Left-Anywhere It So Desires

I've been thinking of a particular word for a couple of weeks now, and it, of course, has spurred other thoughts and memories.  For those of you who don't know me well enough, I'm a teacher in a predominately female taught school...run by a male.  Poor guy, his vice-principal is female, his secretary is female, all of the office assistants are female, heck, almost the entire adult staff is female.  And I say, poor guy, in a jesting sort of way, because we females are, well...we're efficient...we're in charge...and we're on top of things.  We need to be strong... we are strong...but sometimes, when provoked, we're a little...emotional or...sensitive.    So a couple of years ago when we females were all positioned around 'the male' during one of our staff meetings, he brought up the subject of something he was thinking...the word in which I've been thinking lately...slippage.  He thought he'd noticed a little slippage in our professional attire. Now, the library, where our meetings are held, is carpeted...but I'm pretty sure I could have heard a pin drop when he said that.  All private conversations came to a halt...those who were somewhat sleepy, woke up...and those who were grading papers, lifted their pens...all waiting for an explanation.  He, on the other hand, had probably wondered what possessed him to speak out loud about something that was only going to end ugly.  If I recall correctly, we females stood our ground and defended our comfortable shoes and slacks, while he held up a white flag.  In future meetings, 'slippage' has been tossed around as bait, but he's admitted with another laugh that he'll never travel down that road again.

But, alas, the word, slippage, was born into my vocabulary and has forever remained a part of it.  And this word  has been weighing on my mind lately, and possibly in a way that doesn't even affect the majority of people.  I know for certain that it doesn't affect men...not in the way in which I'm about to refer.  (Gentlemen...this is your out if you'd like to stop reading...though clean)   I'm a patient person...I know I am.  I allow things to bother me for a long time before I snap, and I continue to put up with these bothersome things until I can no longer stand it.   So what caused 'slippage' to come back to me and make me snap?  It wasn't a women's health issue or the latest fad diet that once again hadn't worked for me that got me going.  It wasn't politics and constant ragging of our leaders on my Facebook News Feed that finally got to me.  The slippage I'm referring to is much more simple than that...and in all honesty, if this is my biggest concern at the moment, then I'm a pretty lucky lady.  The slippage I'm referring to...is my bra strap.  That's right...my bra strap.   It slips...it slides...it won't stop falling...right off my left shoulder.  I've tried almost everything.  I've tried  tightening...loosening...pinning...nothing works...it's just slippage!  Perhaps this doesn't sound like something that would bother you, I don't know.  But when the strap starts moving, and it's on the verge of slipping off my shoulder, every single nerve inside me gets rattled!  I wear a lot layers on most days because it's cold, and most of the time, I've got on some type of a jacket.  So, you, meaning anyone who sees me, can't tell if I'm experiencing 'slippage.'  I remain poised as long as possible, and then, when I think I've got the perfect private moment, I reach inside and give it a yank!  I can't tell you how frustrating this is, and have to wonder if I'm alone.  Are other women silently suffering?  Are there more of you out there experiencing 'slippage?'  I don't know.  I don't see my co-workers 'doing the yank,' but maybe they're fixing in private as well.

Slippage isn't particular about where it occurs, and I know I've just referred to it as if it's alive...but you know, sometimes I think it is.  It has occurred in so many places, like my kitchen sink while doing dishes.  My hands are, of course, wet and soapy, when all of a sudden...there it goes.  And sometimes, I'm sitting perfectly still in church, perfectly still, when...off it goes.  The worst case of slippage occurred recently while I was working carpool duty after school in the parking lot.  It's been a really cold  winter...really cold...so I'm bundled like a snowman on most days.  I start with a scarf and wrap it twice around my neck before putting on my first coat.  After that, comes the second coat...long and wool to protect me from the wind.  Then come the mittens and ear muffs.  And with all this extra baggage, I've also got a hand held radio to contend with to communicate with other staff on the parking lot.  On this particularly frigid day we were almost through with the waves of carpool traffic when all of a sudden....slippage.  There it went...and it was a bad one!  The left strap went down...further than normal.  Somehow, I must have maneuvered my arm so that when it slipped, it reached all the way down to my elbow!  I'm not kidding!  I don't know how it happened, but when it did, it quickly tightened and acted as a vice.  My left arm was trapped against my rib cage...by a bra strap!  I literally couldn't lift my left arm to wave in traffic.  I was wrapped up with too many layers  to fix the problem and I was miserable.  There was nothing I could do, so I whispered my situation to a co-worker and laughed with her instead of crying.  There I stood in 10 degrees, boiling over with slippage.  It was then I decided to do some research.

