School days, school days,

dear old golden school days...

Do you remember that song? It's been on my mind a lot lately. We attended our oldest's high school choir concert a few weeks back. The theme was Rock On or Rock 'n' Roll or something along that line. The kids were told to dress like hippies. I saw outfits frighteningly familiar and several that had me muttering, "That is so wrong." For instance, togas were not part of the mid-60's to mid-70's hippie culture at all. Toga parties became popular after "Animal House" but it should be noted that movie took place a generation before the hippies.

But I digress...

It was a kick to see the kids dressed up in their version of my high school days. The concert was a delight (how I wish I could sing!) and a gentle tug on my memories, both good and bad. I noticed subtle signals - and some not so subtle - of who was and who wasn't popular. Faint ghosts of self-doubt instilled during my high school days surfaced. I do not miss those ego blows. And in retrospect, it was all so silly. High school standing has so little to do with real life. I now know that I should never have given power over my self-worth to others whose opinion became unimportant very quickly, but that's high school for you. It took time for me to realize and conquer that.

At our 10 year high school reunion, the power of high school cliques tried to assert itself as if 10 years had not passed. Everyone seemed to want to prove something (including me). At our 20 year, people seemed less intent on showing off and more interested in visiting and reminiscing. That is, except for those how missed the 10 year reunion. They still had to prove themselves. I thought, "How high school."

My 30 year high school reunion is just around the corner (how did I get so old?!). I can not wait to see my best friends. We all live so far apart these days that we rarely get to see each other outside of reunions. I look forward to this reunion with nary a trace of high school angst. So perhaps age isn't such a bad thing, after all. I've grown very comfortable with myself. I've learned to judge my success against my own standards, leaving behind the measuring stick of high school days.

It was, after all, only 4 years of my life.

Bye-bye birdie

With my newfound freedom, I've been working like a crazed gardening fool in my little plot of earth. It's been heaven! Yes, I said heaven, hubby o' mine, even though you can't believe that I find digging, weeding, planting, hauling mulch and all other gardening activities a pleasure. So much so that I can't even call them chores. That's not to say I don't groan while I work and nurse aching muscles later but I'd much rather be out there than almost anywhere else (a tropical beach with balmy ocean breezes would be an acceptable alternative).

I'm not the only one happy with my excess of gardening time. My robins (yes, I claim them as mine) are delighted to see me every day. They follow me everywhere in the garden, impatiently waiting for me to turn up grubs and worms for an easy-picking meal to take back to their nest of hungry hatchlings. Almost as soon as I turned over the soil, they were at my feet, stuffing their beaks while keeping one eye on me. I told myself that they somehow knew I could be trusted. To encourage ever closer encounters, I'd become motionless when they drew near. I'd watch them watch me, marveling at their brazeness. In just a few days' time, they became so accustomed to me that they grew bolder and came closer, not wanting a single juicy, squirming worm to escape to live another day. And then, as I squatted on my hands and knees, my robin came so close that I could easily have caressed her feathers! (or was it a him? Do robins share parenting chores?) I didn't get much gardening done with my many, many pauses but it was such a delight to watch them, I didn't mind at all. Would it be anthropomorphizing too much to believe that they returned my kindness by letting me approach their nest and watch their babies avidly devour my garden's invertibrate bounty? I don't care. It's what I choose to believe.

Today, I headed outside as usual. It was only after I realized I was making great progress did I realize why. My baby robins have fledged. They are off finding their own food, releasing mom and dad robin from the constant chore of finding grub (never before did I realize how appropriate that slang for food is for birds). I've lost my constant gardening companions. But only until next year's brood requires that we resume our gardening collaboration. I know they will be back.

Self-evident

Coming back from downtown, I spotted a Humvee with the license plate "GUN LVR". Wow, tell me how you really feel. Do you suppose the following assumptions could also be true of the Humvee owner? Diehard Republican, loves Bush and thinks all who voice concern about the war are anti-American. Couldn't care less about the environment (I like my spotted owl battered and fried). Thinks Global Warming is a hoax conjured up by the Far Left. Thinks homosexuality is a crime against nature and homosexual marriages are an attack on the sanctity of marriage. Thinks homeless people deserve to be homeless because they are lazy and shiftless.

Oh, wow, I could go on and on and create a caricature of who I think drives that Humvee. I could be right, I could be wrong. But whoever it is certainly invites all kinds of speculation given choice of vehicle and vanity plate. You are what you drive? Maybe so.

Freedom and laundry

There is a song going through my head, "Freedom, freeeee-dom", that is driving me crazy (as hubby would say, short trip). It's scrambling around the periphery of my brain, not giving up more than those 2 words nor offering clues to who the singer or band is, other than their sex - male. I'm pretty sure it's a band from the '70's. Pablo Cruise keeps popping into my head but I don't know whether it's my mental needle stuck in the groove or the right answer. If anyone can help, please do!

But anyhoo, the reason it's playing in my head is that it's how I feel. I'm done with my large writing contract. Woo hoo!! I did a final review of my work, dotted my t's and crossed my eyes and sent everything off last Friday. It's rather amazing after all these weeks of work that I find myself sitting at the computer without a pile of notes to sift through and reseach. But it feels so good and I'm not going to have any trouble finding ways to fill my time. One of which is to get back to regular blogging (as if what I blather about is so important, that my absence makes a difference - hah).

So what does laundry have to do with this? Well, nothing really, but I had to share a little lesson I learned this morning. Putting catnip in an old sock for Zac is a great idea until it accidentally gets mixed up in the laundry and goes through the wash. Oops!! I laughed when I pulled it out. It must be okay, though, since Zac is contentedly playing with it, apparently none the wiser for his toy's little misadventure. However, should he start going gaga over our socks and undies, we'll know that catnip is not a good addition to the laundry, after all. Best to stick with the standard cleaning and freshening agents.

I'll be stopping at the pet store to pick up a more traditional catnip holder today. Good idea, huh?