Spiders And Bug Spray And Coworkers..Oh My!

Warning: This post is about the spawn of Satan. It is about evil incarnate.  Just accept it.

Last week, my close to ideal working conditions took a concerning twist.

One of my coworkers found a large spider under his desk. It freaked me out, but I was able to maintain a modicum of composure.  I use the word “modicum” advisedly. Secretly, I was ready to run for higher ground. But due to imminent teasing from fellow employees, I sucked it up.  Sort of.  They all got a pretty clear picture that spiders are the proverbial chink in my otherwise rock-solid armor.

I’ve written concerning my paralyzing fear of these vile creatures before, but my history with them is ongoing, and thus post-worthy. Or not. Either way the writing does me good.

The offending arachnid was disposed of and I was at peace for the moment.  But only after I’d moved my personal belongings off the floor and checked my own workspace. I told myself it was a glitch, a hole in the wall of the corner office. I was safe from eight-legged intruders.

Today, ugh. Hanging out, waiting for pizza, and another coworker, one who works a scant ten feet from my desk, comes out of his office bearing a small box containing a spider larger than the last one. This one was big enough to produce its own weather system. It was black, gnarly, and repulsive.

To his credit and my chagrin, he took the box outside and freed said arachnid. It was still in the world. Did he put it on my car? Would it show up with friends later? Karma be damned. Kill the thing and kill it good.

During the melee, I stood at the ready with a can of bug spray and turned into a facsimile of myself, only with less control.  My heart raced, nostrils flared, and I threatened poison to the face of anyone who dared approach me with the box. They laughed, they thought it was funny. I was in survival mode.

The short story? My fate is sealed. I’ve now divulged my greatest fear to snarcastic fellow employees looking to see me squirm, and perform like I did today–out of reckless fear.

My pleas for fumigation fell on a boss’s deaf ears. After all, he’s from Texas where they grow BIG spiders.. not the relatively wee one we found here.

Here’s what I’ll do: Be aware of my surroundings, be ready to spray poison, and be thankful they’re not scorpions–the only thing I can think of worse than spiders. Rodents? Bring ‘em on. Roaches? Pshhh. Even tiny spiders I can dispose of on my own.

The big ones can burn in hell, which, I suppose, is where they came from in the first place.

Meanwhile, my watch is vigilant, the spray can at my side, and I’m practicing how to be cool.

Gahhh. I’m a dead woman.

Love Me Some R&B

You know the feeling you get when you wake up after a dream–a dream about someone?  Maybe it’s someone you’d never dream about on purpose, but, well.. there they were.. and now, you have that fuzzy, goofy, anything’s possible sensation?

That’s how really good rhythm and blues makes me feel–goofy.  I’m not sure why, and don’t really care.  It’s just the way it is.

Give me some Four Tops, Isley Brothers, and Temptations.  Throw in the O’ Jays, Dramatics, Tower of Power, and top it off with some Blood, Sweat and Tears. OK.. pile on Earth, Wind and Fire while you’re at it. I keep thinking of others to add to the list.  It all gets me silly and I play my favorites until the CD dissolves into vapor.

I’ve discovered common components in the R&B that gets my nod.  The vocals have a gritty quality.. like the singer’s been chewing on sandpaper, or just recovered from strep throat.  I’ve gotta have brass/ and or and strings.  A good bass line doesn’t hurt.  Choreography like the Temptations mastered sweetens the deal–it’s an art form.

And.. this is very important.. R&B has to be cranked.  LOUD.  I have to hear every nuance. This is why MP3 players with headsets don’t work well for this kind of music.  I’ve got to feel it.. not just hear it.  It has to surround me.  Becoming one with the music gets real and I can do anything. Wow.

I realize the evangelical nature of this post. It’s just one woman’s way of being in the world.. and it works for me.  Music can challenge my senses.. it invites me to a higher (or lower) road. It is a little like a drug.  And R&B is not the only genre I love.. but boy howdy, it sure is way up there.

