The Longest Month

Yeesh!  Is it just me or is January the longest month EVER?  Think about it.  Christmas was a month ago already (seems longer, right?) and there's still practically one full week yet to go.  UGH! 

 

I don't know what it is.  There are five other months with 31 days and, apart from February, all the others have 30 – basically the same amount of time – so, why is it that January seems interminable? 

 

One theory may be that not much goes on in January.  Most people are busy throughout the summer and that only increases in the fall.  For me, fall is the busiest season.  It all starts with my birthday, which is often followed by trips to Disney, then it's the Fall Festival, family birthdays in November, Thanksgiving, prepping for Christmas, Christmas, New Year's… Oy, I'm tired just thinking of it all, but I think that's a big part of it.  Life's a nonstop whirlwind for about six months and then BAM – nothing.  I suppose it's a time to rest and recoup. 

 

There was a time when the only entries on my January calendar were my father's birthday and my sister Sharon's.  Well, my father, sister and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., of course.  But over the years other celebrants have joined them really filling up the page:  A step-brother was added, a work friend joined the group, my pinkie-twisting adorable nephew G got on board 11 years ago, then the aforementioned step-brother began having children of his own and both his son and daughter were added.  Not that he's on my calendar, but let's not forget the other king who was born in January – that'd be Elvis, thank you very much.  All these January birthdays make me think that April showers bring a lot more than May flowers… well, what else are people supposed to do on rainy days?   

 

One other reason January seems so long, at least to me, is that of all the months, it has the least favorable weather – maybe that's why it's National Soup Month.  Makes sense, right?  I actually eat soup most often during the month of January – just doing my patriotic part, I guess.  But seriously, even here, the weather is cold; especially this year – what a cold snap we had mid-month… BRR.  Of course I don't really dress appropriately, either.  Perhaps if I wore a coat once in a while, I wouldn't be so cold. Coats are so bulky though, am I right?  I know, I know!  You can lead a horse to water…

 

The other thing that puts me off January is the darkness of it – granted, the days are getting slightly longer, but still.  For most of the month, it is pitch black out at 7:00 am.  In the summer by 7, I've been up for a couple of hours, but now – uh, it's an effort to get up and at 'em while it's still dark.  It's unnatural.  When I leave for my morning hikes, the moon is still out for heaven's sake.  I prefer to rise with the sun.  I feel for hibernating bears everywhere who may be woken before their time. 

 

In spite of how it feels, though, I know it won't last forever – nothing does. 

 

~ M. (332 days 'til Christmas!)

 

Cue R.E.M. No, wait...

Well, uneventfully, 12/21/12 has come and gone.  Is anyone surprised?

 

R.E.M. wrote "It's The End of the World" back in 1987 and it's enjoyed quite a bit of air play over the years.  Apart from the first few lines and the chorus, I have no idea what they're saying – well, the first few lines, the chorus and that part in the middle when they belt out Leonard Bernstein.  Does anyone know anything other than those parts?  Does it matter?  I don't think so.  We all know what the song is about:  The end of the world.  Whether it's the real end, or just the end as we know it – which would be the end of our own little worlds – it's still the end.  For some curious reason, this is a topic that interests a lot of people to no end.

 

Since the beginning, there's been no shortage of prophesiers, seers and soothsayers prognosticating the world's demise.  Me, I don't understand the obsession.  They (unidentified all-knowing group of the wise) say that most people don't like to think about death – especially their own.  It's why so many are caught ill-prepared when death comes unexpectedly.  There are no plans made for what to do with the bodies: donate, cremate, inter; no arrangements made for those left behind; no instructions on assets.  It's crazy.  People live like they're not going to die.  Newsflash: You are.  Denial is the oft-cited reason for the general aversion to death. 

