It's been a long week around here, and I am not in the mood to be witty and entertaining. So if that's what you're looking for today, you are in the wrong blog. I am feeling moody and dark, and I cannot overcome it just to make everyone else feel good. (That is called foreshadowing, for any potential English majors out there.) I've gotta be me.
Americans have a reputation around the world for being naive. Although I enjoy "Pollyanna" as much as the next girl, I have to be honest, I sort of agree with the global assessment of our national obsession with second chances. And third chances. And fourth chances. And so on, and so on, and so on. It seems that no situation exists in which redeeming qualities cannot be found, or there isn't some reason to take a second chance, or more, on someone who insists, generally in front of God and the world, that they have learned their lesson and have, well, Changed.
Michael Vick is only the latest example of The Newly Enlightened. He has come out of prison a Changed Man, he has Learned His Lessons, it was a Wake Up Call that he was on the Road to Ruin. Funny how finding yourself behind bars can open your eyes in a way that years of enculturation cannot.
Of course, now that he has Changed, he must be given another chance (and another multi-million dollar contract to go with it.) This is nothing against Michael Vick. He may, indeed, have genuinely changed. But by and large, barring some really hideous and unfortunate happening (which prison surely must be,) my life experience tells me that most people really can't change. And what's more, they don't really want to, either.
I can't decide if it's part of the hopeful nature of being human that we persist in believing wholesale character change is possible, or if we are just chronically deluded. But I think we are the most optimistic country on the planet. No matter how bad the act, no matter what may have gone before, there is always redemption available, if only you have Learned Your Lesson and Changed.
This past week, Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme made the news because she has been released from prison after three decades behind bars. She was only a twenty-something when she was remanded into federal custody, and now, several decades later, she barely resembles the angry young thing that was originally sent off into relative obscurity.
I don't know if she has Changed, but she has certainly changed. One imagines, spending years in the relative isolation of a prison setting, that you would have some time to reflect upon your previous actions, and perhaps, somehow conclude that you might have been in error somewhere along the line. She has gotten older, as everyone does, and as you age, you have less energy for everything, including the kind of hatred and anger that leads you to try to assassinate a sitting President.
I imagine, if she had not declared herself a Changed Person, she would not have been released from the custody of her keepers. One hopes that she will have some way to keep her mind occupied once she is out of the grasp of the federal prison system, otherwise, we may be hearing more about her. And I, for one, have heard all I really need to know about someone who was, in everything but actual fact, a cold blooded killer.
I find this incredible optimism that people can change their inherent natures sort of perplexing. In my experience, whether in matters great or small, I have found that most people are, in fact, pretty consistent throughout their lives. My children, for example, have the same personalities they had even in utero, although I didn't appreciate the full nuances of it until they were much older.
I don't know that I have ever personally witnessed a genuine change in personality in anyone that didn't have a brain affliction. You can be more or less yourself, depending on the circumstances in which you find yourself, certainly. You can tone yourself down, or pump yourself up, depending upon what is called for in any situation. Just as we understand the word casual means different things at the office and in our own backyard, we also moderate our personal behavior depending on where we are and who we are with. So it's hard to know if we ever, really and truly, see the internal person we are dealing with, even when we are very close to them in relationship or proximity.
But the basic question which interests me is whether or not someone can, deep down inside of them, where it truly matters, change. Is it possible to reverse the thought process held from birth until that moment? Can someone permanently revoke their opinions and attitudes of a lifetime to embrace something new and different?
We, as a nation, believe in the bootstrap theory of life, whereby hard work and effort will eventually lead us to the promised land of wealth and all that is good. Hard knocks, in our cultural view, bring out the best in us, and help us to become the best we can be.
In my own personal experience, hard knocks have their use, but it's more to reveal the person within than to bring out someone that wasn't there in the first place. When faced with genuine hardship in life, some people, even with everything against them, inexplicably rise to the occasion, revealing the stellar person within.
I think most people, in fact, are good and decent people, and thus, when faced with a rough patch, handle it with the same grace with which they handle their successes. The quality of character is just easier to identify when faced with the negative than the positive.
However, there are a smaller, but still significant number of people who do not handle anything well. They screw up success, they are bitter in failure, they constantly make the wrong decisions for all the wrong reasons. They are, temporarily, at least, accomplished chameleons, but eventually, they will be exposed by the inevitable difficulties in life.
The idea that hardship will make someone better is intuitively backwards, for me. In my experience, when the chips are down, people are more themselves, not less so, and that is magnified, rather than reduced, by difficult circumstances. People who are thoughtful and caring towards others will continue that path, even at the cost of their own lives, in some cases, not because society expects it, but because it is who they are, and they cannot do anything differently.
Whether it was providing refuge to escaping slaves on the Underground Railroad, or safe haven to Jews in Nazi Germany, or jumping into a lake to save a drowning child, or plunging into a fiery building to save someone's pet, there are those who will not only rise to the occasion, but rise above and beyond it, even giving their lives for someone else, simply because it is the right thing to do. And conversely, there are those who, even having every advantage in life thrown their way, will still make the wrong choices, using and abusing everyone around them, simply because they can.
