I did a thing yesterday. I made a fun-fun outfit for my kid for school. No one made me. I did this on purpose. And I only set off the fire alarms once…
*****
Spirit Week has some fun options but I get absolutely fixated on an idea for Monday’s Fleece or Flannel Day. I order some things from Amazon before I quit my free month of Prime. (Take that, Jeff B.!)
I cobble together a complete outfit, but his pants have a problem. They are too comfortable. Too easy-to-wear for public venues. So…beltloops are the answer.
Last night I learned the truth the universe has hidden from me–beltloops are the devil’s accessory. I have also learned that I will pay anyone whatever they ask to never have to add beltloops again! (I paid someone $1250 to have a tree removed last week that I swear took less time that it took me to make these damned loops from hell.)
I begin my project by waiting until the absolute last minute to start it.
[Sidebar: I have my first ADHD testing tomorrow; I wonder what I will learn?]
First up…I have to find my supplies that were hidden during a recent curse/plague/scourge that required stuffing nearly all of my house in garbage bags. Be grateful you are only hearing about pants today.
I ask the internet how to make beltloops. It is only so helpful.
I hunt, I search, I eventually find. I snip. I cut. I iron. (Setting off the fire alarm in the process.) I pin. I poke myself about eleventy-billion times. Ow.
I ask my internet what the hell this thing is on my sewing machine? The internet suggested I go find a manual and look it up myself. Sigh.
Footer Tension Mechanism or Button-Hole Related – The Internet Wasn’t Sure Which.
I only sew only one of the things on the wrong way…and I had a seam ripper to pull it apart and sew it back on correctly. I call that a victory.
It takes me about 5 hours to put 8 beltloops of questionable construction in place.
The next morning, I dress the boy in all-over orange and greyish black flannel plaid with orange argyle socks.
You can’t even see the beltloops in place. But trust me, they are there! And I am very proud that this day is over.
Now to find something Black and Orange for tomorrow! What a shame he can’t wear this two days in a row!
As I sit in my chair facing out into my garden watching the ever darkening evening approach, the flash and bang of incendiary devices commences. I am reminded.
Oh, right.Tomorrow is the Fourth of July!
This means, I am currently bombarded by amateur firecracker smiths’ efforts to celebrate early—no doubt drunk on freedom or something wetter sold in cardboard cases at every gas station in the fifty states.
Hang on…Firecracker Smith? Is that the right title? What is the term for someone who professionally handles fireworks? Checks the internet…ah yes, a pyrotechnician! At least, that is what their lawyer will assert should they burn down any important buildings.
Sidebar: someone who unprofessionally sets off fireworks is typically called “Lefty” or “That crazy bastard” by their neighbors.
I am thinking of Fourth of Julys past. I discuss this with my mother-in-law— specifically the reason why we stopped going to the pancake breakfast hosted on behalf of veterans in Grandville, Michigan. I’m surprised she’s forgotten.
MIL: “Oh. That’s right. That was an awful day!” Laura replies.
Since then, we’ve managed tamer 4ths, including an unforgettable cruise on the S.S. Badger many years ago, but I’ve never entirely trusted the holiday either. (Personally, I believe the Fourth of July was invented to test parents’ patience and their ability to keep their children alive.)
The weather we are having lately tips into the 90’s. It is 10 P.M. here and it is still 86° outside. That is now considered a ‘cool’ temperature.
If you are in Arizona, you are no doubt laughing your proverbial derrieres off. For you, it doesn’t really start to get hot until there are three digits beside that degree symbol. (At that point, the little round circle is saying it is hot enough to boil an egg.) I am never going to move to Arizona. I am too white to survive the melanomas that would spontaneously erupt every time I stepped outdoors.
I would much rather stay home, in air conditioning, and read or work on a jigsaw puzzle. Instead, I will walk with my son along the Buck Creek Trail as we have in years past and set up our blanket to lie down and watch the stars be put to shame by flashier if shorter-lived displays. I will suffer the loud concussive booms of the many firework enthusiasts—those with all their fingers and those who can no longer count to ten without taking their shoes off—and appreciate that my son still enjoys this journey with his mom.
And then I will gratefully haul my child homeward, where ice cream awaits to celebrate surviving the heat of the day.
I wish you much joy on your Fourth of July and we will hope that you can count your gratitude on all ten of your fingers come Monday!
Today I had an experience that summed up 2023 for me…it involved my son and the quest for an imaginary balloon. Please accept this story in lieu of a holiday letter that I haven’t written or sent yet.