Not much to report on the subject other than the obvious.  All I came up with was...an ill fit (wow), too big, small shoulders (I'm sure this reason didn't apply to me), or worn out (me or the strap?).  I suppose I already knew this, and I felt somewhat relieved to know that it was a common enough problem to be listed on the internet.  Have I learned anything from this experience?  I suppose.  Has my silver in particular taught me anything?  Perhaps.  Perhaps I've become too patient with age.  Or, yikes...perhaps I've become lazy.  Well, whatever the reason, a little shopping's on my 'to do' list this weekend.

And I'm still wondering.  Has slippage ever happened to you?  I'm sure it has in one form or another.  How about a one or two word response...such as which shoulder and where it happens...or, maybe it's not your straps.  I remember someone's story from 14 years ago of their slippage that occurred at an operating table.  If you feel like sharing your story for a good laugh, we'd all  like to hear.

As Long as I'm Crying

 Funny thing, what pain can do...and a funny story to go with it (one of my personal favorites).  Warning...Guys, from the picture above I'm sure you can tell where this story is going.  And girls, I hope I don't cross any forbidden line of secrecy in what we do in the name of vain...but in today's world and internet descriptions, I doubt it. (don't worry...my stories are G rated...and always will be) I go in and out of phases getting my nails done in a salon depending on my mood or occasion, and currently, it's just my feet.  My hands are like tools and my nails take the brunt of damage so I save the expense of manicures for special occasions.  As is life, when repeating a motion a number of times or patronizing a service month after month for a period of time, a certain routine falls into play.

In my case, while at the salon, my routine is...pretend to be relaxed while the nail technician performs her magic, when in reality, I'm bracing for blood.  I look around and wonder if I'm the only one faking it.  I've tried reading, texting, watching the news channel, but nothing helps.  At some point during the pedicure when I realize that I have once again survived and I'm in the clear, I let the technician know that I'd like to get my eyebrows done.  By 'done' I mean waxed, for those of you who aren't familiar with the term.  For the longest time, I didn't need to have my eyebrows waxed because I could see mine well enough to pluck.  Unfortunately, though, as time progressed and more silver became evident, so did the realization that I could no longer see the strays.

This nice routine went on for some time with no issues until one day, there was a slight change after my request for eyebrows.  Instead of the technician responding with a nod, she said, "You want your upper lip?"  What?  Please!  I  graciously declined, and blushed secretly, wondering why she asked.  I made sure to check when I got home and... I was right.  It was only peach fuzz and lightly colored at that, so it certainly didn't bother me.  Anyway, this question of 'You want your upper lip?' was now part of the new regime.  I was used to it, and politely declined each time.  I also made sure to keep a check on my ever so slightly shadowing peach fuzz.

I should have known that this mundane routine wouldn't last forever, and some months later, the routine changed yet again, with a new question.  After asking to have my eyebrows done, she didn't respond with "You want your upper lip?' but with something much more news worthy and shocking.  Instead, it was "You want your mustache?"  What! Mustache?  Are you kidding me?  Inside, I was screaming...humiliated...kicking myself...how did I let this get so far?  Why didn't anyone tell me?  And of course, my response also had to be  different.  A very quiet and matter of fact, "yes," was all I could mange.

Now, I must say that ever since I was a little girl, I was one of those kids that didn't cry at painful appointments...like shots...strep tests...other uncomfortable doctor visits...even my eyebrows being waxed.  But...there was something so different about having my upper lip waxed that almost....almost....made me cry.  Maybe it was bad technique the first time...maybe the technician didn't apply enough pressure before ripping off the wax...I don't know, but...it's been the same each time.  I actually feel like crying.

