near the entrance to the house.  My sister is a superstitious sort and I laughed at her, but I also took her up on it…which I guess says something about me.  I mean, it couldn’t hurt, right?

Now, this alone could segue into a whole other discussion on belief systems. Touching ever so lightly on this highly debatable topic, I will share that over the years I had vehemently abandoned my early Catholic exposure, did a stint at Atheism which became Agnosticism when I just wasn’t so sure anymore, absorbed plenty of Jewish culture and then adopted a little Hindu color laced with Buddhist tenets, all which has enabled me to come to my own comfort regarding the way I see and accept The Universe.  I think something is out there.  I think we are part of a larger piece.  I think it’s all connected somehow.  That is as deep as I am going to get into it here.

My mother was raised Catholic and had Faith (with a capital F), thus we were raised hearing, among other things, that Saint Francis watched over the animals and if you lost something you prayed to Saint Anthony to help you find it. I hadn’t been aware that Saint Joseph had any juice, at least not beyond being the purveyor of baby aspirin, but at my sister’s urging I followed the directions and planted Saint Joe on his head in the lily patch by the front door before the first snowfall of the winter.

Then I put an ad in the town newspaper and in our local Pennysaver.  Now, I don’t know if any of you are familiar with the Pennysaver, which is a free, printed digest of advertisements.  Some pack a little more punch than others, but our regional Pennysaver was a pathetically slim volume filled mostly with used pickup trucks and backhoes for sale, weekly horoscopes, ads for how you can “Choose Your Own Hours and Make Money at Home”, a pet page that is almost all cats in need of adoption -with the occasional missing ferret, and Novenas to St. Jude, the patron of Lost Causes.  There is a real estate section, but it is only a couple of pages and it is mostly rentals.  However, in the distant past I had actually found a couple of places to rent and had sold some puppies through the Pennysaver, and now I had St. Joe on my team, so I went for it.

From what I could find, there are many interpretations of how this Saint Joseph home selling practice came about and you can do your own search if you are interested. I think in a modern sense that this ritual serves as a vehicle for creative visualization, which can sometimes lead to manifestation, which is not a bad thing. My Saint Joe was a very plain little statue, although  I have discovered you can get fancier versions that are more expensive.  I don’t know where my sister bought mine, but I actually found a site on the internet where you can get your own Saint Joseph in the Basic (just the statue and the prayer), Original (with cloth tote and burial bag!!!), or Deluxe kit (which gives you all of the aforementioned, in addition to an online listing). Who knew?

Anyway, within a week I was getting calls. The first people that came to see the house were hooked, I could tell. There is just a vibration that happens when you find something that is right, and a look some people get when they are trying to hold their cards close to their vest but are busting, you know?  I could tell they were trying to be nonchalant as they left to look at other properties, but I knew they would be back.  I was totally honest and straightforward with them. I just let it all unfold.  They did eventually buy my house, although they dragged it out a bit and it was not the smoothest of transactions in the end.   Actually, they became rather a pain in the ass, so much so that my daughter and I started to refer to them as “The Lemon People” because they must have returned to the house over eleven times to look yet again, for lengthy tours and visits where they poked around with increasingly sour, lemon faces as they debated and complained about things that had nothing to do with me and were things I could not change – like the size of the bathtub – probably in an effort to get the price down.  They did get my price down too, but I did as well, if not better, than I would have with a realtor.  After all, the instructions that came with the statue made no guarantees about how easy it would be, only that it would happen.  In the end it seems Saint Joe did the job, if you are so inclined to want to believe that.  It is interesting to note that the guy who bought the place happened to be named Joe.

Some suggest that you dig up Saint Joseph and put him in a place of honor after your house is sold.  This was not possible, as the ground was frozen solid when I moved out.  Someday the Lemon People may be weeding their lilies and find him upside-down in the dirt. I wonder if they will know what it is about, or if they do, will they then think they were overtaken by some force beyond their will?

Posted in Humor, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Little Brown Bat

Posted on January 20, 2011 by daeja's view

A friend just emailed me about finding a bat in her house, which set me off on a discourse about my bat-in-the-house experiences, so I figured I would write it out here. I have lived in about two dozen places so far in my life, and some of the dwellings have had bats.  The most prolific bat dwelling was a place I rented with my then husband – let’s call him “Howie” for the sake of this story – when our first child was small.  It was a turn of the century carriage house on a defunct mink farm.  The building was made up of one large wooden room with a massive stone fireplace.  The one bedroom, small bath, galley kitchen and rickety porch off this main area were apparently added on later.  The door to the bedroom and bathroom were wainscot planks with latch hardware that left large spaces above them when closed.

