The Hope of Ye Olde U2

When I first heard this song, I was fifteen years-old, very impressionable and kinda boy crazy -- a classic combination! I loved to crank this song in my room on my Philco double-cassette stereo and try to sing along.  Being an Alto, I thought I could vocally really get in there with Bono. In hindsight, I probably couldn't. The song's concept of true-romantic-soul-mate, Dublin-style-gray-sky love set to a pulsing drum beat, stirring base, and soaring guitar made me feel incredibly hopeful for the future. This is the song that made me love U2. I still think it's one of their best.

All of these years later, the song is still potent.  I can't say as much for the production values of the video, but I think Bono's look still holds up, New Wave mullet and all (that's right, you heard me).  Thankfully, I am no longer boy crazy, except for the one to whom I'm am happily married.

When I play this song for my kids in my car, my son thinks the refrain is "Two birds eating pie" instead of "Two hearts beat as one." Now when I listen, I laugh and hear his version of the song over the original. The song has taken on a new family-friendly meaning.  Regardless, it still makes me hopeful for the future, probably because "They can't stop the dance" even if it's maybe their "last chance."  The song, to me, is about persistence.  Persistence is another form of hope, whether it be about hope for true love, or two birds sharing a baked fruit-filled desert.

My Favorite Words... A Cavalcade!

I am a lover of words. Not only that, I think choosing the appropriate words is of paramount importance. After all, we create with them. We convey with them. We love with them. We learn with them. We build with them. We heal with them. We bond with them. We make peace with them. Words are, in my book, just plain hot diggity dog. 

I have been collecting my favorite words lately. Here is my list so far:

Poppycock Hackneyed Scalawag Hoodwink Flibbertigibbet Ethereal Euphoria Exaltation Gangbusters Gobsmacked Vexed Smolder Ember Pop Fiddlesticks Muckraker Haberdasher Balderdash Persephone Seraphim Mermaid Maya Specter Gratis Fireworks Whimsy Verdant Gossamer Paradox Juggernaut Zeitgeist Cathedral Flying Buttress Crackerjack Bad ass Supernova Indochine Bamboozle Hibiscus Plethora Sake Articulate Pamplemousse Inspiritus Backsass Sassafras Nocturne Luminous Velocity Bogart Dio Incense Frickin Cacophony Symphony Maestro Embrace Brainstorm Oy Mansard Whizbang Sprite Gallant Ninja Gothic Breathe Mala Canvass Caravan Melodic Splash Diaphanous Incandescent Nautilus Bishop Esplanade Bisou Pagoda Razzle dazzle Hobnob Humdinger Persia Shazam Catalyst & Yowza... What are some of your favorite words?

Blog Block Party

Truth be told, I've had what I call a "blog block" since the start of the new year. Now here it is spring and my block still hasn't cleared. I write about the subject of hope. Humor is a component too (yuck-yuck!), because laughing is freakin' wonderful.  Like a soulful narcotic, it gets us high from the inside out. However, I don't limit myself to these two topics.  I need to write about other stuff that I care about like my beloved aging dog or wanting to "save the adverb real bad" since I don't want to see the English language officially slip into oblivion. Sarah Palin's verbal idiocies are in the dictionary now?

"Hi, nice to meet you, I'm Galled."

When 2011 began, I had high hopes for the new year.  I still do. I think my blog block stems from the exceptional amount of intensity brewing around the globe these last few months. For example, talking about hope followed by a knock-knock joke in the wake of the devastation in Japan might appear naive, or worse, insensitive. 

"Doesn't she know the world is going to hell in a hand basket? Doesn't she watch the news?" 

When I shared my concern with a friend who is also a fellow blogger, she said with a smile, "but it's [hope] refreshing." Her comment was refreshing!  Then an artist friend suggested I write about how I'm not writing. I loved this idea too. So here I am blogging about my blog block.

I regard it as a blog spring cleaning. Like spring cleaning, we clear out the dusty corners to make room for the new.  Where there is room for the new, hope will surely follow.  Ideally, in a clown car.

Hope: Not For The Faint of Heart & 9 Other Hopeful Ideas

Originally posted on December 8th, 2010

Hi Friends.