And what I found interesting when at the point of...almost crying...other bad thoughts flooded my mind...and made it worse.  Thoughts like...I can't lose weight...I can't find a publisher...my doggie's getting old...my parents are getting older...wait...I'm getting older!  So I have to wonder...does pain cause sadness to tumble out of control?  Does one bad thought lead to another? What about you?  Is the same true for you?  Does one slip up on a diet cause the whole bag of cookies to disappear?  Did I really just say that?

Maybe in realizing that bad thoughts can spiral and tumble is just helpful in acknowledging what is happening.  Do we have the ability to stop bad thoughts...I hope so.  And I plan to try it...next time my 'upper lip is being ripped off.

**Feel free to comment on  my blog...It's fun to read them...you'll need to sign in the first time and choose a password.  Please hit 'share' and 'follow' if you feel so inspired.  I am blogging to build my social media platform in hopes of finding a publisher**

What's in Your Bag?

I am correcting my earlier blog after finding out I really am struggling with memory...silver induced, I'm assuming.  I remember watching a game show when I was younger called Let's Make a Deal hosted by Monte Hall.   It goes way back to when I was ten years old and so much of it is foggy, as I found out.  My world was simple and innocent then and without price tags, and I was too young to logically guess between two items, nor did I really care.  But for me, the best part of the show was the very last few minutes.  Monte walked through the audience offering money to the  ladies with the fasted hands ...no, not that type of lady, but those who were lucky enough to have crammed precisely the right items into their purses...and were able to find his requested item first and catch his attention.  50 dollars to the first person to show me a silver dollar...75 dollars for a needle and thread...Alright....how about 100 dollars to the first person who can show me a map! It was thrilling for me to watch the ladies scramble through their purses in search of the winning item.  It's funny now to think back at that memory.  I don't think there were any men winning...frantically waving their hands...digging in their pockets.  To be fair, maybe they were helping...helping their wives to hurry, helping to shove their arms up in the air, or maybe...grabbing the items from them and helping to make some noise...yea, that was probably it... but they definitely didn't have a bag of supplies...and they definitely still don't.

The reason I started thinking about purses and what's in them all began about a week ago at a youth group meeting.  A core member shared with a group of us about a recent misfortune she'd experienced while at a shopping mall.  While riding on an escalator, she heard the sound of a little something dropping onto the metal steps after pushing back her hair.  It didn't take but a second to realize her diamond earring had just fallen...into the moving escalator steps.   Ugh!  She received help and was told the escalator was due for a thorough checkup and the earring would be looked for.  Anyway...and really, I do have a point...after we finished consoling our friend, the matriarch in our group...and I use this term lovingly because she's got a few years on the rest of us but is still brave enough to work with teens...and be adored by them...and has more energy than the Energizer Bunny, decided to lighten the mood.  She whipped out a sandwich bag from her purse and waved it in their air...Anybody need a pearl earring?  And there in her bag were about six pairs of spare pearl earrings.  Why?  I don't know, but we laughed until it hurt.  And isn't that the question here?  What's in your bag, and why?

We, as women, have inherited the role of emergency supply carrier.  Not that my dear Officer Buckle does not have our family prepared for disaster at home.  I mean we could live without electricity for heat and light for quite some time with his stash of firewood, batteries, tools and food.  But when we're on the road, that's my time to shine.  I might hear....do you have a band aide...a tissue...a checkbook...a highlighter...gum...old gum (ick)...marbles (what?)...a small pharmacy...lipstick...keys...more keys...even more keys (to what I don't know), a rosary...ear plugs (you never know when the band's going to start playing), my glasses (somewhere)...and last but not least...a kitchen knife (what?).  Yep, after Mass, a friend returned one of my knives that had accidentally gone home with her after a party.  I just recently found it in my purse.

Thinking back to my younger days on the subject of bags, I didn't carry much.  Guess I wasn't prepared for life until I had lived it.  As the years have progressed and my silver has grown...so has my bag.

I think some of us are known for what we carry in our bags.  Anyone who knows my mother-in-law has, at one time or another, been offered a piece of hard candy.  If you've got a tickle, it can be fixed.

Something stuck in your teeth?  My mother as a toothpick.

