Feathering my nest

I've been on a wild tear to improve my home's appearance lately. We've installed new lights in the kitchen and entry, and purchased a new couch and new dining room chairs. We bought 2 new area rugs; one for the entry and one for the back hall. We've hung up artwork that was framed months ago. I'm repainting our living room from a Wedgewood blue to a robin's egg blue in honor of spring and new beginnings. My list of projects is long and I've barely finished checking an item as done before I've moved on to the next task.

You need to understand that this isn't my normal mode. I am not a shopper or spend thrift - except when it comes to books and plants (every rule needs an exception, right?). I don't make home decor decisions easily or quickly. My haste should have me feeling anxious but it's not. I recognize my need to change my surroundings visually and physically to reflect my spiritual and mental return to life. The sooner the better, too.

You see, I've been caught in suspended animation for 3 1/2 years, the length of my mom's terminal and unpredictable illness. Decisions, commitments and career pursuits were put on hold so that I could spend as much time as remained with my mom. It was my choice and I'll never regret it. I miss my mom terribly but ironically, her death 7 weeks ago gave my life new life. I accept this gift without guilt. I know my mom would not begrudge me this new freedom, paid for at a very dear price.

I know life will dish out pain and loss again but I'm not dwelling on the inevitable. Instead, I'm turning my attention to light-hearted pursuits with the full knowledge that my outwardly frivolous activities mask my very personal and difficult struggle to emerge anew.

A trip, a stumble and a fall

Good intentions, like New Year's Resolutions, don't get the job done without some effort behind them. As a developing writer, I strive to write daily. I thought a blog would give me the extra push to keep that commitment. If I failed to do so, my stumble would be public and that knowledge just might keep me honest with myself. Hmmmmm, my theory hasn't quite proven true.

I tried, really I did, these last few days. I dreamt up titles and composed sentences in my head but all clever prose - so perfect in my mind's eye - disappeared in to the recesses of my brain when I sat down at the computer. I stared at the monitor as if frozen; no words spilled from my brain through my fingers on to the page. But I shouldn't have let that stop me from moving my fingers across the keyboard, even if all they spelled out was a jumble of letters with nary an intelligible word among them. A wise friend and accomplished writer told me her secret: just start writing even if it turns out to be crap. Get the ideas out and go back to fix them later. Movement is the key apparently, as if the finger bones are directly connected to the brain bone. Idleness weakens the connection and typing, regardless of content, is physical therapy for writer's block.

A fall does not equal a failure unless I allow it to stop my efforts completely. I'm pulling myself up, dusting myself off and steeling myself against future trips and subsequent crappy writing.

Okay, fingers, do your job and channel my hidden eloquence.

Rocket man

My hubby is an astronaut wannabe. He dreams of stars and space travel. His huge collection of science fiction paperbacks, begun when he was a middle-schooler, feeds his imagination. If the day ever comes when space travel is open to the public (and hopefully for less than a cool million), he would be first in line. In the meantime, he satisfies his wanderlust with such sites as

Astronomy Picture of the Day

Some of the daily pics are astounding. They resemble abstract art more than images of the cosmos. Check out these to see what I mean:

LL Ori and the Orion Nebula

Infrared helix

Inside the elephant's trunk

The site also throws in some science along the way:

Water on Mars

The line in the sand

Our life is structured by boundaries, both self- and other-imposed, real and imaginary, firm and negotiable. Some boundaries are welcomed, others are reviled and rarely do we collectively feel similarly about the limits set before us. We encounter them from birth to death, learning from a young age to test the waters at the edge. How far can we go and what happens if we cross the line? At age two, our vocabularly shrunk to one word, "no", (or so it seemed) and we'd stubbornly test our parents' resolve. We amped up the struggle through our teen years. We'd dreamed of the day when we'd be adults and we'd be in charge, setting the rules as we saw fit. Ha ha ha ha ha, oh, that's a good one.

But what tests me the most are the arbitrary behavioral rules that aim to dictate my feelings and mood. "You will feel festive on New Year's Eve and be wary on Friday, the 13th." How much do I dislike these attempts to control my attitude? I allowed a friendship to fizzle because I tired of her telling me how I was going to feel about an event or a date, as if she knew me better than I knew myself.

So you can imagine my reaction to the news that a British researcher has deemed January 24th to be the worst day of the year. Okay, I concede that his research may have positive uses in the mental health field but just because he says it is the worst day doesn't mean I'm about to throw up my arms and say "What the hell, why fight it, let's wallow deeply in the blues." Nope. I've picked up the gauntlet and I'm going the opposite way. I am going to do my best to bring on the giggles with healthy doses of silliness and lightheartedness. As I type this, I'm wearing my paper tiara and the plastic glasses from my son's Harry Potter Halloween costume. I look quite ridiculous, I'm sure, but it's making me smile so it's all good.

So I say to this day, "Harumph, you can't make me feel sad if I don't want to!" My inner child - the rebellious one - is making her appearance. Excuse me while I go do a few cartwheels and summersaults to celebrate.