There are many misconceptions about hope that are in serious need of clarification -- if not illumination. So let’s get to it.

1.) As the title of this post states: hope is not for the faint of heart. Remaining hopeful takes tenacity. Hell... it takes guts. Remaining hopeful after all that life has thrown at us is a valiant choice. Own it.

2.) There is an overwrought (and misguided) idea in our culture that the quality of hope belongs to the young, the naive, or worse, the delusional. This negative hope P.R. usually comes from pessimists or self-proclaimed realists who feel they have a better grasp of “reality” than someone who is optimistic or hopeful.

This is an impossibility because reality is relative to the individual. Our realties are unique to us. We all filter our personal realities through the lenses of our life experience.  We can change our lenses anytime in order to see the world in a more positive and hopeful light.  It may take some work. In fact, we might need to dig deeply to make this shift, but the work is so worth it, because...

3.) Life is so much better with hope than without it. This is a simple truth. I've sampled life from both buffets and "The All You Can Eat Hope" is so much better.  No Contest. It's downright delicious compared to the "The Empty, Void, Eat What You Want, But Why Are We Really Bothering?" which is at best bland -- at worst bleak.

4.) Being hopeful, or having hope, doesn’t mean you’re weak -- it means you’re courageous. Every enlightened leader the world has ever known has been hopeful and espoused some form of hope.

5.) Facing difficult challenges is part of life. Remaining hopeful in the wake of them is one of the gifts these challenges give us (wisdom is the other).  We can’t give up on hope or worse -- backlash against it -- as if hope owes us something.  It doesn’t.  It’s not a stock we buy and then when the market takes a turn, we sell it to show how smart we are: “Look, I saw this coming... that’s why I got out.”  Hope is a long-term investment.

6.)  Hope is not a gimmick.  It’s a force. Not unlike the most famous force of all: Star Wars'.  In the original movie, Princess Leia implores, “Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.” The Force is the whole Jedi Master power source, but they need hope in their Light Saber holsters to access it.

7.) Hope goes hand-in-hand with peace. If we want peace in our lives, or in our world, we must remain steadfastly hopeful.

8.) Hope is creative. In order to bring something new into the world -- whether it’s a scientific discovery or a work of art -- hope fuels the creative process. It propels us to keep moving forward each day ... sometimes for years... in order to realize our visions. No great leap of humanity was ever made without hope. Fire? Hope. Vaccines? Hope. A man on the moon? Hope.

9.) Hope is the flip side of fear. This an archetypal dichotomy. When studying the Tarot, you learn that there is a card that represents our “Hope and Fears," because they are entwined.  If we’re not feeling hopeful, it’s because on some level we're feeling fearful.  Yes, it might very be artfully suppressing these fears, but we're suppressing them nonetheless. Hope expunges fear.

Upset?  Take hope out for a spin and think about something that excites you -- even if it's a fantasy of a new job or a new home.  This exercise will drop-kick fear out of sight. Repeat until hope becomes second nature, but don't expect this to happen overnight. This is where the tenacity comes into play.  Stick with hope. It will eventually take you where you want to go.

10) Don't be afraid to hope.  Hope allows us to take risks in order to have what we want in life. This is why hope is not for the faint of heart.  Be brave. Claim it. Hope is waiting for us.

      

Well, I Do Declare! Scarlett's Sole Bit O' Wisdom

Originally posted on October 4th, 2010

Scarlett O'Hara was all about Scarlett O'Hara.  She was selfish, spoiled, scheming, and worst of all, a slave owner.  Gorgeous and resourceful, she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted.  Scarlett may be fun to watch, but we never root for her.  Her choices add up to a cautionary antebellum tale that could be subtitled,  "Let's Not Do What Scarlett Does...  Let's All Be Like Melanie!"

In the end, Scarlett, the original Mean Girl, gets her comeuppance from Rhett Butler’s Civil War-style F. U., "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

As far as I can tell, Scarlett gets only one thing right.  After the burning of Atlanta by General Sherman's army, Scarlett hits bottom in her hoop-skirt.  Does she crumble?  No.  Scarlett discovers that she is a survivor.  Alone in the muck, she vehemently declares: "As God is my witness, I shall never be hungry again."