What makes an O.J. Simpson or a Tim McVeigh? What creates a Mother Teresa or a Stephen Hawking? Could anything have persuaded Dave Pelzer to go the wrong way in life? Or was his goodness so innate, no matter what happened (short of actually being murdered by his abusive mother,) he would have risen above his temporary circumstances and not only survived, but thrived?
I am fond of saying that each day presents us with a new opportunity to make a choice about how we are going to live our lives, as though anything is possible every new day. [Apparently I am afflicted with a dose of the same optimism that dooms my fellow countrymen to actually believe we can solve the problem of poverty in Africa or violence in the Middle East.]
But I wonder, in the final analysis, if that is true. Perhaps we are simply stuck in the place we are, characteristically speaking, predestined to inhabit, and there never really was a choice at all. I think at least part of our reluctance to impose the death penalty in this country is reflective of our deep seated ambivalence on this very subject. Where there is life, there is the possibility of change, goes the thinking, and we can't cut short the opportunity to make a better choice.
I imagine this attitude baffles both our allies and our enemies in equal proportion, since it leads us to do things like carpet bomb a town, then provide funds to rebuild it bigger and better than ever, or decry dictatorship, a la Fidel or Kim Jong Il, while holding hands with the architects of the Tienanmen Square fiasco. It seems we are ever hopeful [some might say delusional, but I digress] that if we can only find the right incentive, we can save the world from itself. Whether it wants us to or not, I might add.
If it makes the rest of the planet's population feel any better, I can say with some confidence that we confuse us, too. If George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton can not only work together on a project, but even appear to have forged a friendship, of all things, there is hope for everyone. Second chances are the American way, after all.
I don't know, but I wish the Eagles luck with Michael Vick. When you dance with the devil, you have no excuse for being surprised when you get burned.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Chips anonymous....
I believe I have discovered a new addiction,and I feel it's important to bring it out into the public eye, raise funds, and discover a cure. The source of the problem? Chips.
For me, the word chip has become a "bad word" in the traditional sense, with all the negative connotations to which we are accustomed when combined with words of four letters. The simple chip represents all that is wrong with our society today, in fact.
I realize that a chip looks innocent enough, hiding inside a crackling bag with pictures of smiling people or fancy lettering, leading us by the nose and taste buds to the promised land. But it is a false promise, built on the shifting ground of fat cells and calories, all of which will come and live in your body forever.
Did you know that once a fat cell has formed, you will never get rid of it? It can deflate, but it will be there 30 years from now, waiting to puff out at the merest whiff of a chip passing your table on someone else's plate. Liposuction is the only cure, and that will only work if you never eat another piece of the manna. The moment you falter and surrender to your weakness, that fat cell comes roaring back, waylaying your thighs on the way to the beach.
Chips are a mean master, too. They insist on being eaten with a siren call that is nearly impossible to resist. They beckon you from your cupboard (or the grocery store - they are very loud, and I don't know about you, but they have me on speed dial, obviously,) lonely and waiting, promising nirvana, if only you will give in.
It's a false promise. Chips lie. It's a fact. The only pot of gold you are going to find at the end of that rainbow is the one you will fork over to the diet mavens who are promising to save you from yourself.
No, there is only one cure for the chip addiction to which I currently find myself enslaved. I have to take responsibility for myself and quit eating them. That's right, I need to go cold turkey. I have to stop believing the false promises, and look at the facts without being swayed by the satisfaction to my taste buds. Because what satisfies the taste buds is not nearly so enticing on the hips.
I am not merely dependent on chips. No, I have a full fledged addiction, one which has driven me to do things I would never have imagined from myself before this happened.
Like most addictions, it started innocently enough. Awhile back, I was actually so slender, it was a struggle to keep the pounds on. I was going through a very difficult time in my life, and when I am under stress, I generally lose all desire to eat. I was going through a divorce, and let me just share with you, that is the best diet you will ever find, although the source is probably not worth the outcome. Although that might depend on who you're married to, but that is your judgment call.
When I fell under a certain weight, I realized that I simply had to put on some pounds, however I could do it. That was when I discovered eating in bed.
I had never, in my whole life, been a bed eater. I hate sleeping on crumbs, and it just doesn't seem like a good idea. I should have gone with that, because I was right.
Eating in bed, while reading a good book, is heaven on earth. There is nothing like it, I promise you. The satisfaction of a salty, crunchy snack while consuming equally satisfying literature is the high point of my life, irreplaceable.
Sounds pretty innocent, right? I started with snack mix, something with caloric content, to put the pounds back on, and it worked. Then I realized that something with a few more calories would probably be even better, and again, I was correct. (I love to be right.) I definitely put on the pounds, slowly but surely building to my desired weight. And then past my desired weight, right into new pants territory, at which point, I became alarmed.
But of course, as every veteran dieter knows, by then, it was too late. I was already addicted, and there was no going back. It was no longer a choice, it was a compulsion, full blown and out of my control.
