Giggles

Easily, the best part of every day for me is when I can get Paige and Tony to giggle.  It happens daily, and it usually arises after my best efforts to get them from bickering back and forth, or to calm them down and keep them from jumping on the sofa or on the little bastard, Enzo.

The other day I was out on my back deck, taking a phone call for work.  Tony waited until I ended the conversation, and then said, "Do you care if I scream as loud as possible?" 

"Go for it."

He took a deep breath and let out a loud, loud, ear-bleeding scream.  When he was done he smiled and said, "I bet that airplane heard me."

I glanced up at the sky, and said, "It may not have heard you, but it certainly saw your big head." 

His laugh was contagious, and beautiful.  We giggled for ten minutes, and throughout the night, he kept coming back to it.

It has gotten to the point in our household for each of us - - - Paige, Tony and myself - - - to have at least one deadpan comment, not always insults, that tie us up in those gracious moments of perfection.

Since they were little, I've worked from home on many occasions.  If they see that I'm in the middle of writing an email or reading a document (always seated at my kitchen island in front of the laptop), they will wait until I take a breath or my fingers stop typing.  If the phone rings, I put a finger up and there is silence.  They've had the great misfortune of listening to me on conference calls, and hearing the voices of my coworkers.

Every single time the topic of my job arises, for the past three months, they've said, "Whatever.  You're boring."  When I offered to go talk to Paige's class for career day, Paige said, "Um no.  Lawyers are boring and no offense, but no thanks."

I am always telling them that someday they are going to eat their words, and they're going to realize how brilliant their mother really is.  They roll their eyes, and say, "Booooooring. . ."  It has gotten to the point where I'll say, "Oh, I have a funny story from work. . ." and the simultaneous reply is, "Boring" and they look back down to what they were doing.

"Okay, then I'm not going to tell you how I shot a stink bug off the ceiling with a Nerf gun today. . ."  And I walk out of the room.

"Wait?  What?  Boring lawyers do that?"

And so it goes.  I make fun of Tony's gigantic head, and the beauty of Paige's singing voice, and they insult me daily on my career.  Yet, there is always a laugh - - - a nice, hearty laugh.

Underlying Something

I have always known that my contentment arises when I have clarity of mind. (Perhaps that's true for everyone).  I also know that when I write regularly, I gain clarity of mind.  Writing to me is a reaching into the soul and grabbing what is real and true and tangible.

Yet, I avoid it.  I've been avoiding it, turning instead, to temporary fixes or to ennui, where there is not motion one way or another.

I've found, over the past few months that I've begun to tie my identity to my work.  That is something I've never done.  I realize that it's a slippery slope.  What if the job changes or goes away?  What if it decides to find a younger, more attractive person to take my place?  What if my commitment to it is mere illusion?

I know a job doesn't betray as a spouse might, but you get my point.  The thing is, I love my job and I have no plans to leave it.  Rather, I want to mold it around myself and my personality, and my strengths.

Yet, I cannot do that if I avoid the growth of myself and my personality, and my strengths.  There is always the struggle to find the better part of me.  Maybe struggle is too strong a word.  The task?  The battle?  The responsibility?  Yes, that's it! It is my responsibility to always find the better parts of myself, and use them in my work, my home and my relationships.

It is 7 am on a Sunday, and I have no work, no children and I am free from my relationship this weekend.  So what do I do?

I struggle to fill in the hours.  But I don't do.  And I haven't done.

Laundry, cleaning, running errands - - - that's all good stuff and needs to be completed, and there is a sense of satisfaction in completing those tasks.  Yet, they're not enough.

I cried uncontrollably one time this weekend.  I heard the note of one song (The Last Carnival), and every facet of sorrow came, not on a breeze as has been happening, but on a hurricane wind.

When it was over, I sat there, stunned.  Is this what my life is?  During the down times, when work, kids and errands are completed (or temporarily muted), I get hit with a tsunami of sorrow?

Perhaps.