This is one of the boldest moments in Gone With The Wind.  What she says preceding this statement is still selfish and scheming... okay... it's a little crazy: "As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill."

Lie?  Steal? Cheat?  Kill?  Geez, Scar... chill... don’t kill.

Enlightened she is not, but Miss O'Hara's one nugget of inadvertent wisdom, from which we can all prosper, is that we have the power to decide what it is that we don’t want --  just as much have the power to decide what it is that we do want.

Scarlett vows that being hungry is no longer an acceptable avenue for her.  We can do this too and we don't have to be starving in the Confederate muck. We can decide what is no longer acceptable or serviceable to us.  By making conscious choices, we tap into our power.  By tapping into our power to choose, we can profoundly change our lives. This power is the battery of hope.

Recently, a loved-one of mine decided that a longtime work situation no longer served them. While they’re not entirely sure what the next step will be, they know what it won’t be -- the same-old, same-old. They consciously drew a line in the universal sand.  This small act has tremendous creative voltage to generate a new paradigm in one’s life. It’s not necessarily easy.  In fact, it takes moxie to leave something familiar for the unknown. 

Taking is a step further, we must now mix our classic movie heroines. When it was time for her to leave the safety of the abbey, Maria in The Sound of Music says, “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window."  Everyone’s favorite musical nun-turned-nanny recognized that a metaphoric door had closed, but trusted that the unseen window was open for a reason.

While doors do close in our lives, we don’t have to sit around and wait for them to shut in our faces. We can close  them on our own. By doing so, we create space for more beneficial opportunities to take shape in our lives. Once we gently close a door, the fun can begin...  formulating what is it we do want, like Scarlett in her post-Civil War Era, but without all the Southern-fried lying, cheating, stealing, and killing, y’all.

I Want to Save the Adverb So Bad!!

Originally posted on September 8th, 2010

It's more than a little challenging to be the poor neglected adverb these days.  People here are dissing it real quick and it just ain't right. In fact, it makes me, like, wicked sad.  Now, I'm not saying that I always get it perfect myself, but I do think if we don’t start saving the adverb now, it may be real hard to recover later.

“What's the big deal? Why do we need to save it?” you ask.

First of all, without it, we don't sound particular smart (don't be mad, it's true). Then our poor verbs, who are doing the heavy-lifting actions on our behalf, aren't proper modified. Now they’re hanging out there without a freakin net! Doesn’t that sound total scary? And our adjectives, which are trying to describe everything so beautiful for us, are reduced to half their meaning.  It's a real big bummer.

Why people are killing the adverb soft and slow, I don’t know.  To be clear, the slaughter is not from my friends and family.  It’s people on television!  People like professional actors who are being paid to speak for a living. Lately, they are frequent saying their character’s lines more adverb-free than not.    
“I’m real slow to object, Your Honor, but object I must!”

Where does the  breakdown first occur?  I'm not real sure. Was the adverb first missing in the script?  Did the writers say, "Screw you adverb and your little "ly" too!"  Hmmmm... Or did the actor (while in character) make the slip and no one noticed, cared, or bothered to correct him?  So the director, the producers, the script supervisor, and the network all let it slide by?  Why? Is it laziness? Ignorance? Indifference?

I've heard TV presenters and even some journalist chuck their adverbs too.  This is perhaps a greater transgression since these individuals are being paid for their expertise -- part of which is speaking the English language.

Then there are TV's so-called Reality "Stars" (by the way, the word "star" is now completely meaningless since a season as The Bachelor now earns you the same label as Cary Grant -- WTF?).  Anecdotal evidence supports that a large proportion of reality stars wouldn’t know an adverb if it bit them on the ass real hard.  I know these are  actual people and shouldn’t be held to the same standard as the aforementioned professionals -- I’m not expecting Snookie to turn into Ted Koppel here -- but I do think that we shouldn’t allow the adverb to be so forgotten that its absence becomes the norm.

Special Note: Sarah Palin, if you must stay, then will you at least get your adverbs out of your modified beehive and put them into your over-confident-for-no-reason mouth?

People all over the globe watch our TV.  Many even use it to learn to speak English. I'm not trying to sound harsh and whatnot, but I think as Americans we have a responsibility to ourselves -- and the world -- to not sound like total dumb asses.