Now, I go to bed every night, resolved to awaken snack free, and a few ounces closer to my goal of ten pounds gone.
And every morning, I awaken, disgusted with myself and miserable, because I have once again fallen. It's demoralizing. It's frustrating. It's an addiction.
I will do anything for my chip fix, it seems. I lay down, satiated, requiring nothing more for the day, but within moments, I am ravenously in need of sustenance. I gradually move from wishful to frantic, ready to do anything to satisfy my urges. I am not sure why Eve fell for the apple, but if Satan showed up with chips, I'd be in serious trouble.
I have tried all kinds of strategies to stop myself. I have moved the chip supply from my bedside table to the dresser, thinking that having to get up out of my bed will slow me down. I can tell you that it takes exactly 3.2 seconds to accomplish that task.
I have tried leaving the chips in the kitchen, thinking that the risk of running into one of my offspring may discourage me. I have been known to grab it out of their hands on the way to their mouths, if it is the final chip in my bag which they are stealing out from under my need.
[Not to digress here, but today we are celebrating the day one of said offspring decided to grace the world with his presence, for which I am profoundly thankful. Life without my eldest child would be a lot less argumentative, it's true, but also a lot less interesting.]
I have tried measuring out a serving for myself, thinking that total denial is not working, but perhaps moderation is the place to begin. Nope. I just keep getting additional servings, because seriously, I ask you, who eats only eight chips at a time? Whoever came up with those serving sizes was clearly someone with an eating disorder.
I have tried to fool myself with baby carrots, thinking the satisfying crunch will trick my brain into thinking I've had a chip. No dice. My brain is smarter than that, and will not be fooled by an inferior impostor.
I have promised myself rewards for not eating a snack, and even managed to fall asleep without indulging my need. I have also been known to wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night (yes, I am 48, but they are not night sweats from menopause, I promise you,) and run to the kitchen to satisfy the urges that are then keeping me awake. I cannot fall back to sleep with the din of desire beating a message into my brain. I simply must have a chip, or I will never find peace again.
I have even, in desperation, tried not buying them, because surely they cannot call me from the grocery store a mile away. Wrong. They have my super secret cell phone number that I give out only to those who are most important to me, and they call me from the store shelf, crying and begging me to come and take them home with me.
As it turns out, I have overestimated my own abilities to control my baser urges. It is disheartening to realize that something so small and insignificant can rule my world. If that's not addiction, I don't know what is.
We are all victims of the chip manufacturers, and I think the time has come to unite and file a class action against them for selling a product that is inherently defective, resulting in addiction and subsequent weight gain over which its victim has no control. My son, Mr. Intellect, informed me the other night that Doritos, for example, actually are made to address all the various taste buds in your mouth, thus satisfying all your culinary urges at once.
What are we to do, I ask you, when the chips are designed to be irresistible? I say we hold the manufactures accountable for our inability to live without their chips, and make them pay for programs to help us deal with our addiction. We could slip it into the newly designed health care program being dreamed up by our government representatives, who, by the looks of things, share the same addiction for instant gratification without consequences that the rest of us do.
The next time you see someone who clearly does not need the additional caloric intake shoving a chip in their mouth, don't look down on them. They may be in the throws of an addiction, and it's stronger than they are. Instead, feel sorry for them, and don't get between them and the grocery store.
For me, the word chip has become a "bad word" in the traditional sense, with all the negative connotations to which we are accustomed when combined with words of four letters. The simple chip represents all that is wrong with our society today, in fact.
I realize that a chip looks innocent enough, hiding inside a crackling bag with pictures of smiling people or fancy lettering, leading us by the nose and taste buds to the promised land. But it is a false promise, built on the shifting ground of fat cells and calories, all of which will come and live in your body forever.
Did you know that once a fat cell has formed, you will never get rid of it? It can deflate, but it will be there 30 years from now, waiting to puff out at the merest whiff of a chip passing your table on someone else's plate. Liposuction is the only cure, and that will only work if you never eat another piece of the manna. The moment you falter and surrender to your weakness, that fat cell comes roaring back, waylaying your thighs on the way to the beach.
Chips are a mean master, too. They insist on being eaten with a siren call that is nearly impossible to resist. They beckon you from your cupboard (or the grocery store - they are very loud, and I don't know about you, but they have me on speed dial, obviously,) lonely and waiting, promising nirvana, if only you will give in.
It's a false promise. Chips lie. It's a fact. The only pot of gold you are going to find at the end of that rainbow is the one you will fork over to the diet mavens who are promising to save you from yourself.
No, there is only one cure for the chip addiction to which I currently find myself enslaved. I have to take responsibility for myself and quit eating them. That's right, I need to go cold turkey. I have to stop believing the false promises, and look at the facts without being swayed by the satisfaction to my taste buds. Because what satisfies the taste buds is not nearly so enticing on the hips.
I am not merely dependent on chips. No, I have a full fledged addiction, one which has driven me to do things I would never have imagined from myself before this happened.