Every spring the bats would arrive en masse (presumably from Georgia – for some reason I always thought they migrated from Georgia up to the northeast, although I am not sure if that is necessarily correct). Their arrival was heralded by the big fuss and racket they would make while they shuffled for position behind the shutters, where they would then clump tightly together like grapes. At times you could hear them shifting around having little crowding disputes and chirping at each other, but for the most part they were pretty low-key.  At sundown they would shoot out from the shutters one at a time and dart around the yard like night swallows before taking off for an evening of hunting in a graceful ballet that could be quite lovely. They were Little Brown Bats – I think we must have had over a hundred of them.  Watching from the window, my pre-schooler and I once watched over thirty bats shoot out from behind one shutter as we yelled out the number of each one, doing our version of “The Count”……(ONE bat, TWO bats)…. 

Before we had installed the woodstove into the fireplace, an occasional unfortunate would slip down the chimney and come through the space where the damper did not shut all the way.  This would usually occur dead in the middle of the night, that vulnerable time where reason and clarity are blurred.  An almost sinister, whispering “flup flup flup flup” fluttering would invade your dreams and you would awake to find something frantically bouncing off the walls, where it would ultimately get tangled up in a window shade.   No matter how much I have experienced this and how rational I can be about nature and country living, there is just something about a waking up to a bat in the house that I have never gotten used to.

Unfortunately, scooting a bat out of that house was not an easy feat. Opening all doors and windows actually afforded the masses entry back inside (along with every kind of weird night insect possible) and was not an option. Howie had a procedure for dealing with the bats though, and he would pursue this in great earnest while I cringed under the covers.  He would put on his “bat- patrol” gear, which essentially consisted of a pith helmet and a tennis racquet; the helmet presumably to protect his head from being dive-bombed and the racquet to dispatch the bats.  After he would incapacitate the massive, scary, offending vampire of our imagination, we would inspect it, only to find it was a tiny, harmless looking mouse-ette, leathery wings now folded by its side.  Then we would feel badly.  Even knowing that, it did not make the next bat visit any less traumatic.

One sweltering summer my sister arrived for a visit from California and was sleeping on the couch in the main room.  At about 2:30 am, Howie and I were awakened by the tell-tale wing whisper and crash of yet another frantic intruder.  Howie donned the pith helmet and racquet – and essentially nothing else, as it was humid and hot and he had been sleeping butt-naked. I cannot impress upon you how ridiculously funny this looked, especially at an hour where everything felt sort of surreal.

Howie is probably one of the fairest skinned people I have ever known, almost translucent in his whiteness. He kind of resembled a glowing white grub in a pith helmet, if you can picture it.  Despite the bat drama about to unfold, I actually had to pause and laugh at this spectacle.  He followed the sound of the bat-thrashing out into the big front room and found the Little Brown Bat had alighted atop the back of the couch and was crawling along the upholstery, very close to where my sister was sound asleep.  As he raised up the tennis racquet to deliver his bat-elimination-serve, my sister, alerted somehow by her inner radar much like a fly feels the oncoming swat,  suddenly awoke and opened her eyes.

She did not find the image of a giant white, naked man-grub in a pith helmet with a raised racquet above her head as amusing.

I don’t remember if she screamed at that point, but she bolted off the couch and into the bedroom to be with me, where we shut the door and both cowered beneath the blanket with my daughter and the dog.  We could hear the bat thup-thupping around the living room while Howie hunted for it.  And then, suddenly, we saw a little winged arm reaching into the open space above the old, crooked door as it attempted to get into the bedroom.  It probably thought it had found a space to hide in. The poor thing was most likely more terrified than we were.  But as I explained above, when there is a bat in the house, all common sense evaporates.

At that point we both screamed.

He did eventually get the thing, and predictably, it was tiny and harmless once it wasn’t flying around anymore.  Unfortunately, they rarely survived the tennis racquet, no matter how gently he attempted to scoop them up and out.

That is about my most vivid bat story. It occurred many years ago.  I know that there has been a drastic decimation in the current brown bat population over the past few years, which does not bode well for our environment.  I wonder if they still return to that house.

I also have some mouse stories..…maybe to share another time.