A Love Note to My Suddenly Disabled Dog

 Originally Posted on July 26th, 2010

Dear Daphne (A.K.A. Scup, Scuppy Pup, Scuppy Puppy, Pooch MaGoo, MaGoodie, Oodie, Oodie DeeDee, Daffy Dog, Oodie DeeDee-My Daffy Dog),

I know you won’t be able to read this, but that’s not stopping me.  I have something to tell you and I want to shout from the rooftops.

As a kid, I dreamt of getting a dog just like you, but you didn't arrive until I was a married thirty-year old homeowner. Pre-kids, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. You kicked off our family, giving us someone to love, care for, and yes, dote on, besides each other.

I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I fell in love with you even before we met.  I had seen a face much like yours -- fuzzy, tan and white, with bright brown eyes, a black gum drop nose, a little canine smile, ears with personality to burn... one glance and I knew I was a goner.

When we finally met in person, we bonded instantly. Your coat was still wiry in texture and you scampered around the room on our first date like any other nine month-old puppy drunk with a taste of freedom.

On the ride home that first day, Nick (who would later coin all of your affectionate and highly creative nicknames) and I decided to name you “Daphne.”  Your birth name was "Madame," but you didn't look like a Madame to us (besides, with a name like that, I would always be looking over my shoulder for Wayland Flowers)

Like any new parent, I obsessed over every detail.  I bought all the books and the latest equipment.  You looked so smart in your new red collar. 

You were home for three weeks before you barked for the first time.  In fact, I was starting to worry that you didn't know how to bark.  It turns out you were saving your bark for other passing dogs... and that was about it.  You have never barked -- not once -- when someone has come to the door. 

Daphne, you have completely spoiled us in this way.  You have also never cried or whined (unless someone accidentally stepped on you because you insisted on being underfoot when there was a chance that food could hit the floor, which is how you earned another nickname, "Little Miss Underfoot”).  You also, as it turned out, didn't shed. This was very considerate of you. Not a must, but a plus we have come to appreciate.

Remember on our neighborhood walks how people would always stop us to ask what kind of dog you are?  "Wire hair fox terrier," I would reply with a smile.  One time, a fellow passing us on the street took one look at you and exclaimed, “Asta!” He was of course referring to the famous fox terrier from one of our favorite old movies, The Thin Man.


Like any great relationship, we have had our moments: occasional accidents in the house, bolting outside in a thunderstorm (much to our terror), but nobody's perfect.  You’ve been great with the kids, though a little slow to admit they’re not your litter mates at times.  In the big picture, you have been a fantastic dog.  Daph, we began as a trio and now we’re a quad.  This quartet loves you like no other. 

That is why it is so hard to think that our time together is starting to run out.  You are twelve and change now, which is still kind of low-milage for your breed.  I thought we'd have a few more good years. 

As I sit here and write to you, you are lying cozily on your bed next to me.  You are snoozing away.  Looking at you in this setting, you wouldn't know that you are now disabled.  Around Christmas, you back legs start to slip out from under you.  It was subtle at first and was easy to mistake for the slippery new floors in our new house.  By Easter, you were still getting around, but your hips were lower than they used to be.  By May, we were ordering you a wheel chair.

Having run every test, we have learned that you are in great health, except that your brain is no longer communicating with your back-end.  You are not in pain, you are just weak.  Looking for more answers, the new vet has helped you tremendously with a diet makeover, supplements, Chinese herbs, and acupuncture treatments. You have put wieght back on and have perked up.

As if we didn't have enough challenges, the conversation with the woman from the canine wheelchair company who called to get my credit card number, floored me.

Yes, she completely flabbergasted me by taking it upon herself to tell me that you have a fatal condition, not unlike the human ALS.  When I tried to tell her that neither of your doctors had mentioned this as a potential diagnosis, she replied expertly, “they don’t always know.  Doctors make mistakes.” 

She continued, “I’m just telling you so that you can prepare yourself emotionally,” as if she were my father’s oncologist, instead of a custom dog-wheelchair purveyor.  “I’ve seen this disease in a lot of wire hair fox terriers in the last couple of years,”  she persisted.  Wow. Nothing I said from our side made a difference to her.  She's convinced this is what's wrong with you and there was no talking her out of it.  She was as tenacious as a terrier herself.