Like most addictions, it started innocently enough. Awhile back, I was actually so slender, it was a struggle to keep the pounds on. I was going through a very difficult time in my life, and when I am under stress, I generally lose all desire to eat. I was going through a divorce, and let me just share with you, that is the best diet you will ever find, although the source is probably not worth the outcome. Although that might depend on who you're married to, but that is your judgment call.
When I fell under a certain weight, I realized that I simply had to put on some pounds, however I could do it. That was when I discovered eating in bed.
I had never, in my whole life, been a bed eater. I hate sleeping on crumbs, and it just doesn't seem like a good idea. I should have gone with that, because I was right.
Eating in bed, while reading a good book, is heaven on earth. There is nothing like it, I promise you. The satisfaction of a salty, crunchy snack while consuming equally satisfying literature is the high point of my life, irreplaceable.
Sounds pretty innocent, right? I started with snack mix, something with caloric content, to put the pounds back on, and it worked. Then I realized that something with a few more calories would probably be even better, and again, I was correct. (I love to be right.) I definitely put on the pounds, slowly but surely building to my desired weight. And then past my desired weight, right into new pants territory, at which point, I became alarmed.
But of course, as every veteran dieter knows, by then, it was too late. I was already addicted, and there was no going back. It was no longer a choice, it was a compulsion, full blown and out of my control.
Now, I go to bed every night, resolved to awaken snack free, and a few ounces closer to my goal of ten pounds gone.
And every morning, I awaken, disgusted with myself and miserable, because I have once again fallen. It's demoralizing. It's frustrating. It's an addiction.
I will do anything for my chip fix, it seems. I lay down, satiated, requiring nothing more for the day, but within moments, I am ravenously in need of sustenance. I gradually move from wishful to frantic, ready to do anything to satisfy my urges. I am not sure why Eve fell for the apple, but if Satan showed up with chips, I'd be in serious trouble.
I have tried all kinds of strategies to stop myself. I have moved the chip supply from my bedside table to the dresser, thinking that having to get up out of my bed will slow me down. I can tell you that it takes exactly 3.2 seconds to accomplish that task.
I have tried leaving the chips in the kitchen, thinking that the risk of running into one of my offspring may discourage me. I have been known to grab it out of their hands on the way to their mouths, if it is the final chip in my bag which they are stealing out from under my need.
[Not to digress here, but today we are celebrating the day one of said offspring decided to grace the world with his presence, for which I am profoundly thankful. Life without my eldest child would be a lot less argumentative, it's true, but also a lot less interesting.]
I have tried measuring out a serving for myself, thinking that total denial is not working, but perhaps moderation is the place to begin. Nope. I just keep getting additional servings, because seriously, I ask you, who eats only eight chips at a time? Whoever came up with those serving sizes was clearly someone with an eating disorder.
I have tried to fool myself with baby carrots, thinking the satisfying crunch will trick my brain into thinking I've had a chip. No dice. My brain is smarter than that, and will not be fooled by an inferior impostor.
I have promised myself rewards for not eating a snack, and even managed to fall asleep without indulging my need. I have also been known to wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night (yes, I am 48, but they are not night sweats from menopause, I promise you,) and run to the kitchen to satisfy the urges that are then keeping me awake. I cannot fall back to sleep with the din of desire beating a message into my brain. I simply must have a chip, or I will never find peace again.
I have even, in desperation, tried not buying them, because surely they cannot call me from the grocery store a mile away. Wrong. They have my super secret cell phone number that I give out only to those who are most important to me, and they call me from the store shelf, crying and begging me to come and take them home with me.
As it turns out, I have overestimated my own abilities to control my baser urges. It is disheartening to realize that something so small and insignificant can rule my world. If that's not addiction, I don't know what is.
We are all victims of the chip manufacturers, and I think the time has come to unite and file a class action against them for selling a product that is inherently defective, resulting in addiction and subsequent weight gain over which its victim has no control. My son, Mr. Intellect, informed me the other night that Doritos, for example, actually are made to address all the various taste buds in your mouth, thus satisfying all your culinary urges at once.
What are we to do, I ask you, when the chips are designed to be irresistible? I say we hold the manufactures accountable for our inability to live without their chips, and make them pay for programs to help us deal with our addiction. We could slip it into the newly designed health care program being dreamed up by our government representatives, who, by the looks of things, share the same addiction for instant gratification without consequences that the rest of us do.
The next time you see someone who clearly does not need the additional caloric intake shoving a chip in their mouth, don't look down on them. They may be in the throws of an addiction, and it's stronger than they are. Instead, feel sorry for them, and don't get between them and the grocery store.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Global warming?
I have noticed something rather interesting and perverse recently, and am wondering if I am the only one who is confused about it. The issue at hand? Global warming.
It seems that in the last year or two, people in this country finally started listening and accepting that maybe, just possibly, global warming might not only be real, but we humans may have something to do with it.