Posted in Animal Stories, Humor, Uncategorized, Wildlife | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Tomato Face

Posted on January 19, 2011 by daeja's view

I didn’t realize until I was about twelve years old that not everyone got “Tomato Face”.  I only figured it out at that point because when you hit that age, everything becomes Painfully Evident and you suddenly notice everything about yourself that is different (as in different = wrong) right at a time where you are not very emotionally equipped to handle “different”.   Actually, I was different in a lot of ways, but mostly these other ways were not visibly different. However,  there was no hiding Tomato Face.

As a thin, wiry, physically active child who ran around with the other neighborhood kids in the streets and fields playing dodge ball and baseball and even shot hoops with our next door neighbor (who was an Older Boy),  I would ride my bicycle far and wide, pretending it was my horse, and be outside all day long. I even used to swing from a knotted rope in an apple tree. In retrospect, some of it sounds pretty idyllic.  Of course, I would be getting quite the work out and would get sweaty –  sometimes my head would even pound.   I had no idea what my face looked like.  I assumed everybody else was just like me. But apparently, when I do any kind of exertion, be it running, dancing, biking or even walking fast, my face gets bright red – alarmingly bright red, like a tomato.  Tomato Face.   It just took one kid to mention it, and then I looked in the mirror and there it was. Tomato Face, Tomato Face. Tomato Face!!!  Tomato Face is a VNPS (Visibly Noticeable Physical Situation) which is one of those things we sometimes end up with and subsequently work to transcend as we grow.

As you can imagine this harmless but obvious VNPS did not bode well in gym class, that proving ground of hell where you either had to look terrific or excel in a sport or just be incredibly popular – none of which I was (has this changed at all in school?).  Be it relay races, sit ups, gymnastics, whatever, my somewhat sallow complexion would get so red that I would look like I was sunburned.  The other kids would be sweaty and looked like they had gotten a healthy workout, which actually translated into something casually cool.  Conversely, I appeared to be having a stroke, which was a seriously dweeb condition.

TF concerns itself only with the face.  It does not extend into the torso or extremities. There is no Tomato Arm or Tomato Body.  It is just a beacon, a stoplight, a torch, an Early Girl garden variety perched upon your neck.  As I have aged, TF has invoked some questions and sometimes concern from others.  “Did you burn your face at the beach?” or “Are you alright?” are the most popular.  My blood pressure is fine, and perhaps an hour later, TF will invariably fade and I will return to just being a sweaty individual. What is worse, now I don’t even have to exert myself at all. I can be sitting there minding my own business when suddenly a hot flash will hit and there it is…..Tomato Face.  If you have ever seen the cover of Little Feat’s “Waiting For Columbus”, this is how I visualize myself when it happens.

This condition has been particularly embarrassing at the gym, where TF appears about ten minutes into a fast walk on the treadmill and remains for the duration of any workout.    I do not look trendy.  This is one of the reasons I don’t like to work out at a gym (well, there are a few reasons, but I will save that for another post).

Years ago, when I mentioned the issue of TF to my mother, she brushed it off and said “Oh, I get that”.   I never really saw my mother with Tomato Face, as her complexion had a lot of ruddy color in it anyway, unlike me.  She didn’t seem to think it was very important though, and so I lived silently with my TF mortification, and sometimes, decades later, I still have to tell myself to “get over it”.

However, I do know for sure that it is genetic, because among the many DNA “gifts” I have passed on, both of my daughters have inherited TF and I hear familiar laments from them. All the post dance recital photos of them display Tomato Face, and they are not happy about it. There are so many things worse than Tomato Face, but never the less, I am so sorry girls, I really am.

Posted in Humor, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Soporific

Posted on January 18, 2011 by daeja's view

The last time (which was also the first time) I had a new bed, I was living with my fiancé, who complained bitterly about how soft and lumpy our mattress was.  The too-soft mattress he was complaining about was at least twenty years old and had been a hand-me-down that my once-upon-a-time husband and I had acquired from yet someone else back in our hippie days, when buying a new mattress would have been considered the greatest of extravagant luxuries that we never could have afforded.

But at the point of the new mattress consideration, I was living with Mr. Financially-Solvent-Seriously-Good-Income-Earning-Fiancé, whose back was hurting from sleeping in the crater at the center of my old dead mattress/marriage.  After wasting money on a bed board that was supposed to make the mattress feel firmer but didn’t, he had decided in one swift moment to invest in an expensive, new, extra firm queen size bed immediately.   Having never had a new mattress, I was shocked at the prices. While my old hippie sensibilities kept saying “this is wasteful”, I did think it might be nice to have a new mattress to go along with this new relationship.  Ultimately, I really didn’t have much input into the choice, and he was paying for it, so in no time at all we came home with an expensive coil spring mattress he had chosen; one that weighed a ton and was so high that it felt like you were lying on top of a sheet cake.