This, needless to say, threw me for a loop.  I didn't think that this leg weakness development could or would kill you.  I just thought you were entering your "Senior" phase with a bang. 
For the record, neither the vet nor I accept this unsolicited phone diagnosis as gospel (though it is a boogeyman in my head at times). 

With all of this drama swirling around you, the great news is that you seem blissfully unaware to your new limitations.  You still love to give kisses and get your snowy white tummy rubbed.  You still get excited for meals.  You still love to sniff the morning breeze.  You are yourself in every way, except that you can't walk. I am so happy that you are small enough that I can pick you up and take you out with ease (we’d be in big trouble otherwise). We have had to build a new routine with your more complicated care. You have been a total trouper throughout.

Daphne, I admire the way you are perfectly fixed in the present moment. You inhabit only now in your canine-time-stasis.  It's me who is a part-time mess.  I try to stay present, because I think this is what you may be trying to teach me, by example, or should I say “Ood-xample?"

But my heart is breaking at the thought of loosing you, my little pup.

I have philosophical blips where I tell myself that this is part of life, that we have given you an loving home and that nothing and no one lives forever.  Then I have moments where I felt powerless and even a little hopeless.  

Then I rally... hope returns.  "Who knows?" I think to myself.  "You may continue on in this condition just for quite some time and be fine."  Wheelchair woman be damned!

I just needed to verbally declare, Daphne, that no matter what the future holds for us -- for it is a mystery -- you are a huge part of our hearts, now and forever. 

You, Oodie-Dee-Dee-Scuppy-Pup-Pooch-Magoo-Miss-Daffy-Doggie, have been the delightful dog of our dreams.

Love Always,
Alix

                     
                       Daphne in repose with Nooble, the teddy bear.   

Look Out Rocky!!! The Bike Ride & My Writer's Dilemma

Originally posted on June 22nd, 2010

So I'm out riding my bicycle on a lovely summer day.  It's gorgeous and I'm giddy from the summer-only scents of honeysuckle, rose hips and the huge privet bushes that have been left to their own devices in the untamed areas of the island where I live.  I love the unique peace of the bicycle ride.  The freedom it affords.  Robins are darting across my path with such a crazy consistency it’s like they're trying to tell me something. Summer is humming all around me.

As idyllic as it is, I'm feeling conflicted about this ride.  Part of me feels I should be physically attached to my computer working tirelessly in the way that a really dedicated writer does. That's the thing about being a writer -- you never feel like you've written enough.  At least that's how I feel.  No matter how much I produce, I am often left feeling that I could have worked harder and written longer.

I then remember reading that Ernest Hemingway wrote one page a day in the mornings.  Once he had written his page, which he would labor over for hours,  he was free to  his throw himself into his uber-manly pursuits, which of course gave him plenty of material to write about.  I tell myself that my bike ride, while it's not deep sea fishing or big game hunting,  might give me something to write about too,  though can't help but wonder if I’m just rationalizing or procrastinating (something I can't afford to do).

Ride to write?  Write to ride?  This is My Writer’s Dilemma. Does the ride reward the writer (me) or does the ride serve the writer (also me)?  At this moment, I don’t know, so off I go...

Whenever I leave my house--be it by vehicle or on foot--I set the intention for a safe and uneventful journey.  "Uneventful" means just what it sounds like--I get to where I'm going without incident: no crashes, no collisions, no being pulled over by cops, which equals no tickets, etc. You get the idea. I think of myself as a “conscious commuter.”  I even have an animal clause.  I would never want to kill a creature, great or small, with my car (I would feel terrible, plus it would be gross).  Also, I don't want to ride over roadkill while I'm on my bike.  Yes, I am that squeamish.

I am almost back home from my lovely, summery, albeit partially conflicted, though nicely uneventful pedal-to-no-metal cruise.  I'm thinking about what I'm going to be working  when I get home: my "damn book" (mentioned in my previous "Flood" post) and what my next blog topic should be (I haven't a clue).