Sharing with the Big Dogs

As a driver of a mid-size car, I'm very cautious when I share the road with the "Big Dogs" - the semis that could crush my wee car with barely a scratch on them. I don't pull in front of them, turn or brake suddenly. I stay out of their blindspot. Basically, I stay the heck out of their way whenever possible. Most of the truck drivers I see are good drivers. Most of the time - thank God for that. But there are the ones who pull dangerous crap, which just makes me see red. Like today. As I returned from downtown, the driver of this big blue rig - henceforth to be known as the idiot - was taking the Terwilliger Curves much too fast, barreling down on the poor hapless car behind me. The traffic was too heavy for the car to move out of the way (and I certainly didn't want the idiot riding my tail!). The idiot continued driving like a maniac as we headed south. I was so glad when I reached my exit.

I used to just stew about these drivers, cursing under my breath and wishing we had stick'em dart guns with flags that said "Stupid", as Gallagher suggested in an old comedy routine. When the cops would see a multi-tagged vehicle, they'd pull the jerk over and issue a ticket for being an asshole. Well, I don't have a stick'em dart gun but I've got something almost as good. The dispatch number for Oregon State Police. Yup, I'm armed and dangerous and you can be, too. If you see a trucker - or anyone for that matter - driving like a maniac, putting himself and others at risk, call 503-731-3030. Give them as much identifying information as you can. If you can't get the vehicle license (I couldn't) give them vehicle description, company name, cab number, trailer number, etc - all of that will help. They may not be able to ticket them if they don't catch them in the act but I was told that they will send a warning letter to the company, which ought to get the driver in hot water.

It's not a perfect solution and I'd much rather have a stick-em dart gun - and good aim - but turning in idiots who put others in harms' way is better than stewing in my car.

To the driver from Stoughton Trucking - you've been tagged. Idiot.

Un-cool

I'm un-cool in my 14, soon to be 15, year-old son's eyes. Like that's a big surprise since few teens view their parents as anything but relics of the stone age.

But I thought that the news that I had a blog - something I thought was ultra-hip with the computer generation - would boost my coolness ranking. Boy, was I wrong. When I told him last night, the look he gave me can only be discribed as "Ewwwwwww". Kind of like the look he gives me when I threaten him with a kiss. I guess I'll leave unspoken my question of "Would you like to visit my blog?" I'm afraid his face would take on a look of such revulsion that it might stick permamently that way and I would forever bear the guilt of doing that to my child. I'd make the evening news. Heck, they'd do a segment on Prime Time Live, 20-20 or one of those other news shows about my evil parenting ways. My son would be destined for life as a circus freak or behind a customer service counter. My hubby would leave me. I'd be allowed parental visitation only with supervision to protect my other son. I'd be scorned by society although I think that secretely other parents would come up and share their hush-hush tales of similar un-cool actions.

I think it best that I hide my future forays in to the 'net world from my children. You never know what action will ultimately result in life matching my wacky, far-fetched imagination.

middle-something

My doctor called me middle-aged. It's a good thing I like her - a lot, I might add.

"I'm not middle-aged! I won't be until I'm, well, at least not until I'm 55," I cried.

She leveled a look at me and asked, "Just how long do you think you're going to live?"

Oh. Yeah. Middle-aged, as in I've lived through half of my life already. I reluctantly accepted her diagnosis. My hesitation isn't a hang-up about my age or about getting older. I'm 47. See, I don't hide from it or lie about it.

It's the label - middle-aged. Oh, how I hate that label! It brings up all kinds of negative associations: middle ages, Medievil, evil, darkness, ignorance, misery, despondency, harshness, uncertainty, danger. There has to be a better label, I thought, one that conveys the excitement and the potential of this time in my life.

And I think I've found it, thanks to Gail Sheehy: middlessence, the beginning of a second adulthood. I like the associations with this label: essence, luminescence, light, enlightenment, possibilities, joy, positive life energy. Yep, this label's a keeper.

I'm armed with a better response for my next doctor's visit. I can't wait.

ice water

Zac likes ice water. Every day he asks me for ice cubes for his water and I oblige. This simple gesture makes him so happy, which makes me happy. No big deal, right?

Does it make any difference that Zac is my cat? Have you ever known a cat who insists on his water being chilled? I haven't.

It all began when I dropped an ice cube on our kitchen floor. Zac discovered that ice scoots along vinyl quite nicely and he made a game of it. He gave me a saddened look when I scooped it up and tossed it in the sink (I'd had enough of cold, wet puddles under my bare feet). But he knew that I would drop an ice cube again - or maybe two, one can only hope - so he would come running to the kitchen when he heard me reaching into the ice tray. I have to admit to being clumsy a time or two on purpose. One day after he'd had his fun, I tossed the ice cube in his water dish as a trophy-offering to the winning team. Oh, the look of glee on his face! Well, that sealed my fate. Our little game has become a daily morning routine. Zac won't leave me to drink my coffee in peace until I give him ice cubes, completely bypassing the ice hockey game these days. And I swear he thanks me. Before he takes a drink, he looks at me and offers a purr-rumbling meow.

Hubby says Zac's got me trained and that I spoil him. I can live with that.