Yet I know there is something more, and every day is a struggle (and this time I use the word fittingly) to do something worthwhile for me.  Just me.  Not work, not kids, not home, not my friendships.  Just me.  For months now, I've struggled with that.

I reluctantly picked up this pencil today.  I knew what I wanted to write, the words in sentence form played like a banner through my mind - - - contentment comes with clarity, always seek the better part of yourself - - - but I fought putting the words down.  What's the point, I asked.  What does it matter?  I can just sit on the couch and watch talk shows until it's time to get ready for church.  Or I could exercise.  (I giggled with that thought).

There is a Van Morrison song called Underlying Depression.  The first few times I heard it, I dismissed it.  Yet, after understanding the gale winds that move into my psyche, I wonder if we all have a strand of it somewhere inside.  After all, life can be very disappointing at times, as every one of you can attest.

So now I think about that song and what it means, and I wonder.  I realize that if it does exist, if that indeed is a strand of reality, then I have to deal with it. Recognize it first, and then deal with it.  Thus the need for pencil and paper, thus the need for clarity of mind, thus the responsibility to constantly seek the better parts of myself.

Should I share this on the blog?  One part says: why not?  The other says: hell, no.  I've disappointed myself over the past few months because I've avoided pencil and paper, and every once in awhile I'll share and think:  Yes, I am back.  I can write on here regularly.  Then the ennui returns, the disappointments return, the insecurities return and the eyes that are supposed to be on the horizon are crossed or squeezed shut against the needs of myself.

It seems that hope is somewhere bobbing in an ocean current, and I am on the beach, praying it doesn't go under.

Though I am not unhappy.  I laugh every day, I work hard and come home satisfied, and I don't worry, worry, worry about the little things anymore.

I think it was C.S. Lewis who said something along the lines of the soul never truly being content until it meets its maker.  Maybe that's where I am today?  Heck of a place to be, I suppose.  Lucky me: content in all facets of life but yearning for no earthly existence so I can meet my maker?  That's a hell of a spin.  I think I might go with Van Morrison's theory, and try to live contentedly with his notion.  Yet, funny, I am pretty sure that song means exactly what C.S. Lewis meant.

So, I'll go with another quote.  This one comes from Gloria Steinem:

"When I write, it is the only time I don't feel I need to be doing something else."

Clarity of mind?  Not sure, but it rings true to me, and my paper and pencil - - - tools that I use, and need to use, to find the better part of me.

Ditched

Nearly three months ago, I bought my tickets to the Springsteen concert that is taking place at Nationals stadium in D.C. on September 14th.  My date has never seen Bruce, and so, after three months of me playing Bruce whenever we were together (and often singing at the top of my lungs as we rolled down the highway), he informed me that he wouldn't be able to make it to the concert, after all.

What could possibly be more pressing?  A root canal?  Community Service?  Helping the homeless?  Moving?

Was it my singing "Hidin' on the backstreets, hidin' on the backstreets, hidin' on the backstreets" nineteen times in a row with the windows rolled down as we drove through the shadiest part of the D.C. ghetto?

"It's alright to go hidin' on the backstreets, it's alri-i-ight. . ."

No, that was apparently endearing.

The reason is that there was a babysitting glitch.  Understood.

But he's still missing the greatest entertainer ever, with the greatest girl ever.

I wasn't real worried about finding a replacement date.  I made a phone call up north.  "Listen, I have two Bruce tickets for the concert on Friday. My date ditched me.  Make it happen."

Twenty minutes later, I got a text from my brother, Cliff.  "I'm in."

Let me tell you, I couldn't have chosen a better replacement date.  (Though I don't want Jim or John or Dana or Kathy or Jessica to feel like they're chopped liver either).

So today, as I thought about the concert, and how we're going to make it by the skin of our teeth because his flight gets in at 6 in Baltimore (the Orioles lost against the Yankees, don't ya know?), and we have to be in D.C. by 7:30.  And if you can believe it, Cliff's navigational skills are worse than mine, and I sure hope I don't blow a tire or need any kind of mechanical assistance. . .  though, he'd probably be pretty good at reading the car manual.