(SLH — I know you loved you some R&B, too.  Groove on in the stars above me.)

Just finished writing this to “Ain’t No Woman Like The One I Got” by The Four Tops.

Oy. Bring on the goofy.

Channeling My Domestic Goddess

She’s in there, and speaks to me often. But I’m usually too busy coming up with lame excuses to pay attention to her.

Last Saturday, though, in a fit of uncharacteristic domesticity, I listened.  What prompted this?  Friends who’d stayed with me for a week used the refrigerator as a depository for canned dog food for their beloved Dachshund. I do not tolerate canned pet food of any kind in my home. It’s a personal policy. Just accept it.

By the time I’d figured out the vile substance was not only being stored in the fridge, but dispensed with silverware we use for eating, I was speechless. Besides, I like these people and wanted them to feel comfortable at my place. I said nothing.

However, after they left, I was compelled to reclaim my territory by sterilizing everything that might have touched the dog food.

It’s OK. The fridge needed it anyway. Big time. A fish stick lodged in one of those hard to reach places had been there since the early years of the Bush administration. It was literally time to take out the trash.

And there was a lot of it:  A bottle of steak sauce from 2004 and several items that had expired in 2006. Also, I found some cat hair. What? I don’t think my cat’s been in the refrigerator, but I suppose I can’t be sure.

In addition to these items of note, there’s a coconut I’ve kept in the refrigerator for 31 years. This is not a joke. It’s an actual, whole coconut with a history in our family and it’s doing just fine, thank you very much.  The children even ask about it occasionally. I brushed off the grime and put it back in the crisper.

This time I vowed I wouldn’t employ my traditional Suzy Homemaker “no fridge booger left behind” policy.  I’ve already earned that merit badge several times over.  Nope. This time it would be a quick in and out.. cleaning like mad and no worries about stray crumbs. Just get in there and get it done.

I now need sunglasses when I open the refrigerator door. It’s snowy white, tidy and fragrant, but more importantly, it’s dog food free.

So is all the silverware, which I ran through the dishwasher–twice.  The kitchen hand towels and dishcloths were also properly sanitized.

Call me obsessive-compulsive or just plain weird. I don’t care. What I know for sure is when the stakes are high, the goddess comes screaming through.

Livin’ The Dream

My friend Dave is making it work. He talked about it for a long time, figured out his niche, scraped like mad, and then it happened–His first movie trailer.

Karen’s family left the nest. She worried about money and what would come next. I asked her what she wanted to do. “Um, maybe get an office job.” No, really, I said. If you could do anything, what would it be? The words tumbled out even while she tried to contain them: “I want my own dance studio. I want to teach dance.” I saw the spark in her eyes and felt the fever in her voice. Next thing I knew, she’d remodeled her basement and had 30 young dance students.

A single, 30-year-old mother of one spent years working in a job only marginally satisfying that allowed her to pay the bills. In the meantime she composed music, experimented with a huge variety of instruments, bought a laptop and started mixing her own tracks. She’s already put out one CD on her own, is working on her second, and is now registering for college to expand her considerable talents into parts unknown but suspected. All while working at her day job.

Hmmm. These are all people I know. In some ways, they’re much like me. Yet, they landed on something I haven’t. They figured it out. They decided on the best thing that could ever happen, and pursued it. Really. They’re living the dream.

I’ve been reading about cognitive dissonance. Longer ago than I care to remember, during a time of intense personal ickyness, a friend gave me a book on the subject. I read 11 pages. But I got the drift and ever since then, the idea stuck with me. I think it’s lodged in my brain for a reason–I need to understand it, remember it and how it relates to me. Because, truthfully, I keep pushing up against it rather than just riding the wave into greater purpose.

Believing one thing about myself while acting out the opposite is bogus. The resulting discomfort rages and time’s a wastin’. I love what I work at and suspect it’s lifting me to a higher place. But I know there’s more to discover.

Success stories inspire, but unless my uneasiness provokes action, it’s all they do.

The rub? Still figuring out the dream.. but the good news is, I’m getting closer.

