Sensible shoes

For me, that phrase conjures up images of Ruth Buzzy's little old lady character from Laugh-In: hunched shoulders, dowdy clothes, hair net, sour expression, support hose and big clunkie, decidedly unglamourous, sensible shoes. Ugh.

I never thought I'd buy anything that might resemble wise footwear, although, I'm not exactly a fashion maven. I'm more likely to recognize Nike Air Walkers than shoes made by Jimmy Choo (I can't help it, but when I hear the name, I want to say, "Bless you!"). Sex In the City stilleto sleekness is not for me but I certainly don't don Olive Oyl clodhoppers either. I expect from my shoes the same things I expect from my car: reliable, comfortable, good-looking, reasonably priced, but most importantly, they need to get me from here to there. Hmmm, that falls dangerously close to what might be the definition for sensible shoes.

February is a crazy month of garden shows. That translates to lots of walking for many days on unforgiving convention floors and sore feet. With images of tottering tenderly on swollen soles, I headed to the mall to see if I could find a marriage of happy feet and fashion. Or at least happy feet and cute. Yes, cute would suffice.

I came home with a pair of Dansko shoes. It was a purchase that required opening my wallet more than I have ever paid for a pair of shoes. $114? Gasp! But I reminded myself of the overwhelming praise these shoes have received from nurses and others who are on their feet for hours and hours. "They are handcrated," said the saleswoman, "They'll last you for years. You'll love them so much, you'll be back for 5 more pairs." Really? Somehow I didn't see myself shelling out almost $600 dollars for more shoes but I would gamble on $114 worth of comfort.

My Danskos stood up to the test, literally. I conquered 6 days on concrete-hard convention floors with nairy a blister or a hint of soreness. They even provided TLC in the days after I stubbed my toe hard against the hotel room door (ow, ow, ow, stupid, stupid, stupid). My big toe was swollen and lovely shades of blue, purple and green, and it refused to submit to my slightly more stylish loafers. Thank goodness I was able to slide my foot into my Danskos. If not for them, I would have had to cancel (or show up barefoot!) to my appointment to meet and impress my future managing editor. That alone justified the shoes' price and then some.

I'm not convinced that I'll return to buy 5 more pairs, as the saleswoman predicted, but I will confess that I wear nothing but my Danskos these days. I love, love, love these shoes! However, it does mean that I will have to refine my image of sensible shoes (but they are cute!) because I refuse to admit that I now own a pair. Oh, the games we play in our heads.

Psst... the average American woman owns 40 pairs of shoes. So, what I need to know is, who owns more than average to make up for my meager collection?

-ation

-ation: suffix meaning action or process, or the result of. Also denotes state, condition or quality of.

I find that first definition amusing since the -ation words that apply to my life at present - procrastination, anticipation, hesitation - imply inaction instead of action. I accepted the writing project I mentioned in an earlier blog, jumping in feet first and willing to take on the challenge. So you'd think - or at least I would - that I'd have waded forward, ever deeper into the project, instead of making a silly attempt to dip my big toe in the water as if I don't realize I'm already fully immersed. How ridiculous!

At first, I tried to understand my crazy ways but then I realized that process would send me wandering down another procrastination sidetrack. (Aaah, my subconscious can be so crafty). My motives and reasons don't matter. I'm resolved to turn my -ation inaction around. Pardon me while I shed my water wings and swim forward. I'm not coming out until I'm all pruney.

A brief lapse in reality

"I had a weird dream last night."

"All your dreams are weird. All you need to say is, 'I had a dream last night," and I'll know it was weird."

That's not quite true. I only tell my hubby my weird dreams. The others are too boring to share. A complete snooze, if you will. I certainly slept through them.

Last night I dreamt I read a brief. It was long and upsetting and I felt the writer had gotten so many points wrong. I was driven to action. I tracked down the author and confronted him, waving the brief in my hand. Only it was not a paper brief, it had become a pair of briefs - as in tighty whities. But there was nothing tighty or whitey about this pair. The brief was written on a pair of taupe-colored silk women's underwear. And it wasn't underwear today's woman would wear; the brief was much too long to be written on a scrap of fabric. Nope. These were a pair of old-fashioned bloomers, roomy enough to hold all of the ridiculous words. In short, my beef was about a brief written on a pair of not-so-brief briefs.

Yes, I had a weird dream last night.

Don't bother trying to understand the meaning of it either. To paraphrase Freud, sometimes a pair of briefs is just a pair of briefs.