Suddenly a-big-fat-load-of-Bizarre-with-a-capital-“B” hits.  A squirrel, from out of nowhere, bolts right into my front tire.  So determined is this animal to cross in front of me, that I can feel his (her?) body hitting the wheel.  He’s so persistent I can hear his little claws scratching against the bike as though he is trying to stop it from moving so he can pass.  I am clearly in this squirrel's way.

I squeeze the hand brake while squealing loudly like a cartoon version of myself, because, well I just can't freakin' help it. “Eeeeeeeeeek!! Aaaaaaaaack!!”

Additionally, I'm praying that I don't run over this nutty ballsy squirrel or worse--crash and go down smack on top of Rocky!

The bike doesn't stop right away.  I’m still rolling while Rocky is taking his life in his little gray crazy paws.  What is so weird is how committed he is.  Rocky is going to cross in front of me no matter what.  He hits my bike?  So what.  He hits it again?  WHATever. There is no stopping him. There is no turning back. It’s like his own personal D-Day and my bike his is Normandy.

I’m finally slow down enough that he’s able to cross, which he does like he has a rocket strapped to his tail, leaving both of us unharmed.  By my standards, if no one gets hurt, which includes aggro squirrels with apparent death wishes, it still qualifies as "uneventful."  I utter a big “phew.”

Of course I’m no expert, but Rocky’s behavior strikes me as really out of character (squirrel-wise).  I wondered if there was a deeper meaning to the incident.  Was Rocky actually trying to tell me something?  My secret inner-Shaman-ista side starts to emerge--the side of me that believes in the communion of all life.  I think everything has something to offer us if we are open to it.  This is how I quietly roll, when I’m trying not to roll over madcap squirrels, that is.

To find an answer to my esoteric query, I refer to the book Animal Spirit Guides by Steven D. Farmer, Ph.D., to see what a squirrel close encounter this memorable might mean.  According to Dr. Farmer, squirrels can have multiple meanings, but the one from this book that really resonated for me was: "Although you are actively and aggressively pursuing your goals right now, you need to balance this pursuit with more socializing and play."
“Play!” So there you have it.  The determined squirrel did represent something... it’s perfectly all right, in fact, advisable, for me to take a bike ride when the spirit moves me.  The ride does serve the writer. 
My Writer’s Dilemma is solved... in a most unexpected way.  Now, what's up with the Robins?

"Catie, Will You Go Out With Me?"

Originally posted on May 28th, 2010


What the--?

This what I read on a rock today.  It wasn't just any rock either.  The graffiti was sprawled in huge black spray-painted letters across a gorgeous craggy stone that sits right on the edge of the sea in an idyllic state park near my house.

It bummed me out to read this.  Not like the oil spill bums me out of course, but still... the letters are so gargantuan, you can practically read the date request from space.  Who knows?  Maybe Catie is in outer space, but that is no excuse.  This "ask" is painted in a completely beautiful setting and vandalism--even romantic vandalism--really upsets the apple cart of natural majesty there.

Sure, there are much worse things that could have been written, so maybe I should consider it lucky that it's at least family-friendly graffiti.  Now I'm wondering if park services will remove it or if we're going to be reading this query until the sun and sea wear it off, which could take decades.

I'm sure whomever decided to  make this gesture felt that it was gallant yet artistic-- like John Cusak holding up the boom box while Peter Gabriel sang "In Your Eyes" to Ione Skye in the great Say Anything.  It had to have been an impetuous youth who was sick and tired of texting and Facebook and passing Catie anonymously in the hallway at school.  This person must be desperately in love with Catie and they wanted her to know it.  It's actually pretty  ballsy, since they probably didn't know how Catie would respond.  If only it weren't permanent for every passerby to read while they're trying to drink in the awesome sun, sea, and waves.  Couldn't "Catie, will you go out with me?" have been written on a old fashioned Post-It note, instead of an ancient slab of granite?

Looking at the bright side, maybe this rock writing sparked the beginning of an epic Earthshaking romance between Catie and the spray-painting granite ocean-view-defacer... like Brangelina or Bennifer or Antony and Cleopatra (Cleotony?).  Speaking of long romances, my husband and I met 20 years ago this weekend.  It was nothing like Catie and her admirer.  We used the phone.  As for the anniversary, I don't think we are really doing anything to commemorate it though I would like to. However, I have a feeling it's going to fall through the cracks of Memorial Day cookouts and summer kickoff moments (SPF 70 anyone?).