Dry hands?  My daughter has the nicest fragrant hand cream.

What's in your bag?  Really...I mean something must make it weigh ten pounds!

I'd love to hear from you.  Share with us your favorite or most unusual item in your bag.  Comment on the blog below, leave a message on Facebook or Twitter.  What's in your bag?

What Do You See?

owl-1

This is a picture I recently sent my daughter and niece who were visiting New York City for the day.  It was December the 23rd, and their long anticipated  independent day of fun was finally upon them.  The entire trip was planned by themselves with no input from someone older and wiser.  They were going to re-create the adventures of  Buddy the Elf' (a favorite movie character of theirs) and they knew exactly what they were going to do.  When I noticed ahead of time that the chance of rain on their planned excursion was increasing by the hour, I suggested they change their date.  Mom, we know what we're doing.  Oh, okay.  Well, why don't you at least take the train...it's faster and more comfortable, my husband jumped in.  Dad, we don't want to hurt your feelings, but we know what we're doing.  It was now Officer Buckle's turn to raise his eyebrows. So off they went in the pitch black and pouring rain early that morning with umbrellas tucked safely inside their bags at my request.  Text me throughout the day, was my only request.  And a long and miserable five hours later they were able to stretch their cramped muscles by getting dumped off the bus and onto the cold and rainy city streets.  I'm sure at this point (and it wasn't even noon) they began to replay the suggestions from those much older and wiser.  When my daughter called a short time later, I wasn't surprised to hear that they had already taken refuge in a restaurant...and just to tease them a little, I sent them a picture of  my slippered feet propped up in a recliner...nice and toasty.

I don't know why, but they didn't enjoy that picture...hmm.

Soon afterward, the mother and teacher in me took over so I sent them another picture...this time, the one shown above...of the wood pile...and I asked them what they saw.

And I'll ask you, too.  What do you see?...other than Officer Buckle's handiwork?  Look closer...

owl-2

I asked them if they saw the owl's face.  I know it's really part of the cover and a piece of wood, but can you see it?  And I think they began to understand.  I know you paid all this money...and it's raining (even though I had already told you that), but you're in NEW YORK CITY... two days before Christmas...and you have a plan!  Now get out of that restaurant and stick to your plan!

You know, it really was one of those moments that made me feel like I had done something good.  I told them to remember to take pictures (as if) so they could look back on this day and laugh at the remembrance of all things fun and good.  Were they able to re-create Buddy the Elf's adventure?  Part of it.  Did they ice skate in the rain at Rockefeller Center?  Yes.  Did they have fun shopping and did they enjoy the hustle and bustle the city provided....two days before Christmas?  Certainly.  Did they get wet?  Soaked...right down to their toes.

But I think they were able to stop...stop griping and complaining...stop feeling sorry for themselves...and SEE the picture (their situation) from a different viewpoint.  And here is how they appeared from the new viewpoint.

iceskating rockefeller center

cousins in NYC

Santa's mail

              and             and   

So apparently, they weren't the only ones in need of that particular advice.  As great as it was, I took the advice that I so freely shared with them and recently re-dished it out....to me.

I had an opportunity just last week to feel pretty sorry for myself when I received yet....another rejection to my book.  I'm sure I felt what most people would have at first...low...sorry for myself...questioning...just all around yuk.  So after I allowed myself some time to wallow, I, too, looked at my situation, my rejection, to view it differently.

And this is what I came up with:  With each rejection, I've had an opportunity to look deeper into the whole process of publication...a world so brand new to me...new terminology...publication houses (is that where agents and editors live?)...formatting...editing...re-editing...polishing...query letters-can you believe I didn't know what that was?...hook-and I thought a hook was what Officer Buckle used with his fishing pole...log line-what?  And then there was genres...sub genres...agents-I mean, literary agents...writing clubs-CWG-Christian Writer's Guild-which I'm proud to say I am now a member!  I've even emailed a couple of literary agents...well, 2... more than twice at their request-is that a rapport?

All in all...the older and wiser...SILVER side of me...once I finished wallowing...realized that success is not necessarily the destination, as much as it is the journey.  I still have a long way to travel, but as long as I am learning with every step, and realize that getting lost and making wrong turns is part of the journey, then I am well on my way.