Even our own government, well known for it's bureaucratic sluggishness, has finally sidled cautiously onto the bandwagon and acknowledged that perhaps we, one of the major consuming countries on earth, may have some responsibility to the rest of the world, not to mention future generations, to try to restrain the number of toxins we are spitting into the air on a continuous basis. By the time the US government admits to anything, it's been a fact for more years than I've been alive, generally speaking. So, apparently, global warming is a reality, and we will now throw billions of dollars into solving the problem, unless I miss my educated guess.
Just as everyone was jumping on the bandwagon, however, I have noticed the oddest thing. It seems to me that the climate is getting cooler. This is not just happening at the North Pole, where the melting of the ice cap is literally threatening the lives of the polar bears who depend on it. This is also occurring in Minnesota, where summer has been redefined as anything over 70 degrees Fahrenheit, and here in Kansas, where we now look at 90 as the new 100.
I had a conversation with a very unhappy relative recently, who, just two short years ago, purchased the cabin she has dreamed about owning her entire life. It is in central Minnesota, so the time frame in which you can really enjoy the lake, whose shoreline cost her roughly a mint, is already somewhat limited. If they can be in the water from late May through the end of August, they are having a great year.
Since they made this heady, and fairly spendy, decision to move forward with a cabin of their very own, global warming has suddenly gone cold. They have had a grand total of approximately five days over 85 since the day they closed on the mortgage. Now THAT is frustrating.
What, I ask the scientists who have been pushing global warming on us for the last umpteen years, is going on? Where is the devastating heat we have been warned about? Kansas is not only not becoming a desert, it is, in fact, wetter than it has ever been. The last two summers have seen us worrying about fungus on our bush and tree leaves from all the water falling from the sky. What, in heaven's name, is up with that?
I have noticed a rather fascinating phenomenon in the last few months, that seems to subtly confirm my sneaking suspicions that we have not heard the whole story, yet. The term, global warming, has suddenly been replaced in common usage among the experts with a new, and perhaps more accurate descriptive - climate change.
I, for one, am forced to wonder why they didn't use that term in the first place. We might have gotten to the table a whole lot sooner if only we had known that global warming was, in fact, the death of summer as we knew it.
Sort of makes you wonder about the wisdom of building that new outdoor baseball stadium in Minnesota. At this rate, they will be wearing down parkas and ear muffs to watch the boys of summer tossing lobs around the diamond.
I don't know that we have gotten into the 90's here in Kansas City more than a handful of times all summer long. I have been waiting to power wash my deck until things warm up, because it's a wet and cold occupation. I am still waiting. Now that August has arrived, it seems it's going to be an even longer wait, because we are hitting the end of the summer, and still no 100 degree days. This is depressing.
As far as I am concerned, the most important function of those 100 degree days is to provide us with contrast for when it will be zero degrees outside in January. If we never get to 100, then zero feels a whole lot colder and is even less welcome. Not, mind you, that I am ever thrilled about that to begin with. But at least, if we have nearly died of the heat all summer, there is some relief involved when you can once again step outside and breathe.
It seems, for the second summer in a row here in Kansas City, 100 is but a distant dream, and the new reality is that we had best make the most of the almost 90 degree days we are blessed with a handful of times each year. Historically, the hottest part of our year always seemed to be in mid-August, when the kids are forced back indoors against their will to learn about things that they don't care about, while outside, the swimming pools continued to beckon. So I will maintain some fragile hope for more heat yet this summer.
But I am definitely not holding my breath. At least, not until winter, when it's so cold outside it hurts to breathe.
Global warming? Bah humbug.
It seems that in the last year or two, people in this country finally started listening and accepting that maybe, just possibly, global warming might not only be real, but we humans may have something to do with it.
Even our own government, well known for it's bureaucratic sluggishness, has finally sidled cautiously onto the bandwagon and acknowledged that perhaps we, one of the major consuming countries on earth, may have some responsibility to the rest of the world, not to mention future generations, to try to restrain the number of toxins we are spitting into the air on a continuous basis. By the time the US government admits to anything, it's been a fact for more years than I've been alive, generally speaking. So, apparently, global warming is a reality, and we will now throw billions of dollars into solving the problem, unless I miss my educated guess.
Just as everyone was jumping on the bandwagon, however, I have noticed the oddest thing. It seems to me that the climate is getting cooler. This is not just happening at the North Pole, where the melting of the ice cap is literally threatening the lives of the polar bears who depend on it. This is also occurring in Minnesota, where summer has been redefined as anything over 70 degrees Fahrenheit, and here in Kansas, where we now look at 90 as the new 100.
I had a conversation with a very unhappy relative recently, who, just two short years ago, purchased the cabin she has dreamed about owning her entire life. It is in central Minnesota, so the time frame in which you can really enjoy the lake, whose shoreline cost her roughly a mint, is already somewhat limited. If they can be in the water from late May through the end of August, they are having a great year.
Since they made this heady, and fairly spendy, decision to move forward with a cabin of their very own, global warming has suddenly gone cold. They have had a grand total of approximately five days over 85 since the day they closed on the mortgage. Now THAT is frustrating.