 

I don't mind talking about when I'm no longer going to be around.  I don't know why, really, it just doesn't bother me.  One day while taking a walk with my niece and nephew, this otherwise morbid topic arose and Griffin asked me how I wanted to die.  Odd, right?  He's 10.  I have to admit, for a moment I wondered if I crossed him somehow, so I asked, "Why? What are you planning?"  He didn't understand my question – of course he wasn't planning anything.  "Well," I said, "I guess I'd like to go peacefully in my sleep."  Taking in my response, he looked up at me and said, "Why like that?"  I looked to Olivia and asked, "What's with this kid?"  After her shoulder shrug I turned my attention back to G.  I had a follow up question of my own.  "How would you like me to go?  Car crash?  Debilitating disease? What?"  He looked mortified.  "I don't want you to go," he said, "I was just wondering how you wanted to go." Again, he's 10.  In an effort to explain the appeal of dying in one's sleep, I decided to wrap up the conversation with a quote from Woody Allen: "It's not that I'm afraid to die.  I just don't want to be there when it happens."  Ahh, the Woodman.

 

I think most people feel this way, which is why I don't understand the fascination with the end of the world.  Do you know that the End Times is a multi-billion dollar industry?  The mere thought of the end of our world saddens me.  My own death I'm okay with, but the destruction of the world?  I think of the simplest things – a flower blooming (usually a crocus), a little bird sitting on a tiny branch – and I just can't imagine them coming to an end.  I do not want the earth to dissolve like snow. 

 

What's most surprising is that although many focus on the end of the world, they don't live their lives as if time was short – and that's real, that's a fact.  Each of us has a limited time here and at some point, our time will come to an end.  We don't need Nostradamus, Harold Camping or even the Mayan calendar to tell us that. 

 

What would you do differently if you really knew when your time was going to be up?  And more importantly, why aren't you doing it now? 

 

Christmas is in just two days.  Jesus was born to be the hope of the world – remember, he doesn't even know when the end will be – and it's because of him, I feel fine! 

 

Merry Christmas,

 

~ M.

 

Rest Easy

Have you ever noticed how the more things change the more they stay the same?  If our recent election didn't make that glaringly apparent nothing will.  So, after all the hubbub, hoopla and ballyhoo, we're right back where we've been – a country divided.  I don't know about you, but I've succumbed to the fact that much of life is beyond my control.  And, I'm reminded of a quote I once read by Leonardo da Vinci that supports this:  "You can never have a greater or lesser dominion than that over yourself."

 

So what do I do with this realization?  Well, try and live my life to best of my ability – making a contribution, adding some value and enjoying the simple things.  Acclaimed apologist Ravi Zacharias once pointed out (I'm paraphrasing) that most of us are only two generations away from being irrelevant.  Think about that for a moment.  It's true.  How much do you really know about your own family's history beyond that of your grandparents?  See?  So why get worked up about things beyond our control?

 

There's a back-and-forth, ebb-and-flow, up-and-down swing to life that seems to explain why, as I just mentioned, as things change, they seem to stay the same.  For whatever reason, this makes me think of a park bench.  Yes, a park bench.  I can see this bench with its wooden slats supported by a concrete understructure – the slats are painted turquoise and are peeling, slightly.  It sits in an idyllic setting – it's a park bench, after all.  The strange thing about this bench is, when I picture it in my mind, I see all sorts of seasons and life stages as if fragmented by a kaleidoscope.

 

I picture a new mother taking a break on it, gently rocking her baby's stroller.  I can see a bunch of tweener boys hanging all over it while reliving the big game.  And I can imagine an old man sitting on it, alone with his thoughts, feeding the birds. 

 

The bench gets to partake in all aspects of life, but I think its favorite would be supporting two lovers who sit together so engrossed in each other that they are unaware of the world around them.  There they plan their future – the bench knows what's in store – it's seen it all.  Trees bloom overhead providing lush shade, then autumn comes along and those leaves fall, exposing the bench to the harsh, yet temporary, condition of winter until spring reignites the never-ending cycle.  The seasons of life are just like these.

 

It reminds me of an automobile commercial I saw recently.  I don't know what vehicle was being promoted – an SUV of some sort – but in it a young man pulls up to a cabin, jumps out and is quickly followed by his Labrador type puppy who hops out of the passenger seat.  In the next scene, he pulls up to the cabin with his girlfriend; they pop out of the front seat and man's best friend – no longer a puppy now – jumps out of the back seat.  The closing scene has them pulling up to the cabin – this time a baby is in the back seat – and the dog, mature in years, is in the rear.  With whiskers gray and moving a little more slowly, he eases out the back and lopes to the cabin with his family. 