The Perfect Number

Before getting into my thoughts, I'd like to say thank you to all of you who are stopping by my blog and taking a look. As I mentioned in my "About" section, I'm new to this and in search of making connections.  At the moment I'm reading  Building a Social Media Platform by Jerry Jenkins.  It's super interesting, and one of the essential steps to building a platform is having social online connections, hence my blog and soon to be Twitter.  Jerry said that it goes against the grain of some authors to put their personal feelings in the open for others to read, and that some are very shy.  Ta-dum...was he describing me?  So, thank you for being here...and bear with me as I learn with baby steps...and perhaps you'll see yourself... A shout out to former co-worker, Jeanne, who's reading from Richmond, who gave me the idea for tonight's thought.  In her comment to my "About" page, she congratulated me on my bravery in facing one of her dreaded numbers...50. She said she hated numbers and for much of what they stand...and I think I know what she means...because so much of the time, numbers are used to judge us.  As if our self esteems aren't fragile enough, there seems to be numbers associated with how we feel about ourselves.

Think about it...and some of what Jeanne said...our age, our weight, our zip code and income...we seem to be a society striving for the perfect number to identify with.  And for many, the numbers are too low or too high.

Perhaps the best we can do for ourselves without setting our standards too low...is not to set them too high.  No, really...think about it...I have a dear friend at work (and Jeanne, you remember her well)--and for those of you who don't know--I teach first grade--  who has a motto that makes great sense to me.  She often says, "All you really want for your child is to be the average bear."

Don't scream...I know very well that there are some little people who are very well above their academic age, and might need to be challenged, and who will go on to make great progress for the world.  But...there have been times when Little Johnny, who reads at an 8th grade level, is standing at the door (with windows) at recess time with his coat on... it's pouring outside.  Meanwhile, Little Suzy, who can't yet read, is happily chatting with her neighbor, enjoying indoor recess.

I think my point is...sure, we should set standards and goals, but don't set them out of reach.  If there's one thing my silver has taught me while teaching...happy children learn and happy children thrive...let's keep our numbers attainable...and be happy.

2014: A Better List?

I went to bed last night probably like most others after having watched "the ball" drop in Times Square on television.  Having toasted in the new year with my family, I trotted off to bed wondering how 2014 might be different for me and my family. Once hunkered down in my electric blanket, I thought ahead, anticipating of what life has to offer.  Just next week our family will grow again with the addition of a new niece or nephew, and a few months afterward, another niece is getting married.   With college decisions hanging in the air for my youngest, our 2014 calendar is already filling.  My brother will also be joining my sister and me in the silver side of life's downhill slope next month with a party to celebrate...and with those warm and fuzzy thoughts dancing in my head, I drifted off for a long winter's nap.

When I awoke and padded out to the kitchen this morning to get my morning coffee, I noticed somethings never change;  a copy of the daily newspaper lay on the kitchen table, placed by you know who...Officer Buckle.

Most of the top half of the front page was covered in pictures of the world celebrating the New Year...followed by pictures of the infamous list.  You know the one...out with old, in with the new.  I quickly grabbed my coffee, reading glasses, and headed over to the fire to have a read.

The first thing that crossed my mind as I was reading the list was that I hardly knew any of the subject matter...like, what's PANKs, Side-eye, and Drinking vinegars?  The one name I  did recognize, though, will surely make my Colorado buddy proud...out with Beyoncé and right back in again.  Phew...more stories.

After struggling my way down the columns, and even though I didn't know who most were, it left me feeling kind of sad...that same kind of sad I experienced in junior high school days, and still witness among some teenagers today.  Why does the old have to go out?  To make room for the new?  I don't buy it.  It's new...not better....just different.

Is this what we're teaching our young?...move over, I've found somebody new?

Some might argue...say I'm not interested in advancement...but that's not it.  It's just the pushy, crass, move over feeling that hurts.

Is this my silver talking?  Maybe.  My sentiment?  Maybe.  But what are we making room for?  Gourmet marijuana recipes?

Officer Buckle Here

Officer Buckle Here.