Roommates

Between lack of time, pain from my accident-al injuries and an absence of creative thoughts good enough to carry a blog entry, I've neglected my blog. Again. Just as I was about to despair, lelo came to my rescue with her suggestion to try
creativity portal, which she used for her blah blah blahgging post. Thank you, lelo!

I chose the prompt, "Did you have roommates or companions? Tell about them and the things you learned living with others." I've had a lot of roommates from my college days and in the years after. Some were great, some good, some awful and some were, well, fodder for great stories. Into that last category falls Mike and Barb, the couple I lived with in my early 20's. Barb and I worked at the same alcohol and drug treatment center. When I needed to find cheaper living than my current HUD housing apartment (I was sooooo broke), she came to my rescue and offered a room in a wonderful, old farmhouse they were renting. My rent was unbelievably cheap - $58 for room, heat, water, the works. That said, we did have to use water carefully because the well was water-challenged (how's that for a creative way to say insufficient?). I discovered this on the day that Barb washed the dishes (by hand), washed her long, gorgeous blond hair and a few other chores that required water. Then I took a bath. The water ran out - not a drop left! - when I was all soaped up. Not fun.

But I digress. This blog is about my roommates, not the joys of living in an old farmhouse.

Mike was a recovering alcoholic and Barb was a recovering addict. Both were clean and sober and credited their born-again faith for their triumph over addiction. Barb was what I call a walk-the-talk Christian. She lived by example, not by preaching her faith, and I admired her greatly. Foolishly, I thought her husband would be the same. Nope. Mike was a my-way-or-the-highway Fundamentalist Christian. Initially, I tolerated his almost daily preaching - remember, the living was cheap and I was broke. I humored him and tried to voice my point of view. But it wasn't any use. In his eyes, I was going to hell because I didn't believe as he did. He urged me to join their church. I politely declined. I'm just not into the whole speaking in tongues thing (common at their services) and I was quite happy with my own church.

Things went along much the same until my nightmare. It was a doozie of a nightmare, too. I'm sure you've had the kind I'm talking about - so horrible that you wake up in a cold sweat, unable to tell reality from nightmare so that the first few minutes find you frantically trying to escape whatever was frightening you while asleep. Even after you realize it was only a nightmare and you've calmed down, sleep doesn't come easily. You turn the light off and turn it back on quickly to reassure yourself that nothing from your nightmare escaped into reality. Yep, that was my esperience. After repeatedly turning my light off and on, I gave in to my fears and left it on for the rest of the night. I finally fell asleep.

In the morning, I chuckled and chided myself for acting like such a child (bravado against nighttime terrors is easier in the light of day). Still shaking my head at my foolishness, I walked into the kitchen to tell Barb all about it. Mike walked in as I finished telling details of my nightmare of little demons and gnashing teeth all around the edge of my bed.

"Oh, no!" he cried, "I knew this would happen when you moved it. We had the house blessed but you moved in unconsecrated. You brought the devil with you!"

Huh?!?!

"We must bless you immediately to banish the demons," and he grabbed the bottle of IGA generic vegetable oil and proceeded to anoint my forehead.

What the ...? I was so startled that I didn't move or say anything even as he proceeded to cast drops of oil all around my room. As I watched him, I realized he was dead serious about this ritual and steadfast in his belief that I didn't have a nightmare; I had really and truly been visited by demons.

Wow.

The final straw came a few weeks later when I walked into the kitchen as Mike and Barb were talking rather seriously. I started to turn around, fearing I had intruded on a private conversation, when Mike called me back. He showed me a pamphlet, "How to save yourself during the Armageddon" (or something like that), and told me where they were going to keep it in the house. He said, with all earnestness and concern for my soul, that I should read it and do as it suggested to save myself when the Second Coming came. I'm sure he saw my bewilderment because he then said, "We won't be around to help you because Barb and I will be taken to the Lord because we are good Christians."

HUH?!?! EXCUSE ME?!?!?!

Doing a slow burn, I looked at him and said, "You do not decide who goes and who stays. How do you know that you won't be the one looking for the pamphlet and I will be the one who is saved?" I said something about his lack of humility and his over-arching ego and pride - not good Christian traits, which he surely knew but had forgotten so wasn't it good of me to remind him. And then I gave an ultimatum. "We will no longer talk about religious issues because we can never agree. I am tired of you insulting me and my faith," and I walked out of the room.

To his credit, Mike never brought the subject up again even though I lived with them for many more months. Peaceably, too.