 

I guess the message is that the car is reliable enough to take them through all of life's stages.  It reminds me of my bench.  The aging dog is an obvious marking of the passage of time – it goes by so fast – and his placement in the vehicle marks life stages.  It's a good visual for how although things change, they stay the same.  I guess this is because the cycles stay the same but we're a little different as we go through them.  It's over time that you begin to see the sameness of those cycles – I guess that's why (if we're lucky) we get wiser as we get older.

 

I think this is what the old man contemplates as he feeds the birds.  He reflects, knowing one shouldn't waste time and energy on things beyond our control, we should be grateful for all the simple things – the non-tangibles – that's what makes life rich.  We should sit back, rest easy and try to enjoy the ride.

 

With thanksgiving,

~ M.     

 

October

October is my favorite month of the year.  I was born in October so it's probably not that unusual that I would prefer this month over all the others.  In many ways, it sort of parallels the great chicken-egg debate.  I believe, without a doubt, that the chicken came before the egg and, as such, I'm pretty sure I favor October simply because that's when I was born.  My birthday aside, October is still a pretty cool month. 

 

First off, did you ever wonder why October – which is the 10^th month – starts off, by name, with a prefix meaning eight?  That little incongruity with what's expected – a slight break in the norm – is just one little thing that I like about this month.  For those now curious about this odd quirk, it has something to do with the early Roman calendar. 

 

As many know, much of October is astrologically Libra – another chicken-egg favorite of mine.  I'm not really into the zodiac thing (breathe, Laura, breathe), but I have to say there's no other sign I'd rather be.  Libras are known to be doers rather than thinkers – that's me; if something needs to be done, I'll get it done.  I was once described as task oriented, and I wouldn't disagree; I don't think that's a bad thing.  How many successful procrastinators do you know?  Libras are also known to exercise diplomacy, good manners and self-control; generally good-natured, we're loving and fair.  I think these are all great attributes – who wouldn't want to be a Libra?  I know what you're thinking:  I guess humble wasn't on the list. You're right, it wasn't; in fact, being a little narcissistic is apparently a flaw some Libras have.  I'm not narcissistic, but I am proud of the positive aspects of my sign. 

 

Getting away from the personal relate-ability of the month, some notable things that set October apart from its eleven siblings are its celebratory days.  There's Columbus Day – the national holiday that recognizes the birth of that Spanish navigator who travelled so long ago, thankfully without the aid of a GPS, to discover the New World. 

 

Of course, there's National Boss Day on the 16^th (and John Murphy's birthday – some things you just don't forget).  Don't you wonder who came up with National Boss Day?  These superiors get our respect and subordination all year long – do they really need special greeting cards and token gifts, too?  What sycophant at Hallmark came up with this one? 

 

For sports enthusiasts, October is World Series month – plaaaaaay ball!  Our Canadian friends celebrate their Thanksgiving in October (it's probably too c-c-c-cold in November… brr… go C-C-Canucks!)  And, of course, Halloween caps off the month – spooky fun.

 

There is just something about October and the fall, in general, that I love.  The weather is a little cooler (that's a very big deal out here), the air is crisp and the sticky sweat of monsoon humidity is a thing of the past.  The fall invites a warm homey feeling (as in Norman Rockwell homey, not homeslice homey) – and it all begins in October.  Oh, and let's not forget Oktoberfests – nothing typifies fall like grown men in Lederhosen swaying to the rhythmic beat of an oom-pah accordion while holding a froth filled stein – it's wundebar!