Childhood Lost

Oh.. that face I love. It still gets me—every time. All those years locked behind the blue eyes and long lashes. Years I can see and remember. Years that he wishes I would forget. But I can’t. I can’t. And that’s why it hurts.. because I have to let go.. and pretend the years don’t matter.. at least for now.

He’s a teenager full of angst and questions. Rebellion and hormones. He stumbles and pushes. Softens and stiffens. I’ve been through this a few times before but still struggle to make sense of it. I could be an award-winning actress.. my heart is on my sleeve, outside my body, vulnerable and aching. But I’m the only one who knows it. And he doesn’t care. Not really.

He can’t. He’s individuating. And I care more than ever. The paradox is strangling, devoid of any sense. But there it is—yet again. The dichotomy that is adolescence—one moment everything he was as a child, the next, someone I’ve never met. And I am expected to be the adult—in control, solid, ready with a firm hand and a loving heart. I am tangled and torn, weary and raw. My love for this child is swallowing me up. And the irony is I can’t allow that. I must individuate, too.. if I want to keep him in my life.

I don’t like this. The older I get.. the more I know what’s at stake for him. But he gets to choose. And I get to watch.

Only, it occurs to me, yet again, that watching isn’t all I must do. I have to continue to live, work, play and grow.. no matter how much his decisions and developing attitudes worry me. I cannot afford to succumb to paralyzing fear. I’ve given into this before and I know it’s not the answer.

Peace.. the only real peace, comes from pursuing my own life–fully, and without reservation. The years of child bearing are over.. and the few years left of child rearing are fading fast. My life waits.. while I grieve over lost childhood that is rightfully over.. but painfully gone. The future calls to both of us. Oh, how I want his to be happy.. but I can’t make it for him.

He is not that child anymore—he is a young man.. and while finding his own way, makes some good decisions along with the shaky ones. He is smarter than I stop to think he is. My first instinct is to question him. I need to stop this. At least most of it. He gets to choose. He gets to choose. He will make decisions I won’t be happy with. That is certain.

So.. maybe, even though his childhood is lost to me, for good.. my future and his, are found. I just have to let it be whatever it’s going to be for him.. and be around to help with any rubble he might want me to assist with.

Oh.. the letting go is like extracting my heart and throwing it onto a soccer field.. and letting it be booted around until he decides to kick it into the net. It’s the passing from one set of cleats to another that knocks the fight out of me. Where will it end up today? Can’t we just land somewhere?

No. Not yet. It’s not time. And besides.. part of what I have to do is find a way for my heart to be more of a spectator than a participant. That freakishly unbreakable mother-love is always there. And while he grows into whoever he’s going to become, I have to do the same.

Childhood lost—both of our futures found. But oh.. the ache, the longing, the worry.. and yes, the hope. Always the hope.

Wednesday Gravy: Olympic Passion

When my first born was a wee pup, crawling all over me as I watched Nadia Comaneci score perfect 10s in the Montreal Summer Olympics.. the onscreen drama must have seeped over into my psyche which I promptly conveyed to my baby via osmosis. Or something like that.  He’s been an Olympics lover ever since.  He says one of his fondest childhood memories was me dragging him and his sister out of bed to watch the spectacular televised closing ceremonies at the 1984 Los Angeles event.

We speak of the Olympics often. We talk about the athletes, he and I. We muse on performances past, and wonder about future achievements.  During each Olympics, we have one “all-nighter”..  an evening for staying up ridiculously late and eating large amounts of naughty food.. all while watching the athletic competition unfold.  Of course, we toss out phrases like, “I could do that, but I don’t wanna.”

Last summer, the boy and I, not to mention other family members.. enjoyed our fete while watching Michael Phelps win that spectacular race in a gazillionth of a second.  It was a crowning moment in the games made even more extraordinary by all of us experiencing it together.

