Ann Shields on Letting Go

The Power Of Won't

Lately, my will power is as flabby as cooked spaghetti.  On the other hand, my won't power is alive and thriving.  Since there is no 12 step program for this problem, I am here to deal with it.

Take the discipline of exercise.  I love water aerobics, but haven't been there in  over 6 weeks.  How come?  Well, doctor's appointments, vertigo issues, and other reasons.   My husband, who is fond of quirky sayings, told me once that an excuse is a reason stuffed with a lie to get your own way.  Ponder that.

To my credit, I still go every Tuesday to the gym where my personal trainer keeps adding weights to machines where I hang from bars pulling my arms out of sockets while he smirks.  I vow to go other times on my own, but get distracted folding laundry as I check out Oprah's countdown finale.  Procrastinaating is first cousin to 'won' t power. My latest mantra.

Some left over resolutions have slipped into the 'won't' category after languishing in the 'didn't do' file.    But that's typical.  My gratitude journal is skipping days now and then and tons of photos are scattered among jpg files I vowed to organize like yesterday.

What about the three novels I never got published and planned to redo and publish online through Lulu or Blurb?  Not to mention other writing projects taking up space in my head.  About the space in my head, it gets cluttered with Breaking News disasters and tabloid junk like Arnie's cheating on Maria, which was a no brainer to begin with.  Isn't there some mental leaf blower to scatter distractions to the wind?   

 Will power used to be my best friend.   It got me through big and little fears from agoraphobia to flying.    Here's a few goals for life in the here and now.  I can do it.   I will.

Listen to music....write poetry;  be a 'hope' encourager; eat healthier; declutter..rid meaningless stuff ; higher tolerance for frustrations and disappointments; stay in the present; deepen my faith; remember that life is not how it should be, but how it is, so deal with it.  Memorize the serenity prayer.

So says Sassy

My Recent Trip

It was not a dark and stormy night, but it was dusk and starless.Preparing for my Everyday Italian class in a new location, I drove off in my trusty Toyota.  At the last minute I tossed into my purse my monthly calendar, medical insurance cards, flashlight and driver's license along with a copy of the daily meds Des and I take.  Not that I am OCD or anything.  Something told me to do it.

For some reason I couldn't get the dashboard lights to work.  I fiddled with the flashlight but it didn't work either and I drove in the dark.   The classroom wasn't where I expected it to be.  This is not a good week, I muttered silently.  My good friend and fellow writer, Jan Curran, died two days ago. Will write about that another time.  It hurts too much now.

After parking my car and heading up a gravelly path I found a group of ukelele players where my classroom should be.  They didn't speak Italian.  I didn't speak ukelele.  I said ciao and wanderd back down the path, crossed a small sidewalk towards lights in the distance and Kerplop!  I tripped over a sneaky curb and went end over end. 

No human in sight except for a retreating figure. I yelled.   She turned and rushed towards me.  My Italian teacher all shocked at my predicament, followed by a student who tried to comfort me.  Talk about serendipity.  Calm chaos prevailed. No one even said Mamma Mia.

Someone wheeled out a chair from a nearby classroom and I sat on it gingerly, as purple colors appeared on my arms and my left knee began to swell.  My teacher had to get to her classroom.  The good samaritan stuck by me while we made a flurry of cell phone calls.  First call to my house got the answering machine, followed by a friend's machine and  and finally to my son's home to be greeted with another answering machine.  At least his had cheery music.  I made the calls again and left messages this time.

At last, Des got the message. I gave him directions on how to find me and then wondered if I should pray to St. Anthony, my mother's favorite patron saint for finding lost things.  Well,  he actually found me, or maybe St. Anthony came through.  But not before the poor good samaritan chased his Saturn up and down the road waving frantically as he sailed past us.  He later said he wondered why this crazy girl was chasing him.

Meanwhile, daughter-in-law Barbara and grandson Andy pulled up and I was surrounded by family. A short mini conference made it clear that Des should go straight home, Barbara would drive my car to her house and Andy would take me to the ER.  Andy was a calm, steady presence while I fretted about broken hips and one way tickets to the proverbial nursing home.

The rest of the story is mundane.  The ER was efficient and promptly got me into a wheel chair and eventually took xrays of my hip and pelvic area, wrapped my swollen knee in an ACE bandage and blessedly pronounced no broken bones.  Andy drove me home to hungry cats and a worried husband.   David and Barbara brought my car home the next morning . I think the fine layer of padding cushioning my hips saved me from cracks and brake.  In fact, my sweet Dr. Murphy actually confirmed that fact on an office visit two days later.  So bring on the spaghetti, pizza on the side.