 

The only drawback to October – if I had to pick one – is that it's a precursor to winter (my least favorite season).  But let's face it, if not for the chilly winter, there wouldn't be so many October babies.  According to famousbirthdays.com, here are just some of the famous folks born in October:  Julie Andrews, Sting, Kate Winslet (hmm, all Brits so far – weird), Tony Shalhoub, Brett Favre and Matt Damon (Bourne on the 8^th, like me), Paul Simon, Elisabeth Shue and Moore – Roger Moore.  Also Penny Marshall, Angela Landsbury (meat pies anyone?) and George "Norm" Wendt.  Holy Crap, Peter Boyle is on the list, as is John Lithgow, Carrie Fisher, Kevin Kline, Katy Perry, Helen Reddy and now for someone completely different – John Cleese.  Henry Winkler was born in October, too – Aaaaeeeyyy, that's cool! 

 

The above is just a partial sampling – the website list was huge.  And here's something else you may not know.  More American Presidents were born in the month of October than any other month.  This list includes John Adams, Rutherford B. Hayes, Chester Arthur (be honest, right now you're saying, "Chester Arthur?"  Okay, maybe you weren't, but fully exposing my ignorance, I was.) Theodore Roosevelt, Dwight D. Eisenhower and Jimmy Carter (I know, Mr. Peanut Farmer is like the one thing that's not like the others.)

 

And just in case you're not yet convinced that October is the best month of all, allow me to help seal the deal.  October is National Cookie Month – COOKIE month! 

 

When talking about October – using the immortal epithet of Teddy Roosevelt – I say Bully!

 

~ M.

 

 

The Jig Is Up!

I'm no renegade – poor grammar aside – that's the truth.  I ain-no-wren-a-gae.  I'm sorry.  I saw Nell again recently and keep on doing that.  Chic-a-pie, tay-in-a-win. 

 

Back to me not being a renegade.  I couldn't be further from that, in fact, my life could bore a monk.  I think I've said that before… everything is beginning to sound familiar to me, but then again, why wouldn't it?  This is my life and these are my thoughts – they should be ringing a bell, right?

 

Okay, what are we talking about so far? Anybody? Anybody? If you're thinking renegades, monks and bell ringers, you're wrong; although, if I keep up this new habit, I'll be looking like Quasimodo in no time at all.  As the Disney version of this cathedral bell-ringer pops into my head, let me just say the parallel I'm drawing has nothing to do with his toothy grin, but everything to do with his hump.  What hump?   Let me dispense with the movie tidbits.

 

Back to the habit.  You know what's funny about habits?  It's that you never know when one is going to start.  You do something once and all of a sudden it's part of you. Of course drug lords understand this all too well.  That's why it's important to Just Say No.  Let me digress for a moment – I know what you're thinking.  Did you even start telling us the story yet?  Just sit tight, I'll get to it. 

 

When I reiterate Nancy Reagan's slogan, I don't do it as someone who lived a life that would bore a monk – that's my life now, not then – but here's my point (yes, I have one).  When someone first starts smoking, their body violently rejects the toxins; they cough, choke and gag through several cigarettes before they become accustomed to it.  Same with alcohol.  A shot of hard liquor burns the throat and takes the breath away.  Several shots – or a case of beer, whatever – can cause convulsive vomiting which is usually accompanied by pleas to the Lord and almost always followed by a headache so severe you can't lift up your own head.  Most forget their vow to never drink again as soon as they regain the ability to balance their noggin.    

 

Here's my point.  Yes!  I told you I have one.  People force themselves and their bodies into these bad habits.  When was the last time you saw someone go through this physical anguish for something that was actually good for them, like, say, Brussels sprouts?  It's just not done.  Maybe because Brussels sprouts lack the 'cool' factor – I don't know.  The thing is cigarettes, booze and drugs are not cool.  Young people have been duped.  Get them while they're young…  

 

Back to my quickly formed habit.  It all started a few short weeks ago.  My nephew was staying over and we had plans to go to a park that has Go-Karts, Mini-Golf and other fun outdoorsy type things, but a monsoon storm was predicted, so just to be prepared, I bought a 500-piece jigsaw puzzle that we could work on together in the event we got rained out.  We didn't.  Plan A went off without a hitch. 

 

The next morning, over coffee, I decided to separate the straight-edged pieces from the others so that when Griffin got up, he could start the puzzle.  He decided to work on some old 100-piece favorites, however, so I started the new puzzle – and my new habit, as it turned out.