For a long time, it was unavailable on the Walmart.com website. Then, finally, I saw there was a link to order said balloon–about two weeks before Christmas. I gladly paid over $11.00 for the dumb thing and, when the package arrived, I stored it in the closet where all things are locked safely away from my kid. (It’s like the Room of Requirements at Hogwarts, only much smaller and I have to stock it.)
The Day before Christmas came along (which to most people means December 24th but because I suffer from a failure to look at a calendar turned out to be December 23rd this year, sigh) and I opened the delivery package to discover I had been sent this balloon instead:
EXHIBIT B:
BALLOON TRAGEDY OF MEGA PROPORTIONS
It’s still a Poppy Trolls Themed Balloon, so no big problem, right?
!!WRONG!!
He wants the round one. He is autistic. He just wants the head of the troll doll, not the entire inflatable corpse! These things matter, people!
So, I immediately went to the email confirming receipt of my product to file an angry, pre-Christmas rant about how the evil Walmart goons had ruined my child’s Christmas. (It hadn’t, but it did panic me about what I was going to give him despite having all the other things he wanted. Mostly.)
I held onto the wrong balloon and waited for the reply. The Walmart-affiliated distributor apologized and gave us a full refund within 24-hours. They even said we could keep the balloon. Alexei was perfectly happy when he got it on the actual Christmas Day celebration on the 25th–which was only one of two presents he got that day because of my calendar-math related issue mentioned earlier.
Fast forward to today: Alexei got a Walmart gift card from Grandma Mary for Christmas. He has been a good boy and he’s been asking for an “Emoji Balloon” repeatedly the last couple of days. He’d seen the picture on the Walmart website. [I bet you are sensing what happens next.]
EXHIBIT C:
I decided it was an easy way to make him happy. We drive to the store and…no such balloon exists. They are selling Valentine’s balloons not to mention a Valentine Spaghetti Sauce and Noodle basket–when did that become a romantic gesture?–and it’s still only December!! What the actual H*LL?
The kid buys a stuffed Paw Patrol toy that he immediately wants when he sees it–despite having various versions of the same toy already–because it is dressed in the costume from the most-recent Paw Patrol Mighty Pups’ movie merchandise.
[Sidebar: we watched Mighty Pups last night. My absolute favorite line in the movie comes from a television reporter who is commenting on the franchise toys marketing the upgraded uniforms for the super-powered Paw Patrol team: “To all the parents out there, I’m sorry.” ]
Most parents would give up at this point. Not me. [Insert cackle of madness here.] We drive to our local Party City store.
There is an entire wall of balloons available, but, alas, no Emoji Balloon. There is also a line of customers getting balloons. Apparently people want to celebrate the New Year in style?
I get the clerk’s attention as she fills and ties balloons.
Me: “Hey, do you have any emoji balloons?”
Clerk #1: “No. I’m sorry. You know, a lot of people ask for them. We really should carry them! I’m sorry we don’t have them.”
I look up at the hundreds of options of mylar balloons overhead and try to convince the kid to pick something else.
Me: [encouraging flexibility] “Hey, would you like a Trolls balloon instead?”
Kid: [inflexibly]”Emoji balloon.”
The clerk is listening and when asked, pulls out a trolls balloon.
Clerk #1: “We have this one!”
If you can believe it, it’s the same darned balloon I tried to order for Christmas!! [See Exhibit A above.]
Me: “Hooray! We’ll take it!”
This will make the kid happy! The clerk blows it up–even asking what color string she should tie it with. She hands it to me. I hand it to the kid. He responds:
Kid: “Emoji balloon.”
He’s nothing if not consistent.
Clerk #1: “We have yellow balloons if you want one of those!?”
This one is trained very well, I can tell.
I sigh and tell her yes. As she finishes tying it off she makes a brilliant offer:
Clerk #1: “You know, I have a marker. I could draw a smiley face on it, if you like?”
Me: “OMG–yes! Thank you. You are a genius!”
When we are checking out. I mention to the cashier how nice the young lady who helped us was.
Me: “Is there anyway I can tell someone what a good job she’s doing?”
The young lady points to a QR Code that says:
“Highly Satisfied today? Scan below to give us your feedback for $5 off on your purchase.”
I take a picture of it, saying,
Me: “I’ll do my best, but I have a hard time filling these things out.”
Clerk #2: “Oh, I can help you with that.”
Within less than the time it takes to blow up and tie two balloons, she walks me through the process. I even ask for her name and add it to the customer satisfaction survey.