As for me, I feel like the luckiest girl on the planet, but we know it wasn't luck. Someone was watching over me.

So says Sassy

Disjointed Ramblings of a Sedated Mind

I lost my new book, "What's a (Dis)Organized Person To Do?" by Stacy Platt.  I stuck it somewhere, but desperate to find it so I can be this organized person.  Not that I ever was.  When I wrote an article about clutterers for a magazine, I attended a 12 Step program for Clutterer's Anonymous as a spy for my article.  I truly was anonymous, but I never got converted.

But that isn't whyI haven't blogged lately.  I need my doctor to cut my mildly anti-depressive pill in half.   I am much too calm and unexcitable.  I need to get fired up about this crazy world through my slanted, slightly ironic perspective.

Meanwhile, In my calm, meditative state, I did domething stupid.  My water aerobics pals AKA croc-o-dollies on dry land, had a tour of We/Olive shop in town and sampled tons of goodies.  Each of us were given a small paper cup of olive oil to hold in our left hand.  Then we were instructed to put the olive oil in our right hand and cup over it with our left hand.  Taking it literally, I poured the olive oil right into the palm of my hand.  Wrong!  Everyone around me cracked up, and I was handed a tissue to wipe up the oil sloshing in the palm of my hand.  Slightly embarrassed, I smoothed it over my arm like a skin softener, as if this was my intention all the while.  My pals promised not to tell anyone.  Yeah, right.  Better to hear if from me.

Speaking of stitches, did I mention that I sliced my thumb with the top of a tuna can while pampering my pets, namely Murphy and Mitzi.  Des, cozy in his jammies looked at the blood flowing, sighed,  and drove me to the Urgent Care Center near our house to get stitches at 9 p.m.  The nurse practioner on duty, stuck a needle the size of a saber full of lidocane into my thumb to numb the dumb thing.  Don't try this at home.

Rambling right along, it seems that everyone is on the move these days among family and friends.   Two grandsons moved, one onto the campus at Santa Cruz , California and another grandson in New York is sharing quarters with someone dear to his heart.  A third grandson moved back home temporarily,  but plans to tour the world someday.  A granddaughter and her baby moved from New York to Washington state.  A daughter moved from one end of Washington state to the other.  And on and on.

Meanwhile, we have the same address since 1977. My husband plans his next move to a cemetery plot in Ripley, New York.  Believe it or not, we have a gravesone already awaiting the grand arrival.

Which segues to what I label, The To Do List After I'm Gone.  ATheoretically, that means me.  Lately, Des has been giving advice after his hereafter.  I am not to get a dog, because I would have to walk it.  I should have a garden like the one we have now, producing scrumptious tomatoes. We both know this Chicago girl is not a farmer.  I considered reminding him that, should I outlast him nursing homes would forbid indoor gardens.  Not that I expect to be in one. I plan, instead, to stow awayv on  cruise ships.  Why else, would I be learning to speak Italian?  I feel more advice any day now.

So Says Sassy

Telephone Mania and Other Gadgets

I have a telephone in my bathroom.  Doesn'teveryone?   It really began with my attraction to gadgets.  When my computer guru, Randy, saw the box holding my six telephone headsets, he said, "you do like your toys."   He was laughing, of course, while my mind protested.  But he has my number, all of them.

In my defense, I could blame my daughter, Judith, for the six headsets.  When I was visiting her recently, we sauntered into her local Fryes because I needed a new phone system.

So hereI can really blame my husband, Des, who complained about the small sized numbers on his cordless phone in his home office.  Plus, our  stationery phone with the answering machine in the kitchen wasn't picking up phone message anymore.  Instead, some mysterious electronic troublemaker managed to get the messages switched to my home office phone.  It is our silent prowler, we blame for mysterious disappearances and quirky happenings in our home.

But I digress.  There we were in Fryes standing before rows of telephone answering machine set ups and I found the perfect one, with the stationery set plus  two handsets.  Ready to seal the deal, along came Judith with this huge box with the same brand name, everything cordless and 6 handsets.   You have to get this one, she urged. It cost just as much as the two set one did.   Such a deal.  She seemed so proud of herself, I had to buy it.   Besides, the numbers were much larger, better to see to dial,  I will tell Des later.