 

One doesn't do a 500-piece jigsaw puzzle in one sitting.  What was I going to do now?  I had the perimeter done and few miscellaneous chucks.  I certainly couldn't leave everything on my kitchen island, but I didn't want my efforts to be for naught, so we went to Target and bought a little card table.  G helped me transfer the pieces of the partially complete 500-piece ice cream cone to the table and then we moved the table into my guest bedroom. 

 

Several puzzles later – 500, 750 and even 1,000 pieces – I feel I need to break this habit.  Don't get me wrong.  It's not hurting anybody.  It's just that the other day I was in there – the A/C blows very cold in that room – and as I was hunched over the table, scouring the pieces, I shivered then thought to myself that something over my shoulders to take away the chill would be nice.  As that thought occurred to me I sat straight up.  A shawl?  Is that what I was picturing – a shawl?  I am not 87-years old.  Enough with the puzzles, I thought; plus, I need to get my guest room back. 

 

Once I finish the current puzzle I'm working on, that is it – I'm quitting.  I do worry, though, isn't that what all the addicts say?  Just this last one…

 

~ M.

 

American Idol

A-hem.  Mi-mi-mi… do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do… la la la… ♪

 

As anyone who has ever had the misfortune of standing next to me during a celebratory round of "Happy Birthday" can tell you, I can't sing.  I should be more specific.  Of course I can sing, everyone can sing – it's like Neil Diamond once said, "even frogs can sing" – I just can't carry a tune.  And unfortunately for those around me, I can't even tell when I'm out of tune.  Truth be told, in my head, it actually sounds pretty good.  But I know it's not.  I've been set straight on this more than once.

 

The first time this… let's call it… flaw of mine was brought to my attention I was nine years old.  To make it a little more dramatic I should say only nine.  I tried out for the 4^th Grade Kids' Choir and didn't make it.  Doesn't everyone make it when you're in the single digit years?  Nope.  Okay, so I wasn't good enough for a choir.

 

Then, sometime in what were probably my tweener years, at church one Sunday, during worship, my mom leaned toward me and whispered, with a gentle pat on my shoulder, "Not so loud, Honey."  Whaa?  In my defense, hymns are tough, aren't they?

 

In my senior year of high school, I was cast in our production of The Roar of the Greasepaint – The Smell of the Crowd.  A musical.  You're probably thinking, "How can this be?  You said you can't sing."  Well, let me tell you.  Evidently, being a senior carried a little more clout than being in 4^th grade.  Also, I was only in the chorus.  For the most part I kept my voice low; but, since I was a senior, I was given one line in an ensemble number that I had to belt out.  One line.  One.  How hard could it be?  After weeks of rehearsal Miss DeGeorge gave up on me and simply said, "If you can't sing well, sing loud."  Okay, I could do that.  (Side note:  I don't subscribe to this anymore.  Now I say, if you can't sing well, lip-sync.)  There were people in the back row wincing as I informed them that "Blue is the color of the sky in summertime."  Some student even took out a booster in our Senior Farewell paper just to say I, and let me quote it, "couldn't carry a tune if it was put in a bucket." Nice, huh?  Well you know what they say – truth hurts.

 

So here's the deal.  I don't really sing in front of other people.  I don't want to be responsible for making anyone's ears bleed.  My poor little cat Izzie, when she was alive, was always an indicator when I'd go out of key.  I'd be singing my heart out while listening to music and whenever I went off key, she'd peg her little ears back and meow.  I'd stop, of course, look at her with a raised brow and ask, "Bad?"  She wouldn't respond but I knew the answer.     

 

All these incidents bring to mind an audition episode of American Idol that I saw years ago.  I don't watch this show, but I was visiting my folks one night who do.  In this particular episode one contestant proudly (I dare say she was beaming – didn't seem nervous at all) sang her song.  All the while I was thinking to myself that she wasn't very good, but what do I know.  As the cameras panned over to the judges, their expressions were hard to read.  They looked… stunned, maybe.  I turned to my parents and asked, "She wasn't any good, was she?" to which they responded, "Good Lord, no, she's awful.  Simon's going to destroy this one," they added.  He didn't. 