What, I ask the scientists who have been pushing global warming on us for the last umpteen years, is going on? Where is the devastating heat we have been warned about? Kansas is not only not becoming a desert, it is, in fact, wetter than it has ever been. The last two summers have seen us worrying about fungus on our bush and tree leaves from all the water falling from the sky. What, in heaven's name, is up with that?
I have noticed a rather fascinating phenomenon in the last few months, that seems to subtly confirm my sneaking suspicions that we have not heard the whole story, yet. The term, global warming, has suddenly been replaced in common usage among the experts with a new, and perhaps more accurate descriptive - climate change.
I, for one, am forced to wonder why they didn't use that term in the first place. We might have gotten to the table a whole lot sooner if only we had known that global warming was, in fact, the death of summer as we knew it.
Sort of makes you wonder about the wisdom of building that new outdoor baseball stadium in Minnesota. At this rate, they will be wearing down parkas and ear muffs to watch the boys of summer tossing lobs around the diamond.
I don't know that we have gotten into the 90's here in Kansas City more than a handful of times all summer long. I have been waiting to power wash my deck until things warm up, because it's a wet and cold occupation. I am still waiting. Now that August has arrived, it seems it's going to be an even longer wait, because we are hitting the end of the summer, and still no 100 degree days. This is depressing.
As far as I am concerned, the most important function of those 100 degree days is to provide us with contrast for when it will be zero degrees outside in January. If we never get to 100, then zero feels a whole lot colder and is even less welcome. Not, mind you, that I am ever thrilled about that to begin with. But at least, if we have nearly died of the heat all summer, there is some relief involved when you can once again step outside and breathe.
It seems, for the second summer in a row here in Kansas City, 100 is but a distant dream, and the new reality is that we had best make the most of the almost 90 degree days we are blessed with a handful of times each year. Historically, the hottest part of our year always seemed to be in mid-August, when the kids are forced back indoors against their will to learn about things that they don't care about, while outside, the swimming pools continued to beckon. So I will maintain some fragile hope for more heat yet this summer.
But I am definitely not holding my breath. At least, not until winter, when it's so cold outside it hurts to breathe.
Global warming? Bah humbug.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Family reunions....
Last weekend we had the fun of seeing some of our extended family at what my kids fondly refer to as the annual family reunion. It is funny, because I never thought of it that way until they started calling it by that moniker.
To me, it's getting together with my aunts and uncles and cousins, just like we have done my whole life. But for my children, it's an occasion, something special and out of the ordinary, because we live a long ways from Minnesota, where they all live, and we don't get to see everyone very often.
I am incredibly blessed with a wonderful extended family, so it is always a happy time to get together and catch up on what everyone is up to. But these days, it has some bittersweet elements, as well, because it is a reminder that the Greatest Generation is rapidly aging, and won't be around forever.
This year, we were missing several of the aunts and uncles. They are getting too fragile to come out to the cabin that has been the spot for the annual get together for many years, and so they have been left behind. Although they weren't present physically, they were present in our hearts and minds. But it is not the same without them, and they were missed.
The shocking thing I realized, however, is that as they fall away from us, one by one, we are slowly but surely turning into the oldest generation in the family. Our parents, siblings and their spouses for 60 years and more, are the glue that holds us together, and binds us as part of the same family story.
The traditions of the past, which we have come to look forward to, will slowly fade away with our parents, I suspect, and by the time I am a grandmother, we won't be doing these family events any longer. There will be new events, no doubt, but the opportunity to see the extended relatives that I grew up with will be fewer and farther between, and soon, it will be at funerals that we renew our acquaintanceship, instead of the happy times when we can all enjoy the moment.
I was sitting inside the cabin, the area that was always reserved for The Adults, when I came to another correlated, and yet shocking, realization. I am now one of The Adults. This is separate and different from being an adult, with the responsiblities and obligations that entails. Anyone can be an adult, but you have to be something beyond to be one of the The Adults, with inside table privileges.
Within the family circle, being one of The Adults means you are a go to person, one of the people everyone else looks to for everything from towels and boat pulls to lunch and dinner. The children play in the water, no matter how cold it may be, while The Adults discuss the weighty issues of the day and observe that children appear to be incapable of feeling cold, since the water is a chilly 60 degrees and they are in it, anyway.
This year, I realized we actually splintered into three separate factions. The oldest adults were inside, sitting in the most comfortable chairs, stationed where they could see everything but not have to go far.
The youngest members of the family, torn from the water for a few minutes to sustain themselves with some yummy food, sat at the table nearest the door, ready to run back and play the moment they finished eating.
Then there was the middle group, surrounded by both our parents and our children. We all went out back and sat outside at a picnic table out of sight of the crowd. It was interesting how we stratified, a generational layer cake, delicious and fun and complex and comforting.
I am very fortunate, because my extended family is the best kind there is. They are warm and engaging and welcome anyone and everyone to the party. It is fun for my children to bring their friends along with them, because they know that person will be made welcome, and made to feel at home.
Too often, we hear of family dissension and relational discord. I am lucky to be part of a tree with many branches, carefully tended, and with no need to prune.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
A rose by any other name?