 Once back home, I stared at the box for a week, until I screwed up my courage and opened the darn thing.  There sat on my bed, all these handsets, separate stands, battery packs, manual and me.  The manual indicated that all the handsets had to be charged for at least 17 hours.  Our house looked like a way station for transmitters to Mars.  But I did it, all my myself.

Serendipitously speaking, Randy showed up to help me with a computer problem just about the time I was ready to unhook the old system and launch my new one.  Did that and voila, we are only left with where to put all the handsets.  Thus, one was left over and therefore, it is in the bathroom.  This only brings up one concern.

When you call our house, you will never know from which room we are answering your call.   It could be in the kitchen as I stir the sauce for spaghetti, or in the bedroom as we watch Mike Rowe sink into a manhole during his TV stint on Dirty Jobs.  Or it could be in the bathroom while answering another call.  You will never know, and we will never tell.

So says Sassy

Bus Bathroom Caper

I overcame many phobias over the years, but I just discovered  a new one.  Actually it came as no surprise because I admit to being a little edgy when I go into a public restroom and push that little silver slide over to lock me in.

But I reason myself out of it, sometimes noting how much space between the end of the door and the floor. Surely, I could squeeze under, after I skip Godiva chocolates for a month or two.   On the other hand, I could hoist myself over the top, and yell for help.  I mean when you can hear a delicately sprinkled tinkle you could hear a full throated Italian in panic mode.  Right?

With this minor tic under control, I manage public restrooms like a pro.  Even when all those internet warnings tell you how many germs you get just putting your purse on the floor, or how about nefarious persons in the next stall ready to reach under and grab your private possessions. No double entendre intended.

Okay, picture this.  Last Sunday a group of us are leaving the theater to hustle into the bus for the trip back home.  No one was to stop to use the facilities in the theater under pain of being left behind in the  big city on a Sunday night.  Of course, some scooted off to relieve themselves before boarding the bus anyway.

Not me, no sirree. I boarded the near empty bus, except for the driver up front and saw the restroom in the far back unoccupied.  The bus is grumbling, I teeter over to the little room, pull it open and enter.  Talk about small.  But, hey I am not claustrophic I remind myself.

All done, I gave a quick glance in the cloudy mirror and pushed the door.  It didn't budge. I pushed harder.  Then I made a fist and banged and yelled.  No sound from the other side.  The room is soundproof, at least from where I was.  I gathered my wits about me. 

What is the worst that can happen.  I'll go home alone in a air tight cubicle, kind of a roving coffin, if you can get morbid, which I am not.    If they count heads will they go looking for me?  I check out my cell phone.  I will call Donna, who is out there somewhere, probably using the theater restoom as we speak.  Not so fast.  The cell phone has a weak signal.  So have I, by now.

I sit down to think, deep breathing or was I hyperventilating?  What seemed like hours, really wasn't.   They finally pushed against the stubborn door. Itopened to a gathering crowd  looking at me with amused expressions.  Like, what is your problem, we have been yelling at you that help was on the way.  Well, gee, you could have fooled me.  Disgruntled and slightly embarrassed I find my way to my seat next to Donna who is laughing uproariously, like any good friend would under these circumstances.   

Thus endeth this tale of the lockup.  By the way, Cats the Musical was not all that great, except for the one and only memorable song, "Memories."  Boy do I have memories.

So says Sassy

Blogger's Block Cracked Open

I have been avoiding my blog for weeks.  Call it blogger's block.  I get focused on a topic and then get sidetracked.  Or I procrastinate due to life insertions.  Like doctor visits and a new computer and college graduations and dentist stuff. 

Inspiration struck me to blog on the first weekend in June when the anniversary of DDay captured our attention.  We watched the three hour documentary on the History Channel of the Battle of the Bulge and right in the middle Des spotted his brother, Ep, who was killed in Belguim but first wounded on Omaha Beach on DDay.  We froze the frame, played it back and forth, and then I photographed it with my digital camera.

That documentary swept our memory  back to our visit to Ep's memorial in Belguim in 1994 where we walked the road he traveled in the little town of Soy along side the man who found his skeletal frame under dirt in his father's field.  Ep, as you may have heard from us before, was buried under a German tank and wasn't discovered for four years, after the war ended.  It was a chilling, somber walk on that same country road.   We felt it again as we viewed the documentary.    Des is certain it was Ep.  He sure had a sweet smile.  Much like his younger brother's, I think.