Unfortunately, the sheet cake mattress has outlasted that relationship. Not only that, but I found myself lugging it around every place I have lived since.  Although it feels quite comfortable to me, my Significant Other who I now share the bed with (here on in referred to as the SO) has been complaining that this extra-firm, super high, sheet cake mattress is too old and too hard and is hurting his back.  My SO has a very physically demanding job, so it made sense that a good mattress would be an absolute necessity.

Furthermore, although he has not been lying in a depression in the mattress, you might say there is sort of a depression associated with the mattress (metaphorically speaking), at least where I am concerned, and so when he insisted it was time to replace it, aside from some weak arguments about the price of a new one, I really didn’t resist too much…  OK, I made one practical money-saving suggestion about getting a foam topper, but he blew off that idea immediately.

Months went by and nothing really happened about the bed , until one Saturday we were out running errands and we happened to pass a bed store that was on the same side of the road we were on (no left turns – I was driving) so I pulled in so we could check out the mattresses. The last thing I said to him before we walked in the door is “Let’s just look and not commit. We can always come back”.

He had his mind set on a memory foam mattress. I knew nothing about them, but apparently he had been scouting them out. He wanted a Very Expensive Brand Name memory foam mattress.  Nothing else would do.  These Very Expensive Brand Name memory foam mattresses come in a variety of layers and degrees of firmness, with escalating prices. I kept saying “Ok, why don’t we go home and think about it”, but he ignored me. I don’t know what it is about guys when they decide to buy a bed, but he was really determined to not leave that store without one.  They try to make it enticing by offering you a payment plan so it doesn’t appear so painful.  We waffled between two of the lower to middle range ones.  One was too hard.  One felt too soft (to me, although he liked it).  We finally decided on the softer one.  It took a while for him to do the the financing  paperwork with the saleswoman. While he was doing that, I kept trying out more and more beds, when I suddenly lay upon one that felt better than the one we were buying.  Of course, it was significantly more money and it was everything I initially didn’t want.  However, my logic was that this is the last bed we are ever going to own, so why shouldn’t it be comfortable?  We are not getting any younger, right?  So I told him I thought we should get the more expensive bed.  The day before I would have settled for a topper at one-tenth of the price and now here I was, upping the ante.

“We should have the better bed.  You should have a better bed for your back. This is the last bed we will probably ever own. We are going to die in this bed!”, I said.   SO looked at me and then  looked up to the ceiling with a pained expression, giving me that Suffering Jesus look that he tends to get sometimes when we are discussing things.

He bought the more expensive bed.

After we got home, I went online and looked up memory foam mattresses. Why we didn’t do this before I don’t know.  I came to a site where people were saying they smelled terrible and were out-gassing and poisoning them and making them sick with all sorts of symptoms. I went into a total panic. I wanted to cancel the order. SO refused to cancel the order, said I was insane and we had a very tense evening.  Then I called up everyone who I thought might have that kind of bed.  I found four memory foam people and two foam topper people. Three of the four who  had the Very Expensive Name Brand mattress  said they totally loved their bed.  The one person who didn’t love it said it was a total waste of money and if they had known we were going to buy one, we could have had theirs. Both foam topper people said they were very happy with their economical foam tops and that it had upgraded the quality and comfort of their sleep.  All the mattress and topper people said that it took a while for the odor coming from the foam to go away, but that it eventually did.

A week later I came home from work and there was the new bed.  The smell of it was intense and filled the whole room.   It has taken weeks and weeks for the odor to dissipate, and as I lie there in bed at night, I occasionally will wake up thinking that toxic chemicals are coming out of the bed and are going to kill me (although not him, only me) and that my words “We are going to die in this bed” might end up being prophetic.  Then I can’t sleep because I visualize my organs soaking up the evil chemicals. Also, when you have  hot flashes, which I do, it tends to holds the heat. You are surrounded and enveloped by your hot flash.  A few times I have even gotten up in the middle of the night and gone back into the old bed, which is now in the extra bedroom, to escape my hot flash and the chemicals I am imagining.

SO left me a little piece of paper that came with the bed saying the odor is harmless, which hasn’t helped me much. However, I am starting to get over it as the smell has mostly faded, just as everyone said it would.  There is still is a slight residual odor though, similar to the Tree of Heaven (Ailanthus altissima), the invasive plant in our back yard.  When you pull it up, Tree of Heaven smells kind of like raw peanuts. Our bedroom smells like that now (see “Hydra“).  I try to convince myself that since it smells like the Tree of Heaven then it must be a natural, organic smell, even though I know the bed is made out of space age foam and there is nothing natural about it.