 

He was slow to speak at first, his words measured as he asked her if she ever sang in front of anyone before.  When she told him that she sang in front of her family all the time, he seemed to take a beat as he grasped the weight of her response.  "Really," he said, "and what do they say about your singing?"  When she told him they say she sings great and encouraged her to audition, he simply corrected her and said – I'm paraphrasing – "You're not great.  In fact, you're terrible.  I don't know why they'd tell you to come here."  He was not malicious.  He seemed genuinely addled. 

 

This girl ran out of the room crying – no, wait, sobbing.  Her mother, wiping away her tears, said Simon didn't know what he was talking about, she was a wonderful singer.  I looked to my mother (the non-sugar-coating variety) and asked, "Why would that woman do that?"  The girl clearly could not sing – even tone-deaf me realized that.  I think it's just another example of the participation-trophy, fragile-esteem-boosting philosophy that is ruining our children.

 

So what's all this leading to?  Well, I've been confronted recently by a similar version of this American Idol wannabe.  This version obviously hasn't ever come across a strict choir leader, or a matter-of-fact candid mother or even a hurtful anonymous booster writer to alert her to her lack of ability.  No, this one is pretty much just like the auditioning chanteuse who's lied to by her family.  There is a young girl who sits behind me in church who is so off key that I can actually hear how bad it is – it's like a pinprick to the ears.  I feel like Izzie as this girl screeches out the lyrics.  She sings (using the word loosely) above the whole congregation, her voice scratchy and cracking as she yells out the words.  I'm not kidding.  There are times when she is literally yelling. 

 

Our worship team plays contemporary Christian songs – these aren't traditional organ-accompanied hymns.  The music is modern and fairly loud which, of course, I like.  I sit in the front row and can sing moderately without anyone hearing me (read: without offending anyone).  This child has made me, decades later, finally appreciate my mother's words of counsel (Not so loud, Honey). I wish her mother would say something. This one even sings along when someone in the worship team is singing a solo – a solo!  By definition, there should be just one.  I don't know why her parents don't intervene or enroll her in voice lessons – something.  And I don't mean to judge – we're kindred spirits in a sense – but it's very distracting.

 

Modern day, over-the-top, sensitive esteem issues aside, someone could explain to this girl that even the angels in heaven sing together, as one – they do not yell, they blend.  I'm sure some aren't even singing, I mean, some should be playing harps, right?

 

~ M.

 

Scottsdale Summertime Sizzle

All over the country

The summer’s long since begun

Everybody’s engaged

Having fun in the sun

But it’s different for us

Our summer’s extreme

We hide from the rays

Of the sun’s scorching beam

The snowbirds can’t take it

They leave during May

As the mercury rises

The heat sends them away

The sun rises early

Triple digits – the norm

Out in the desert

It’s exceptionally warm

“But it’s a dry heat,” you’ll hear

Don’t believe that big lie

During monsoon

Our humidity’s high

I’ve often wondered

With our intense heat

If we actually could

Fry an egg on the street

It wouldn’t surprise me

Things here get quite hot

Like the inside of your car

When parked out in a lot

Metal will burn you

Watch that seatbelt

If you leave something inside

It will definitely melt

Do not clasp the wheel

Or your skin you will sear

Guide with your pinkies

That’s how we steer

And when watering plants

Everyone knows

The water is hot

When it comes from the hose

Speaking of water

Go nowhere without it

Or risk dehydration

There’s no doubt about it

The desert is rugged

A brutal place to be

If not for the comfort

Of good ol’ A/C

All around town

Thermostats are set low

So you must bring a sweater

Wherever you go

This is no joke

I’m certainly not teasing

I tell you the truth

Places are freezing

To combat the heat

It’s what we must do

Until fall comes our way

And summer is through

When the rest of the country

Heads back inside

We’ll pay no attention

We’re staying outside

Most of the year

Our weather’s quite lovely

And really there’s no place

That I’d rather be

Sweatin’ it out – for now,

 ~ M.