Clerk #2: “There you go. Now you can use the discount!”
She finishes ringing me up and wishes us a Happy New Year. I sincerely hope that Mariana and Delaney at Store 431 get a Happy New Year bonus for their exceptional help.
Because, as it turns out, 2023 wasn’t finished with us yet.
EXHIBIT D:
ALL THAT’S LEFT IS PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE
When we got home, I stopped to take a picture of my giggling, happy child before opening the door to let him in. Then, I turned, remembering I’d seen there was mail in the box as I was driving up. I let go of the door too soon…and I hear the worst sound:
!!POP!!
One of the balloons did not make it into the house. It got killed on the doorstep. Sigh.
Fortunately, my son enjoys deflating balloons, so he wasn’t as broken up about it as I was.
So if all 2023 does is to deflate your joy by half, I guess, that’s about as good as it gets!
It’s not every day that you stumble across a human heart on a shelf in a second-hand shop.
Tucked between a glass nut bowl and a vintage torch–the find of the day!
It was only a few weeks ago I learned that the charity I work for–Haitian Assets for Peace International–is fundraising to build a cardiac hospital in Haiti. The Haiti Heart Institute’s noble mission is to bring specialist around the world to train Haitian doctors and nurses in clinical cardiology so they help patients who otherwise would die of treatable hypertension or heart conditions that could be corrected at birth. And like most noble missions, it sounds totally impossible.
“How in the world are we going to build a hospital?” I think incredulously.
I don’t have a lot of faith of a spiritual nature or of universal forces beyond myself steering the stars to align in any way that makes a difference to my fate. But…
Today, I walked into Changing Thymes in Grandville, Michigan and I saw a heart for sale for $25.00.
I texted my boss.
Me: “I have found a heart. Can Gedeon use one?” (Don’t worry, I sent pictures so she wouldn’t panic that I had become some kind of black market organ procurer.)
She texted the doctor in Haiti. A short while later…after I’ve shopped for groceries…I get a reply:
Boss: “I would say go ahead. [Dr. Gelin] used to draw a diagram like this on the board when teaching EKG.”
Just imagine that…a doctor who has to use an overhead projector to teach students how to do an EKG.
The dashing Dr. Gelin in action!
I can’t build a hospital…but I can send a heart to Haiti. And maybe, if you want to make a difference, you’ll want to send a little heart to Haiti too!
* * * * *
If you wish to contribute to the shipping costs for the heart or help fund the Haiti Heart Institute you can find a link to my Facebook fundraiser until August 31, 2023 here:
And should the universe be speaking to me via secondhand store shelves–I’m going to keep my eye out for a hospital the next time I go wandering the aisles.
I ask myself this after I fell into a blackhole this week watching a marathon of Chinese Soap Opera–56 hours later I’m still trying to figure it out.
How can you watch this many hours and not remember the plot at the end? It’s a mystery.
*****
Life has calmed down–as much as it ever does. I have moments of time available–between loads of laundry, shopping, cooking, cleaning, boy-child wrangling and working. I should be using that time wisely. I tell myself, “You should be writing.”
But it is so hard to get myself focused. There is something fractured about being me that has worsened over the years.
Have you ever lived your life expecting that ‘someday’ you’d figure things out. You’d wake up and–BAM–you’d have your act together. Life wouldn’t be so hard then? You’d definitely have a handle on being who you are!
I’m fifty-five and it hasn’t happened yet. It is dawning on me that I’m not going to have that life-altering shift of perception–the epiphany that opens wide my mind, steers me toward a better version of myself. Someone who is capable. A real go getter.
And each day I wake up and find I am still just me…it’s hard. Really, really hard.
It is somewhat disappointing to reach this realization. I’m not only not getting any better at life, I may actually be getting incrementally worse. Mostly it feels like I am floundering. I’m a human placeholder in a game I can’t win, playing against formidable forces I can’t see against insurmountable odds…and I think I’m facing the wrong way on the board and possibly missing a few pieces. (This analogy may have gone astray.) What I’m saying is, it is exhausting facing life like this. Some days, I want to give up.
Life can be discouraging that way–if you forget to look for the positives. If you don’t count the sunshine that follows the storm. If you don’t take pleasure in the small victories–like matching all the socks in the laundry. (Throwing out the single ones is just good mental health, in my opinion.) Or watching the fuzzy-butted squirrels outside the kitchen window as they stuff their face with just one more peanut. The smell of clean laundry warm right out of the dryer. Snifffff…ahhhh! (What? It can’t be only me who does this!)