I'm just kidding.  It's going to be great! 

Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours,
Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers,
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations,
Lost souls callin' long distance salvation,
Hey Mr. DJ, won't ya hear my last prayer,
Hey ho rock 'n roll deliver me from nowhere!

[Open All Night - Mr. Bruce Springsteen]

Crash Diet Surprise

A few weeks back, I was stuffing my face with crabs at the annual cousins weekend in Delaware.  We were all having a good time, drinking beer and wine, playing cornhole, and filling our plates with mounds of food.  After eating and drinking, and drinking and playing cornhole, I went inside to get out of the heat.

My Uncle Lenny was sitting in a chair beside my brother.  He had his 80-something old body propped in the chair, with his cane beside him.  His thinning hair was slicked back, and his eyes twinkled through a topography of wrinkles.  I smiled, kissed him, asked him how he was doing.  We talked for a bit about things.

After I walked away, I saw that he and my brother were clearly talking about me.  They had a quick conversation, and when Jim got up to grab another beer, I said, "What were you two saying about me."  Jim kind of laughed and said, "Uncle Lenny said you were starting to show your age."

My reaction was indignance. "Really?  He's accusing me of showing my age?"  Jim and I both laughed, but it still bothered me.

So, over the past couple of weeks, I spent some time looking at myself in the mirror.  Like writing, I've kind of ignored my appearance (and eating and drinking habits), except for the gray coverage. I pluck those most of the time.

I noticed more wrinkles, less-than-pure-white teeth, a few kinky grays around my face and ears, tighter jeans, tighter bras, and a chin that is prone to break-outs lately.  (Break-outs are occurring, I've discovered, because when I sit at my desk and read a contract with a red pen between my teeth, I also cup my chin to hold my head up).

In any case, not a good set of thoughts spinning through my head regarding my appearance, and my habits.

So I decided to fix things, and then in a couple months I'll go see Uncle Lenny again and say, "Ha!  Who's showing their age now?"

I colored my hair again.  I endured the two-hour whitening strips (they hurt my teeth so bad!), I stopped cupping my chin with my hands, and I bought new face wash and habitually scrub before bed.

Most importantly, I pulled out my sneakers and put them on my feet again. 

That was the first day.  "Just put them on your feet, Carrie." 

The second morning, I put them on my feet and walked around the kitchen, and onto the back deck.  "Don't sit down, Carrie." 

On the third morning, I put them on my feet, walked around, stretched and got on the elliptical.  "Good job, Carrie!"  I stood there and said, "Ah, eff it, let's go." 

And so my love of exercise was re-ignited, and each morning I awake with that on my mind.  Happy to be there.

Next up, the diet.  I'd never been one to diet.  I've never really had a problem with my weight.  I guess it's because I'm not seeking perfection, just the ability to put on a pair of pants or a nice shirt and be comfortable.

Over the past few months, and since turning 40, the problem got bigger and bigger and bigger.  Yes, the pants were snugger.  Yes, the shirts showed the muffin top.  It wasn't that I was okay with that at all, but I figured it would come off eventually with the exercising.  Then, one morning, I pulled out one of my favorite shirts which I haven't worn in some time and noticed that slipping my arm into the sleeve was like being tortured with a straight-jacket and a turniquet. 

"Are you kidding me?"  I threw the shirt back on the hanger, and went to the grocery store.  More vegetables, which I love.  More fruit, which I don't love so much.  More eggs - - - whites of a hard-boiled egg are only 17 calories!  I avoided the liquor store for the Chardonnay trip of the week.

That was step one.  Step two was re-training my mind. No alcohol.  No big, juicy cheeseburgers or burritos, less pasta, more hot peppers, less bread, more water, less nibbling on cheese when I make the kids lunches, more aware of what goes into my mouth, and less calling myself 'disgusting' or 'fat' or 'gross'.  And more church.