I am doing something this week to reverse the last 25 years of my life, and there is a delicious irony to it that I must share.
It is hard to believe, but 25 years ago, come July 21, I married the man I thought was a dream. As regular readers of my blog are aware, that decision did not pan out as well as I had hoped. [I am ever the optimist....]
But this is not about him, so I will leave it at that and not take any of the pot shots you are all waiting for, and which, in my opinion, he so richly deserves. (Okay, that was a teensy, weensy small sauce pan shot, I realize, but sometimes I just can't help myself.)
The best things to come from that ill fated union were my beloved children, who continue to surprise and delight me every day of my life. I cannot imagine what life would be without the two people to whom I have devoted so much of my time and attention over the last 24 years, and I don't really care to speculate on it, either. But I do know that when they came into my world, it changed for the better, and I would not be the person I am today without them.
A few other positive benefits resulted from that time in my life, which now feels like someone else's life, if you want to know the truth. I have a house I wouldn't have, I have a frilly little high maintenance dog that I adore, I have a lot of stuff that I probably don't need, but really like. I also live in Kansas City, which still surprises me. [For those who were born and raised here, I'm sorry to have to say this, but Kansas City is not exactly the apex of cool places to live for the rest of the country. Enough said.]
A few negative impacts have also resulted from that hasty and ill advised decision I made all those years ago when I was young and stupid. [I realize I have left myself wide open to the observation that the only thing that has changed is that I am now old and stupid. I leave it to your discretion. Personally, I think I've wised up a lot in the last five years, but I know I have a ways to go.]
The biggest negative impact is to my children's well being, which has been severely strained by going through a divorce. For all those who are fooling themselves out there, thinking that THEIR divorce will be different and the kids won't get hurt, let me just enlighten you.
Divorce is a quick trip to hell, and the road back is a lot longer than the slide in. You will survive, your kids will survive, but if you think it won't affect the rest of all your lives, you are kidding yourself. I did everything in my power to protect them and to help them, and they still got hurt. Divorce is painful, and it changes you forever, and there is no escaping that unfortunate reality.
However, there is a bright spot in all the agony. The nature of crisis is that it either splits a family apart, or brings them together. Most of the kids I know who have gone through a divorce find their siblings in a way that siblings in a stable family don't.
My kids have a strong, loving relationship completely outside of the one they have with me, and it is one which will serve them well for the rest of their lives, long after I am gone. That has been a goal of mine since I first learned that child number two was on the way, and it is something that I know they cherish. When my daughter calls her brother her best friend in the world, she means it, and it is a really special thing.
I have also forged a bond with each of my children because of our experiences during the divorce that we would not have had otherwise. We were always a team, of sorts, I think, but the divorce clarified and strengthened those bonds for us into a tight knit unit that I cannot imagine anything ever shattering. We have enough confidence in our relationships with each other that we have no fear to allow others in, and I swear I will be the world's best mother-in-law. Seriously. In fact, I am ready and waiting for the girl of my dreams to take over the care and maintenance of my son. [He is almost 24, tall, dark, and handsome, and VERY available, by the way.... Just sayin'.]
The delicious irony of this 25th anniversary is that on the 22nd of July this year, I am going back to my maiden name. I never actually lost it, it was always a part of my name, but now I am formally dropping the married name and going back to the last name that I was given the day my parents claimed me for their own.
My maiden name is one I wear with pride - my father's life long gift to me. It is a name that was conferred by my relationship to a man whose life was much too short, but lived very well, and it is a name I am lucky to call mine, as well. I am fortunate to wear my last name as a badge of honor, and I will do the best I can to enhance, and not diminish, that name, as I carry it forward.
I am also, in the process of changing my name, rectifying a wrong that has annoyed my mother for the last 40 some years - I am correcting my middle name to the one she always wanted me to have, and which, for some unexplainable reason, was not on my birth certificate. When pressed as to the reason she didn't just correct it after the fact, her answer is a simple shrug of the shoulders, and an "I don't know."
But after all she has done for me, the very least I can do for her is to make sure my name is the one she wanted me to have - Sarah Elizabeth, after two women in the Bible. There is a meaning to my name, one which resonates for her. Sarah and Elizabeth were two women who waited through all their childbearing years to have their beloved children, just as my own mother waited for me to come along. After much heartache and despair, I finally arrived on the scene, just as their children came as a surprise to them at the end of their childbearing days.
Ironically, taking on a new middle name has not been difficult at all. It has always felt like my name, more than the middle name I carried, and is comfortable and satisfying to me. I have never been fond of my first name, but with the addition of Elizabeth, suddenly, the name feels right. The kaleidoscope has turned, and at long last, the pattern has resolved, and it is bright and colorful and lovely.
I hope that with the change of name, so to will my luck and fortune change, as well. I hope that the new name will change my perspective, change my expectations, change my resolution, change my outlook. I hope that with the new name will come new opportunities, new attitudes, and new interests. I hope to keep the best of the old, and find the best of the new.
So, come July 22, 2009, I will proudly take the name that has always been mine. Hello world! Sarah Elizabeth has finally arrived. Better late than never.