Nostalgia captured my attention during the June 14th graduation ceremonies at UCSB of our grandson, Matt Weber.  I remember sitting in that audience when his mother Judith graduated from there.  So did his father, Joe.    Sat there again not that long ago to see granddaughter Suzanne graduated there, as well as her boyfriend Ryan, now her husband.

The day of the graduation was remarkable especially after the ceremony while sitting in an Italian restaurant on State Street in Santa Barbara with 18 others including great grandson Lucas to realize that I was surrounded by all of my immediate family, minus one.  Des wasn't up to the challenge of the day physically and I missed his presence, but it was a joy to be amonag the rest of my kids, grandkids, their mates and Lucas.  I really meant to write about that.

 Every third week of June for 18 years, I drove up highway 101 to settle in at the blue tile roof of the Miramar where I spent a week at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference. I learned more about writing and people and how the rich and famous and not so famous are more like the rest of us than we ever imagined.  I loved that conference, missed it after I quit going.  The excitement in those weeks was palpable.  The conference meets somewhere else now.  The Miramar is  history and just as well.  The place held secrets  dying to come out.  I could write forever about those weeks.  Don't tempt me.

So, now you know why I haven't blogged for a few weeks, but I think the blocked is cracked open.  This has been a heavy weekend with Michael and Farah and Ed  dying.   Sad for so many  But what luck for that  governor in South Carolina who defected like some idiot schoolboy for the sake of lust/love/insanity to have his folly erased from the headlines by the untimely death of a world icon.

So says Sassy

Confessions

2009 is barely a day old and began ominously.  We have not mailed our annual Christmas greeting to friends and family dispersed all over the map.  I can see them spread out on the dining room table, not the friends, silly--the greetings.  There is the letter, reproduced at Kinko's, a bunch of envelopes already hand-addressed.  Forever stamps at the ready.  Discipline at a level one.  Now I am guilt ridden.  Des is half way there, but he is too busy eating a piece of blueberry cream cheese pie from Marie Callendar's.  This after his lengthy nap.  He has no shame, nor guilt.  But, I am Italian, remember. Guilt is my middle name

Every other year, we have been praised for our Christmas greetings.  The pressure was too great to bear this year.  I decided I lost my cleverness.    What I wrote was boring, but I did include a picture of us.  By the time you get it, we will have aged considerable. I am the one with the most hair. 

So why am I guilt ridden?  Well, I worry about all the people who expected a letter from us and now are convinced we have joined that celestial choir in the sky, or we would sure have written.  And speaking of that celestial choir, that is the only time I will ever be allowed to sing in one.  Trust me, this voice is not melodious.  My mother convinced me of that when I was a little girl trying to sing like Shirley Temple.  My mother would sigh, look at me and say, "Ann Marie, quit moaning."  Obviously, my mother escaped the guilt gene.

This morning, we vowed to mail out the letters before dark.  Easy to resolve while all tucked under a warm blanket watching the Rose Parade.  Resolutions weakened from that point on.  The day got frittered away and we never left the house. 

I didn't even list any new resolutions for 2009.  Just Hit the rerun button on all the other WWW's.  Walk-Water-Write-Worship-Wonder---in no particular order, lest you think my spirituality needs a tune-up.

During the fritter part of the day, I decided to abandon a 500 page novel after plodding through 71 pages.  "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski was an Oprah choiece about a mute boy who understood dogs better than people.  How dare I be bored by an Oprah choice, you may wonder?  Well, I did feel guilty about it, so I picked up a book of short stories by Elizabeth Berg and it soothed away my guilt.  I understand her. I want to be her.  That is my test of a good writer, one I envy.

At mid-day, Des wandered into the living room and I pointed to the Christmas greetings.  He sighed, sat down, tried to fold and stuff a few into envelopes and begged off.  Needed a nap.  See, the letter even bored him.  So off he went, followed by Murphy, the Irish cat who needed a nap,too.  The other cat, Mitzi, had already settled in my favorite chair and yawned. 

The beginning of the year was a lazy stretch and now it is too late to mail anything.  Darkness has descended.  If you are on our mailing list for Christmas greetings, rest assured that we are still alive, appreciative of the letters we received this month from all of you, and plan to send ours out any day now.  If you receive it after Valentine's Day, consider it an early greeting for next December.

So Says Sassy