So, wouldn't you know it?  It has started to pay-off.  Just this morning, I put on a pair of dress pants for work, a nice shirt (long-sleeved) and my absolute favorite pair of sling-backs (silver, faux snake skin) that I wear at least once a week.

I walked out to the car, drove to work and parked a distance away so that I could walk further to get into the office.  My shoe slipped off.  I pulled the sling back up.  My shoe slipped off again.  I pulled the sling back up.  And again. And again. And again.  Throughout the morning, it slipped off whenever I walked.

So I borrowed one of those mini-screw drivers and drove another hole into the sling part where the buckle is, making it as small as I possibly could.

The damn shoes kept falling off again and again.

Then it hit me.  I have lost weight!

In my feet.

Who the hell sets out on a diet to lose weight in their feet?

"Yes, I've gone down a half-size, can you believe it?  Yes, it's in my feet but still, Uncle Lenny, it's a half-size.  My feet don't look their age anymore!  They could pull-off 35 without a problem!"

And so it goes. . .

Carrying On

I don't know if I have any readers anymore, it's been so long since I wrote.  In the past few months, I've learned to live from day to day, which doesn't really give way to writing deeply every day.  I was too busy to mull over the thoughts that came forth, that sometimes woke me.  I closed my eyes and drifted back into a dreamless sleep.  And after awhile, it became easy to just move through the days without much thought for anything other than what to feed the kids, where to walk the dogs and how to get the mounds of work on my desk into a reasonable pile.  I spent the last three months - - - the entire summer- - - too busy to notice anything else.

So now, why do I write?  On this lonely Tuesday after Labor Day, why do I write?

It's not as much fun to go through a day if I refuse to think about the workings of the day, and refuse to write about them. . .

A good friend of mine lost his brother last week.  To a bee.  An allergy that took his brother's life. 

I didn't know how to react.  I cried most of the day at work  - - - painfully aching for him and his loss.  I was dressed and ready to go to the wake, but I couldn't.  I couldn't do it because I knew that I wouldn't be able to walk both legs into that funeral home.  I knew that I would stand outside the big wooden doors and cry. 

So I didn't go.  I waited for him to come into work.  I bought him a coffee from Starbuck's (like I do at least once a week), and I went outside the office with him and we talked.  He told me about getting the news and the hospital room.  He told me about the funeral and the huge number of people that showed.  He talked about his son taking it very hard.  He told me about his parents' grief, and his own.  He mentioned how tight he and his three brothers are, how the family is full of hard workers, and how his parents taught them all that.

It was a script I might have written.

And he cried.  And I cried.  And we hugged.  And it was a Friday. 

And so, I said, "What are you doing for lunch?" 

He kinda shrugged, "Haven't been real hungry.  Why?  Where do you want to go?"

"The Casino?"  I smiled.

His sad eyes opened wide.  Tears formed, and he said, "Yeah, that would be real good."

So we went to the casino after a quick stop at the ATM.  We both had $200 to blow.  We each put a $20 into the slot machine.  After three tries, we were up $300.  We high-fived and giggled, genuinely enjoying the moments beyond the shadowed corners of grief.

As it turned out, after nearly three hours, we both lost our money.  When we hugged good-bye, he said, "Thanks for being a good friend." 

The thing is, it was easy because, though we are just co-workers and have only known each other about three months, he's the one I go to when I need a break because he's got a sense of work ethic, and kindness, and genuineness that I simply adore.  And he has the eyes of my brother, whom I miss every day.  The color may be off, and they are on a completely different face, but the lightness, the shining brilliance of them, is there.

Today, after we chatted for a few seconds, I sat in my office and thought about how sad his eyes were today.  That same kindness and genuiness is there, but his eyes were so very sad.  It was like looking into the eyes of my siblings and my parents during those first couple of years after our losses; and some days I still see it in my own eyes.

Yet, I carry on.  He'll carry on.  We'll all carry on.

There is nothing else that can be done.

So carry on, carry on, through all the shadows and darkness, through the movements forward and back, and deeply through the hours that fill the days. . .