In her quiet way, Barb continued to inspire me to be a better person, despite our religious differences. From her, I learned that it is better to live as you believe - a do as I do life speaks volumes over mere words. From Mike, I learned to never presume and pronounce that my way is the right way. To do so creates ill will and hinders growth, understanding, compromise and peace.

You say tomayto, I say tomahto

Good Morning, America has been running a series called the "Mommie Wars," pitting working moms against stay-at-home moms. The little of it I watched had me drop-jawed at the mean-spirited digs exhanged between the two camps (GMA started the war analogy, I'm only carrying it through). The stay-at-home group implied that the working moms were putting their needs and their careers ahead of their children's best interests - how selfish! Daycare kids would surely suffer life-long harm. The working moms stated that the stay-at-home moms were not challenging themselves - caring for children is mindless, brain-sucking ennui. If you stay at home, you are undoing the great strides for equality made by feminists - you traitor.

Wow. Silly me, I thought the Women's Movement gave us the opportunities and the freedom to choose our own path, not to force us into a one-size-fits-all model. I chose to stay home when my youngest was born. Yes, I was lonely, bored and frustrated at first and there were times when I feared that I would not be able to stifle my screams while sitting through another episode of goopy children's TV. But I also had the opportunity to experience all the firsts in my children's lives, many of which I might have missed had I chosen to be a working mother. Additionally, I didn't have to perform superhuman feats of juggling to manage burgeoning responsibilities of work and motherhood.

I may have stayed home but I did not fit any June Cleaver model. I was not a '50's sitcom automaton. I had needs and limitations that required a modern approach. I sought companionship and knowledge from a support group for stay-at-home moms. I began to work part-time before my second child was born. I became civically active. I found a way to define myself without letting motherhood define me completely. These were the right choices for me. Would I insist that everyone else must do as I did? Absolutely not! To espouse unwaivering belief that I have all the answers and everyone else must do as I did is complete nonsense. Last time I checked, we are all individuals as are our children.

Perhaps the skirmish I witnessed was engineered by the outside influence of the media. Perhaps what I saw was skewed and inconsistent with the views of the vast majority of mothers, working and stay-at-home and somewhere in between. I hope so. I hope that regardless of our choices, we mothers are demonstrating to our children that it is important for them to choose and follow the path in life that fits them best. Personal choices, such as this one, should not be dictated by others who do not know us - or our family - as well as we do.

I mean, c'mon, when our kids whine, "But everyone else is doing it!" we respond with the mothers' mantra, "If your friend jumped off a cliff, would you have to jump, too?"

Why should this decision be any less individualistic?

A piece of the action

The standing joke is that Americans are sue-happy. If something goes wrong, someone else must be held responsible and the sufferer should collect money not just to cover expenses but also money to compensate for pain and suffering. Don't get me wrong, there are many circumstances where I think that a suit for pain and suffering is just and right. But there are just as many, if not more, instances where I think we, as a nation, have got things skewed out of balance to the point that people feel entitled to their own piece of the action regardless if it is legitimately deserved. But where is the line between acceptable and out and out wacky?

For instance, do I, as someone who has been involved in an minor accident that resulted in mild whiplash, have the right to sue for compensation for pain and suffering? The police didn't show up, no ambulance was called and no report was filed. Information exchanged hands calmly (once I overcame my initial hysteria) and in a friendly manner. I did not consider being compensated for more than repair to my vehicle and to cover my medical bills. However, reps from both insurance companies - mine and that of the person who hit me - have presented this possibility to me. I got the distinct impression that they were almost urging me to make a claim and that they might think me foolish if I didn't. It's understandable, perhaps, for my own insurance company to suggest this but for the other company, the one that will pay my claims, to make this suggestion...well, frankly, I was stunned! Yes, being injured is not a picnic - it is inconvenient and painful - but it was an *accident*, not a result of intentional negligence or willful harm.

My husband and I have not been involved in an accident in a long time so perhaps what I'm experiencing is the norm - a sign of changing times. It is certainly not what we dealt with almost 17 years ago when a 17 year old ran a red light and T-boned my husband in his truck. It totalled our little Toyota pick-up but thank goodness hubby wasn't hurt beyond a scraped thumb (the truck did a 180 upon impact, too). I had to fight with the driver's insurance company for weeks (or was it months?) before they coughed up the replacement funds. What a headache it was. And now to sense that both insurance companies are bending over backwards to be sure I know I can submit a claim to cover pain and suffering for a small fender bender...

It's just too weird. I don't quite know what to think.