[Just to be clear, I'm not dropping him a hint here, as he rarely, if ever, gets around to reading this blog, despite his best intentions]

We met I was 21 and he was 25.  Now I'm 41 and he's 45.  Holy time-lapse Batman!!  I am proud that we have hit such a significant marker in our relationship.  What is really amazing is that in our circle of friends here in coastal Rhode Island (who are approximately the same ages as we are), twenty years together isn't that  exotic.  I can think of five other couples who are either about to mark their twentieth year together or  who have recently exceeded it.

What can account for such longevity (besides hard work, commitment, fun and love)?  Maybe it's something in the water?  That would be the salt water of course, because Lord knows you can't drink the water out of the tap here.  Perhaps the salt water and sea air swept Catie off her flip-flopped feet and into the arms of her spray painting admirer?

Tell us Catie.  Did you go out with them?  I hope so! Please say the rock didn't give its beautiful rough face up in vain.  Twenty years from now, we still don't want to be wondering how you answered this question, but unless the park rents a power washer, we very well may be.

The Mirror

Originally posted on May 14th, 2010
 
Last week something rather extraordinary happened -- or didn't happen -- depending on which way you look at it.

It was Monday evening and we were running a little behind schedule at my house.  The kids had been excused from the table to head upstairs and get ready for bed.  In addition, they were supposed to sort laundry for allowance money.  They seek out chores so they can earn dough for covetous items (like Wii games).  Normally, they would be in bed by 8 o'clock and reading.  Lights are out by 8:30 (on a good night). 

My husband and I were taking it a little slowly downstairs at the dinner table.  I was relying on the kids (ages 8 and 10) to get all of their stuff done without supervision.  In hindsight, this was an overly ambitious goal.  When I came upstairs at 8:15, the kids were lying on our bed watching TV, not ready for bed and the laundry, while sorted, had been hauled into our room for illegal tube-viewing -- breaking the no-TV-after-dinner rule.

I hit a roof as this was a blatant exploitation of our upstairs' absence.  I think they must have thought that since we don't have a periscope to the second floor, it was a free-for-all for the elementary set.  Operatically, I sent them to their room to go straight to bed.

I then noticed that the blinds were up in the bathroom. Since it was now dark and privacy was required, I marched down that hallway to the bathroom like I was a boot camp superstar.

March! 2-3-4! March!2-3-4!

So single minded was I -- steam still hissing out of my ears -- I was having a Terminator (Termomnator?) moment.  I was a machine on a mission.  I entered the bathroom.  My eyes fixed on my destination -- the window. En route, I marched passed the vanity.  I heard a loud cracking sound.  I pivoted 90 degrees so that I now was facing the medicine chest that still gleamed with shiny newness.  In the next second, I caught the huge mirrored door that was breaking off it's hinges with both hands.

Yes people, I friggin' caught the mirror!

Me -- who is famously known for not having quick reflexes -- was storming past the mirror in the exact moment that it broke from its hinges.  One second earlier or one second later and it would have been a disaster.  Yet I was there in the exact moment that I needed to be there in order to avert catastrophe. 

I enlisted my daughter to get her father because this door was exceedingly heavy (mirrored on both sides), and I didn't know how long I could hold it.  He raced upstairs and assisted in taking it completely off the chest without further damage.

We were both in shock that our new medicine chest  broke... and in such a dangerous way.  What if the kids had been brushing their teeth and it fell on them?  We started to shudder as we headed down freaky-spooky-scary "What If" Lane. We then made a quick metaphoric U-turn and headed home to the present where our kids were safe and all was well that ended well.

The timing of this event was no-less than amazing to me.  If we hadn't been running late that night, then surely I would not have been in the bathroom at the exact moment it broke.  Usually by 8:15, I'm in my room ready to wind-down the day.  If the kids hadn't pushed the boundaries, then I wouldn't have lost my temper and I wouldn't have had the impetus to charge to the bathroom in a hot pique.  All of these little events, which seemed so out of order in the moment they occurred -- actually weren’t. They put me exactly where I needed to be in the exact moment that I needed to be there.  The exact moment!

That, my friends, is what I call a miracle.