A few months ago I was missing my boy as mommies sometimes do–even, maybe especially, as they get older.  He’s a husband and father.. and well, he’s actively involved in everything inherent in that busy life.  I asked him for a favor.  I asked if some time, whenever he and his family could manage it, if he could come and spend the day with me.  Just him.  Not that I don’t adore his wife and babies—-I do.  But, I needed some boy time.  Just me and him.

He called a few weeks ago saying that he was working on it and would let me know.  That was good enough for me.

Last Saturday, on a whim, the boy and his family came to visit.  These kinds of visits bring palpable pleasure.

During casual conversation, he mentioned he’d  like to plan our one-on-one day.. but that it wouldn’t happen until February 2010.  Well.. he’s got stuff going on.. I’ll take it, I thought.

Then, he told me the rest of it.  I needed to provide the transportation, he said.. and he’d supply the tickets.  Tickets? What?

Turns out our mommy-son get-together will be to an Olympic hockey game at the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic Games.  Just the two of us.

The revelation dawned.. and I’ll admit my emotions grabbed me by the throat.  Not only did he pencil in a day for me.. he decided to make it something once-in-a-lifetime special.

He warned: “Now, of course, we can’t depend on it being anything spectacular..  It probably won’t be another “Miracle On Ice” moment.”

My response?  Doesn’t matter if it’s Czechoslovakia vs. Tasmania. How could it not be spectacular?  It’s the Olympic Games.

We’ll drive or catch a shuttle over the border.. we’ll employ air horns and foam fingers.. we’ll have a real, live, Olympic adventure together.  No words illustrate this joy, yet I’ve tried to use them.. and probably not very well.

Meanwhile, I wait for February 2010 and ponder the gift.. and what it will mean for us—for me and my boy.

Monday Gravy: AA Comes Home

My first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was Saturday night.

Beloved daughter was celebrating two years of sobriety and asked Mommy to come to the party.  I was thrilled.

Whoa. It was a room full of tangible love. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. Hugs all around.. genuine support.. people of varied backgrounds. I saw quickly there was no one stereotype for alcoholism–it crosses every barrier.  But I think I already knew that.. my attendance at the meeting only confirmed it.

After spending 90 minutes with these people I was astounded.  They were real.. no cop outs.. no pretending.. no excuses. It was an honor to be in the same room with them.. and be part of the ritual not only marking my daughter’s second birthday.. but the birthdays of many others.  Some had 10 years in the program.. some 8.. or 6.  I met one woman who had 30 years there.

After sweet daughter began the program, I read the AA Big Book.  I saw how the implementation of these ideas helped and continues to assist and breathe life back into so many who would otherwise be dead or wishing they were. When I saw the positive roads this journey was opening up for my girl, I began to examine my own life.  The principles are solid.. the success undeniable.

The people I met take nothing for granted. They seem to live each day in joy and possibility.  And when they asked “Carrie’s mom” to speak to the room.. I couldn’t say no.  Instead, I was honored.. and grateful.  At first, it was because of what they’ve all done for my daughter. Then, it became personal. Being there was like having a warm blanket thrown around my heart.  Rapt attention to what everyone said signaled passionate respect.

Funny how my children keep bringing positives into my life.  When I was a young mother I thought I would always be the one supporting, helping and providing insights for my offspring.  As the years roll by, and as I allow it.. my soul reaps the benefits of people, places and things I never would have thought of on my own.

Like AA.

My name is Sue Ann and I am not an alcoholic.  But they invited me back anyway.

I intend to accept that invitation.

Dave’s New Gig

Well, it’s official.. David Letterman is no longer single.  Truth be told, he’s been attached for a long time.. but until the final vows were said, I considered him fair game.. the mother of his young son notwithstanding.

I’ve loved him forever.. as long as I can remember knowing who he was.  And true, in later years, he’s become more cynical and even bitter at times.. and well, older.  But I forgive him for this because he’s brilliant. He doesn’t pander to the lowest common denominator like Jay Leno, and his wit is dangerously sharp–still.

A man with a sense of humor has always caught my eye.. but one who’s also flawed and a bit deranged is irresistible.