There's a hole in my bumper, dear Liza, dear Liza

Looking at my poor little car, a bastardized version of the Girl Scout song I learned years ago pops into my head. And just as in the song, straw won't fix it. Nope, it's going to take $1045 to repair it. Ouch!

The old comeback of "but you should see the other guy" doesn't apply here. The truck that hit me has not a scratch on it. His tow hook took the full brunt when it punched the hole in my bumper. I guess the positive side is that since it was his fault (I stopped for the stop sign but he didn't), the repair costs come out of his pocket. Unfortunately, I have to deal with the hassle and what's more, the physical problems of whiplash. Thankfully, it is a mild case but that's bad enough. What really makes me mad is that we had a wonderful weekend for gardening and I couldn't do a danged thing. All I could do was sit in my chair and watch TV between dozing off due to the muscle relaxers the doc prescribed for me. What a waste of glorious weather.

My neck pain is telling me that it's time to sign off - typing hurts, too - and head back to my chair to rest.

Do not dilute

Not all experiences are meant to be shared without thought to time, place and audience. I'm not referring to events such as being rear-ended (yes, that did happen today, no harm to me, big hole in the bumper) or examples of rudeness or kindness that mark time during the day. I'm talking about life-altering, mind-blowing phenonemon that forever impress themselves on our daily lives. Even though these milestones seem to cry out to be shared because they carry such incredible meaning, imparting their sweet goodness without discretion dilutes the message until it is weak and ordinary. And it deserves so much better. I've been a bit slow to learn this but I think I finally have. For instance, sharing something extraordinary at a party amidst loud music and talking is not a good choice. Sharing it on my blog is good.

My mother died almost 3 months ago after a long and difficult illness. Walking through its hell with her was incredibly exhausting and painful, and it put me through contortions of spirit, love, hope and faith. I was not ready to lose her (how could I ever be ready?) but she had suffered so much for so long and I am grateful her pain is over. I have no regrets about things I wish I'd said or not said and that brings me peace.

But my biggest source of comfort came mere moments after my mom's death. As we - my dad, my brother and myself - stood next to her bed, numb with grief and shock, the most inexplicable experience of my life occurred. I had a sensation of shimmering light in the air around me, like sunlit reflections off water, and I heard my mom's voice say, "I am okay." It was over in a heartbeat. I've struggled to describe it. Experience, vision, encounter...none of them work for me. I've settled on "gift."

It was immediate, brief and supernatural (in the good sense, not the freaky) but I know it was real. I know my mom is in heaven with all our loved ones who have preceeded her in death. The memory of this doesn't waiver and I'm filled with such profound faith and gratitude.

I do miss my mom. Sadness creeps into my day at unexpected moments and sparked by the oddest things, such as opening a drawer and finding my mom's apron. Tears come but contrary to my fears, I don't fall to pieces and melt away. I have discovered a core of strength I didn't know I had (although considering my parents' examples, I shouldn't be surprised) and I know I'll make it through. And during my most difficult moments, I take out my gift, breathe in its goodness, bask in its light, and thank God I was open to a shining moment of grace.

I had always thought that we became pure light when we die but I never expected anything that might come close to qualifying as proof.

Hard knocks

My eldest came home from school with the news that his I-Pod had been stolen from his gym locker. I stifled my impulse to say "I told you so." Hubby and I had tried to discourage him from taking it to school, knowing that theft is a problem. He's had his backpack stolen, his gym clothes and his gym locker lock (bewilderingly, gym clothes and gym locker lock did not happen at the same time). His friends have had items stolen, too. But he insisted on taking it because he wanted to take his music to school - it was one of his reasons for saving up for and buying the I-Pod. In the end, we let him do as he wanted with the admonition that he recognize that if it were stolen, it would be an expensive lesson for him. Did he really want to risk losing something worth $300?

It's been interesting to watch how he is dealing with the theft. When he told me, he was more mad than sad. How dare someone take something that was his? And he had such faith that justice would be done. He provided the serial number for his I-Pod for the theft report and checked regularly to see if it had been found. But he's now resigned himself that it is gone and he's talking about how he'll save up for a new one - not an easy thing for a young teen. I cautiously asked if he's learned his lesson and will leave the next one at home. He restated his initial reasoning for an I-Pod and said he'd probably take it again.

Damn.

So I wrestle with my parental dilemma: a struggle between my desire to protect him from harm and the knowledge that he needs to experience hard lessons as part of the maturing process. It's not easy. It's as difficult a lesson for me as it is for him.

Parenting isn't for wimps.