It is hard to believe, but 25 years ago, come July 21, I married the man I thought was a dream. As regular readers of my blog are aware, that decision did not pan out as well as I had hoped. [I am ever the optimist....] But this is not about him, so I will leave it at that and not take any of the pot shots you are all waiting for, and which, in my opinion, he so richly deserves. (Okay, that was a teensy, weensy small sauce pan shot, I realize, but sometimes I just can't help myself.)
The best things to come from that ill fated union were my beloved children, who continue to surprise and delight me every day of my life. I cannot imagine what life would be without the two people to whom I have devoted so much of my time and attention over the last 24 years, and I don't really care to speculate on it, either. But I do know that when they came into my world, it changed for the better, and I would not be the person I am today without them.
A few other positive benefits resulted from that time in my life, which now feels like someone else's life, if you want to know the truth. I have a house I wouldn't have, I have a frilly little high maintenance dog that I adore, I have a lot of stuff that I probably don't need, but really like. I also live in Kansas City, which still surprises me. [For those who were born and raised here, I'm sorry to have to say this, but Kansas City is not exactly the apex of cool places to live for the rest of the country. Enough said.]
A few negative impacts have also resulted from that hasty and ill advised decision I made all those years ago when I was young and stupid. [I realize I have left myself wide open to the observation that the only thing that has changed is that I am now old and stupid. I leave it to your discretion. Personally, I think I've wised up a lot in the last five years, but I know I have a ways to go.]
The biggest negative impact is to my children's well being, which has been severely strained by going through a divorce. For all those who are fooling themselves out there, thinking that THEIR divorce will be different and the kids won't get hurt, let me just enlighten you.
Divorce is a quick trip to hell, and the road back is a lot longer than the slide in. You will survive, your kids will survive, but if you think it won't affect the rest of all your lives, you are kidding yourself. I did everything in my power to protect them and to help them, and they still got hurt. Divorce is painful, and it changes you forever, and there is no escaping that unfortunate reality.
However, there is a bright spot in all the agony. The nature of crisis is that it either splits a family apart, or brings them together. Most of the kids I know who have gone through a divorce find their siblings in a way that siblings in a stable family don't.
My kids have a strong, loving relationship completely outside of the one they have with me, and it is one which will serve them well for the rest of their lives, long after I am gone. That has been a goal of mine since I first learned that child number two was on the way, and it is something that I know they cherish. When my daughter calls her brother her best friend in the world, she means it, and it is a really special thing.
I have also forged a bond with each of my children because of our experiences during the divorce that we would not have had otherwise. We were always a team, of sorts, I think, but the divorce clarified and strengthened those bonds for us into a tight knit unit that I cannot imagine anything ever shattering. We have enough confidence in our relationships with each other that we have no fear to allow others in, and I swear I will be the world's best mother-in-law. Seriously. In fact, I am ready and waiting for the girl of my dreams to take over the care and maintenance of my son. [He is almost 24, tall, dark, and handsome, and VERY available, by the way.... Just sayin'.]
The delicious irony of this 25th anniversary is that on the 22nd of July this year, I am going back to my maiden name. I never actually lost it, it was always a part of my name, but now I am formally dropping the married name and going back to the last name that I was given the day my parents claimed me for their own.
My maiden name is one I wear with pride - my father's life long gift to me. It is a name that was conferred by my relationship to a man whose life was much too short, but lived very well, and it is a name I am lucky to call mine, as well. I am fortunate to wear my last name as a badge of honor, and I will do the best I can to enhance, and not diminish, that name, as I carry it forward.
I am also, in the process of changing my name, rectifying a wrong that has annoyed my mother for the last 40 some years - I am correcting my middle name to the one she always wanted me to have, and which, for some unexplainable reason, was not on my birth certificate. When pressed as to the reason she didn't just correct it after the fact, her answer is a simple shrug of the shoulders, and an "I don't know."
But after all she has done for me, the very least I can do for her is to make sure my name is the one she wanted me to have - Sarah Elizabeth, after two women in the Bible. There is a meaning to my name, one which resonates for her. Sarah and Elizabeth were two women who waited through all their childbearing years to have their beloved children, just as my own mother waited for me to come along. After much heartache and despair, I finally arrived on the scene, just as their children came as a surprise to them at the end of their childbearing days.
Ironically, taking on a new middle name has not been difficult at all. It has always felt like my name, more than the middle name I carried, and is comfortable and satisfying to me. I have never been fond of my first name, but with the addition of Elizabeth, suddenly, the name feels right. The kaleidoscope has turned, and at long last, the pattern has resolved, and it is bright and colorful and lovely.
I hope that with the change of name, so to will my luck and fortune change, as well. I hope that the new name will change my perspective, change my expectations, change my resolution, change my outlook. I hope that with the new name will come new opportunities, new attitudes, and new interests. I hope to keep the best of the old, and find the best of the new.
So, come July 22, 2009, I will proudly take the name that has always been mine. Hello world! Sarah Elizabeth has finally arrived. Better late than never.
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