The other thing about this bed is that when you lie on it, it’s like lying on modeling clay.   Remember those slabs of thick modeling clay you used to get in the cellophane packages as a kid?  It feels like that. Dense. Then, as you lie there, the mattress foam heats up a bit from the heat of your body and slowly begins to absorb you.  It supports your lower back and cradles your hips.  It’s a strange, but rather nice feeling.  The SO totally loves it.

For me, it is taking some adjustment.  I am also very honest about this experience, and about most things. and well, you know, you spend a lot of time in your bed so this is kind of a big deal to me. What I have noticed is that it’s harder to turn over because the bed sucks you into it, so mostly I just lie on my back like a flipped turtle.  Once I am in it I am not going anywhere without great effort.  Once you are in this bed, it is very difficult to get out of it too.  There is no bouncing associated with the memory foam bed.  You do not bounce out of bed (or in bed, for that matter, which is a whole other topic). You have to roll out of it or climb out of it, like quicksand.  It is definitely a whole new way of being in a bed. It is the Earth Shoe of beds. I think it takes some adjusting to become a fan.

But in the morning, you don’t want to get out of it.  This bed has actually made me late for work a number of times.  The bed is like a giant drug.  This bed is the Quaalude of beds. I would have to say this bed is Soporific.

It’s a whole new frontier.

Posted in Humor, Shopping, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Hydra

Posted on January 17, 2011 by daeja's view

The tree in the backyard on the property line between us and our neighbor towers over all the others and has some serious girth to it.  It looks kind of like a locust but not quite a locust.  All summer long it drops sticks and long racimes, which leave an unsightly black substance on the patio after it rains.  It smells funky.  It does not give a deep or satisfying shade.  In autumn it drops copious amounts of tiny leaves all over the garden and yard that are not pretty.   Significant Other (hereafter know as “SO”) calls it a “garbage tree”.  The only thing useful about it is that the high garden fence is secured to it, so that when the snowplow swings around the driveway in the winter and taps it, the fence will hopefully stay put.

This year we got together with the neighbor and split the cost of having the garbage tree taken down. It was really exciting to come home from work and find it gone. I love trees, but I had no remorse about this one.  They left up enough trunk to serve as part of the fence post, but the rest was removed.  So much more light came through for the garden and the house, and no more junk would be coming down on our heads.

However, a mere few days after it was cut, a peculiar thing occurred.  The tree started to sprout new leaves and the beginning of limbs along the remaining trunk.  This was immediate, and because it was so rapid, it was sort of impressive.  But then all these baby trees started sprouting all over the garden and all over our neighbor’s lawn.  Hundreds of them.  Not only were they sprouting, they were growing at an alarmingly swift rate.  Like within five days they would be a foot tall.  They grew right up alongside and crowded out my flowers.  As fast as I would pull them up, the next day more would be back. As fast as the neighbor would mow them down from her lawn, they would return.  It seemed like the original tree, in an effort to survive, instantly sent out all these runners to make new trees.  When you pull them up, they emit this weird, weedy smell that is similar to raw peanuts but unpleasant.  Every morning I would take a few moments to pull up the latest new plants.  They just kept multiplying and it began to seem surreal, like the Hydra, the mythical snake where you cut off the head and more pop out.  I have discovered it is called a Tree of Heaven, or  Ailanthus altissima, a tree native to China that was imported during the 1700’s and quickly turned into an invasive species.  Aside from the direction it grows, there is nothing heavenly about it.

Per the suggestions found on cooperative extension and invasive species sites, SO drilled some holes in the trunk and injected some herbicide into it.  Numerous times.  Didn’t work.  Next came spraying the little plants that kept popping up with herbicide.  That helped a little.  I am not into having poison all over my yard though.  I kept pulling them up when I would spot one.  In the meantime, they have spread from the very back of the yard and started showing up in the front.

It is winter now and the Hydra, as I tend to call it, is dormant.  In the spring we will see if it resumes its quest of survival.  If anyone has any experience with this and suggestions, please share!