You know that gap between his teeth?  Perfect!  His skewed charm, his flirtability.. all fodder for years of my dreams.

Dave said he avoided marriage partly because he felt other men saw him as sort of “the last gunslinger”.. a man who’d escaped the trappings of that convention.

Hmm.. well.. maybe other men are disappointed.  But I’ll tell you what.  David Letterman’s new gig only makes him more attractive to women–at least this woman.  It only sweetens the deal.

His purple tie, his gray socks, the goofiness.. it’s all part of the love.

I’d wish him good luck, best wishes and all of that.. but I’m still smarting from the news that he chose someone else instead of me.

Never mind that he never met me.

Unrequited adoration?  Probably.

It’s still great to know that he’s in the world and making funny stuff happen.  That has to be good enough for me.

Monday Gravy: The New “Middle Age”

My friend turned 55 over the weekend.

He talked about being a senior citizen now.. at least in California.  He mentioned the upcoming “senior moments” he’d be experiencing.  I protested wildly.

“No!” I asserted. “I hate that term.  The only reason we can’t remember things as we age is because of all the stuff crammed into our brains. It has nothing to do with our capacity to remember.”

Even as I wrote it I saw the fallacy.  The more we have to remember, the older we are.  It does have to do with aging.. and that’s that.

My friend’s claiming to be a senior citizen was especially disconcerting because since we are the same age, it meant that I was one, too.  He makes a good point, though, when he says he probably won’t live to be 110.. dispelling that trendy adage about 50 being the new 30 (or 40.. I forget which it is right now).

Technology and medicine keep raging into the 21st century with innovations that prolong life. Let’s face it.. that’s true. People live longer, healthier lives than ever before. Maybe that’s part of my objection to the “senior citizen” reference.

But I suspect it’s something else.  I’m not ready to die.. at least I don’t think I am.  That long, slow decline from age 40 (or even earlier, some say) gets faster with every year.  I find myself not denying it as much as ignoring it. But maybe I do both.

My friend is right.  55.. or even 50.. is not the new middle age.  We are way past that.  It doesn’t mean we are dead or dying,  just past middle age.  And with everything our modern world gives us to look forward to.. I still expect vitality and joy.

Come to think of it.. what’s ever been so great about “the middle” anyway?  It’s safe, it’s sandwiched in between two extremes.

I am officially past middle age and while that slapped me silly when I realized it, it also cracked open doors.  Doors that lead to more of who I really am.. doors that fling wide to parts unknown.  And that doesn’t necessarily include The Early Bird Special at 4:30 pm.

I like the sound of that adventure..

Monday Gravy

I’ve been told the right brain never sleeps.  After all the facts and figuring of the day, the left brain says nighty-night, shuts down, and leaves the right half to ponder and muse.  This, supposedly, is the reason that often when we wake, we have ideas that didn’t occur to us the night before–the playful, more liberated brain has had time to ruminate over an answer.

If that’s the case, Saturday morning should have produced rocket science at our house.  The boy slept (off and on) for close to 20 hours.. and I put down a solid 12.  Yum.

But.. no illumination, really.. just a relaxed mom and her boy who spent the day getting haircuts, leisurely cleaning rooms and watching Iron Man. So much for the hurry-up-and-get-things-done mentality.

But maybe that’s all that really mattered that day.  It was rainy–a condition conducive to slothfulness.  Although, we weren’t actually lazy.. just mellow.  Is there a difference?  I hope so.

I know people who weigh their worth in how busy they make themselves.  The lists of to-dos are endless.. they are always on the phone.. they’re always running late.. and there’s never enough time.  I used to play that game, too.  Soon, you start to believe you’re indispensable.. and when illness, true emergency, or something else slaps your face, reminding you you’re not, that’s when the light begins to dawn.  The right brain tells you there’s another way to live..  maybe even a more satisfying way.  You remember how to play.

What’s really important will get done–eventually.

Meanwhile, I’ll turn off the phone, sleep in late and eat bacon once in awhile.  Maybe next Saturday morning I’ll do all three.