Depression filters the world grayer. Drains the energies. Zaps the mind’s ability to combat the inner demons that tell you “Give up. You can’t beat this.” This inner critic chants in a hateful, hurtful voice spewing a litany of failures on repeat just waiting to bring you down. It is a broken mirror that reflects how much you are not like the person you thought you would be by now. It drowns good intentions in bile and self-loathing.
But, it only wins if you listen. If you believe its lies. It’s false protestations. If you don’t take into account the good you do. The people who love you and the people who you love in return. The worth in facing a day despite every instinct that would have you crawl back into a hole to sleep or fall into a Netflix coma to escape the daily grind.
I struggle to beat back these feelings. To see my worth. To feel it. But, I am still trying. Every day. I try to make good choices–even if that means that having tofu and stir fried vegetables for lunch is my crowning achievement in a day full of suck. That, and I got a shower. And I sat down to my computer to put my feelings into words.
Being who I am hasn’t been easy. I struggle. I fail. But I get back up again.
And maybe, at the end of the day, that is something to be proud of.
If anyone else has hit the doldrums of winter and is in need of encouragement–spring will come. Eventually. And I will join you in a little sun worshiping when it does. Until then, hold on. And remember, you are not alone.
*
You’ve read this far bonus:
I’ve just learned that February First is National Dark Chocolate Day. Dark chocolate is nature’s way of saying, “Yeah, life can be bitter…but it can be a little sweet too. Have a truffle today! You deserve it!”
And, for anyone needing help, please consider talking to someone. The Lifeline number to call for suicide prevention is now 988 or you can use the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255) it is a toll-free hotline in the US. You can check out the webpage at 988Lifeline.org.
Look, I don’t generally do book reviews on my blog. It just isn’t my thing. But if you’ve missed me at all in the blogosphere, know that it was in pursuit of relearning to love reading and battling my way through painful transitions of my own. This book gives me hope that life is worth living. Maybe you need a reason to keep on going too.
So, I offer to you Becky Chambers’ A Closed and Common Orbit and a link to my Goodreads review.
But, honestly, I suggest you just read the book instead. Any review is going to be a pale, anemic attempt to recapture the absolute brilliance of Becky Chambers’ writing. It’s actually a travesty that I tried.
WARNING–this is BOOK TWO of a series. You can read it without the preceding work–A LONG WAY TO A SMALL, ANGRY PLANET–but you will deprive yourself of joy and context if you do.
In a previous post, Another Woman’s Life, we met our intriguing heroine dumpster diving at a Goodwill depot center. (Wait…no… that makes it sound like she was doing the diving when actually I was in the dumpster…Sigh. Go read that post, it makes more sense.)
The words hewn from my mind are forced into uncomfortable arrangements.
Sentences with broken backs and incomplete endings.
Things that dangle.
A worrisome focus on grammar and clean lines—syllabication truncated to succinctness.
When all I want to do is run through words like a child through a field of flowers.
Wild and untethered,
I would pluck the verbs that please me best and make of them a bouquet. Smell the deep earthiness of adjectives that bite the tongue when you speak them.
Crush the scented mint between lips full of prose.
Using adverbs sparingly so as not to overpower the taste.
Slowly.
Surely.
And with great pleasure.
Carefully measuring synonyms by the spoonful.
But harnessing words is tricky business.
Bringing them through the slip stream of consciousness and pinning them to the page is not unlike stabbing a butterfly after the ether withers them.
Do they become inert things no longer filled with life?
Pretty facsimiles of something that once breathed?
If words are not my playthings, then what toys do I have left?
How to describe what lurks in the folds of my mind?
If I cannot use them with abandon, are they orphaned?
Are they lost forever in a void of never-has-been-ness?
A not-being that sucks my soul into a black abyss.
Am I then become wordless?
I am driving back home Sunday, through a raging storm when the call comes over the radio:
“Beep Beep Beep…please be aware that a tornado watch is in effect for West Michigan counties from now until 8:00pm tonight.”
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a tornado–I’ve been lucky not to–but the minute you know it is a possibility, you start seeing potential tornados everywhere you look. They become tornados of the mind. This is one of those imaginary journeys…
I recently read a few other bloggers’ trials and tribulations in the kitchen–HERE and again HERE and this made me reflect on some of my worst disasters.
Please enjoy my retrospective and recollections of thymes past.
TheDustSeason 