Posted in Are you kidding me?, Gardening, Humor, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

Ornaments of the Heart

Posted on January 16, 2011 by daeja's view

December 31, 2010

It’s the first holiday in decades where we did not celebrate at home and the first year I have had to alternate the holiday, since my daughter has gotten married and has informed me that the rules have changed.  So I will be going out of state for it this year. Given this, I felt there was no point in putting up the tree. After the kids moved out, I had downsized (or “sold out”, as I kind of felt) from a live Christmas tree to a tabletop “fake” one (if it wasn’t live, it was fake, right?).   This occurred after the last live tree we had remained outside the back door for four months after the holiday, waiting for someone to drag it into the woods, rusty colored needles an invitation for an inopportune spark. So I had the fake tree, but it was a pretty pathetic one.  Also, nobody would ever help put the ornaments away after it was all over, a chore I find almost intolerable myself.  Little tree – less ornaments to put away.  And now, no Christmas at home, so I decided no tree this year.

Given this, it made no sense really, but during the pre-holiday madness I was breezing purposefully through K-Mart on a totally unrelated mission when I walked by the ornament display, saw an artificial tree with sparkling white lights on sale and made one of those split second whim purchases.  I knew nobody would be home for Christmas and that nobody would see it, but once I bought it, I decided to put up a tree for nobody – then politically corrected myself – I decided to put up the tree for me.  In an act of benevolence, the Significant Other, who detaches himself from almost any celebratory proceedings and only tolerates them with the most painful of expressions, did assemble the new, somewhat larger and more realistic looking fake tree before secluding himself in his man-cave.

Getting into my groove, I took the day off from work, lugged the ornaments out of the attic, lit an amazingly realistic pine scented candle (made by “Thymes”, highly recommended here), broke out some 70% dark chocolate and settled down to what I expected to be a chore.  I skipped the holiday music, opened the blinds, let the sunlight shine into my peaceful little living room and settled to task.

What I didn’t expect was an overwhelming smash in the heart.

I unwrapped a tiny brass French horn from the tissue paper and envisioned my father, a man who had loved the sound of the horn.   A little lady made of raffia that had been my mother’s – as I hung it up, I could almost hear her melodic laughter.  A wooden buoy with a lighthouse painted on it from Maine, bought on a trip where I had cajoled a somewhat reclusive friend to come with me after she had complained she never went anywhere.  I hung up a red phone booth from a visit to London.  Then a little ceramic heart from Vienna, a diminutive cowbell from Switzerland, a painted lady from Prague, all gathered during a European tour I had almost cancelled as it had immediately followed a devastating betrayal.  It was almost like watching an old, familiar movie.  A small wooden sled from a former coworker named Jane, who I had worked with in a group home thirty years ago.  A set of plastic baby keys that my children had cut their teeth on.   A bristle porcupine my youngest had proudly brought back from a school field trip.  A bronzed acorn and leaf my sister and I had gotten together on a trip through Yosemite.  An array of handmade projects the kids had done in school or scouts or camp – little felt horses, wooly lambs, paper lollipops, God’s eyes of yarn, clothes pin soldiers.  A Mexican Day of the Dead dancing figure from a local store owner who I bonded with when we discovered we had both gone through cancer treatment.  A cozy bird in a nest that one of my girls had coveted since she was a toddler.  One or two remaining 1950’s glass ornaments that had somehow survived.  I lingered long over a paper mache bird one of my younger sisters had made when she was a child herself.….. my mother had saved it and now it was in my possession, both mom and sister no longer earthside.

I smiled, I sighed to myself and I cried. Images and stories of the people that had passed through my life were attached to each ornament, and my history paraded before me.  The process was a meditation, a purging, a remembering and an honoring, which became a deeply personal ritual.  By the time I had placed the silver cardboard star on top of the tree – the one that my once-upon-a-time husband had made when we had needed a last minute tree topper many years ago – I was overwhelmed with emotion.

At that very moment, the doorbell rang.  Unexpectedly, it was my ex-husband, dropping something off, and it caught me off guard.  When he walked in, I was weeping. I didn’t know what to say, so I pointed to the tree and choked out, “Your star”.   I don’t know what I was expecting…that maybe he would be caught up in a moment of sweet nostalgia?  But he just laughed at me, said “You’re too emotional”, wished me a safe trip and then left me to contemplate my memories alone.

Today I took down the tree. I had to force myself to start the process.  I wrapped everything into paper as quickly as I could. I dropped and broke a miniature tea pot I had bought with an old friend on a girl’s shopping trip. I packed it up broken and will probably hang it up broken next year. There is a new stocking now tucked away in the box with the others as we have a new addition to the family.  Time keeps moving.

It’s all placed back into the attic now, this time capsule, and another year begins.  I still feel a little spacey from the experience.

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