Category Archives: humor

Aug23

I live here.

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You know what my problem is? I’m a problem solver. I look for problems. That habit, which might be genetic, is the antithesis of being present. And I seem to prefer problems that are unsolvable.

But something magical, or at least mystical, happened last night while I was sleeping. Because I woke with absolutely no desire for coffee. I woke completely content. I’m not even mad at the cat for waking me. Maybe it’s just that the humidity has let up. Whatever it is, I’ll take it.

“I do not understand the mystery of grace – only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” – Anne Lamott

The results of last week’s CT scan and bloodwork came back. Good news and bad news: everything looks normal. The recommendation is to call or go to the ER should the symptoms return. Excuse me?! I’ve been sick for a month. Fever, vomiting, pain. Was I imagining that I was sick as a dog? I don’t ever want the symptoms to return! As the Resident Alien would say, “this is some bullshit.”

We all know the medical industry (let’s call it what it is) is broken. The insurance corporations are in charge now. We are pretty much on our own here. That is certainly how I feel today. We have to be our own advocates – and that means detectives. But I don’t think that is necessarily a bad thing. We have to start taking more responsibility for our own health and not being so dependent on doctors to fix us. By the time we are too ill to handle it ourselves, our bodies (and our psyches) have been trying to get our attention for a long time. I know mine has. I wasn’t listening; it would have meant change, less cake and more arugula. Blech.

That said, I insisted on a referral to a gastroenterologist. I’m not waiting to see what happens. I am feeling much better, fortunately. Of course, I’m eating a lot less – and no carbs or sugar, no spices, no fats, no taste of any kind. Having missed a few days of taking my prescription antidepressant when I couldn’t keep anything down, I went ahead and weaned myself off of that. I want to baby my liver, not tax it. I’ll revisit that decision in the middle of the dark winter, but we’ll see. My metabolism certainly seems to be improving.

Now if I could just change that old habit of looking for problems to solve…and all of us here know what that means, right? It means keeping ourselves creating. Living creatively. Allowing for grace. Looking for what might be right with us. That’s where the healing lives.

Aug21

bugger

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“People without a sense of humor will never forgive you for being funny.” – Joyce, The Thursday Murder Club

In my fantasy life I host a writer’s group once a month. Or maybe we pretend to be a book group or a writer’s group but we really solve murders. We gather around my gorgeous little antique dining table in the upholstered rattan chairs and talk and ponder all afternoon. We have tea, coffee, perhaps a sip of prosecco. We open little party gifts we’ve made or collected for each other, and we eat cucumber sandwiches and scones with lots of cream…someone falls asleep out on the veranda in the chaise lounge. It’s just a little nap. Some drooling might occur, but no one will hold it against you.

They love coming to my home, because, well, let’s face it – I know how to entertain. And put together a list of suspects. No one leaves hungry, and everyone leaves excited and hopeful and full of new ideas. It will be hard to sleep tonight.

In my actual life, a dear friend is moving into a new apartment in a retirement community, as did another friend not long ago. I’m experiencing pangs of jealousy. First of all, I love being old. Helen Mirren said “the best part of being over 70 is being over 70.” So hanging out with peers is ever so appealing. Young people just don’t get it. I want no-holds-barred brutally honest communication – and I also want to be home in my pajamas by 8.

All of my adult life I’ve wanted for nothing more than a big, raucous house full of family and friends. Kids and grandkids, constant coming and going. Music playing and spontaneous dancing and laughter and laughter and laughter. And a private office off my bedroom with a door that locks when “I vant to be left alone.“

That was my childhood home, and I spent the last 50 years of my life trying to recreate it. But it wasn’t real. It was a sham. My childhood home was also hiding terrible neglect and abuse and dysfunction. The big loud happy home was just for show. My parents wanted the happy home, too; they also didn’t know how to make it happen. They didn’t know how to face the addiction demons. Neither was I going to be able to create the life I wanted; I had not a clue how to go about it. And so shame tends to creep into my dreams and cloud my sleep. When I wake I feel entirely like a failure. Where did I go wrong?

That’s where the deep sense of failure stems from: I’m smart…but not smart enough to have figured this out when I was younger. To have stopped trying to please everyone else and keep everyone else safe; to have known that survival mode will never get you where you want to go. I was slow to understand that love is not transactional, nor negotiable. I wasn’t just quite smart enough to know that we really cannot earn our way to health and happiness…to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I AM already everything I could possibly dream. My loyalty and devotion were misplaced outside myself.

And now I have lived long enough to know the privilege of looking myself in the mirror and asking, “IS that what you really wanted? Or perhaps, is there something far more valuable to be gleaned here?” And now I can let myself fall apart at the seems. I grieve the life I spent trying to fulfill a fantasy that, in fact, I would not choose now. Now that I belong to myself.

“Hope is a renewable option: If you run out of it, at the end of the day, you get to start over in the morning.” – Barbara Kingsolver

Aug6

a new religion called NOPE

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“STOP letting your mental health be damaged by systems that were never designed to protect it!” – Sheila Hammond

If someone asks you if you’ve heard the latest news, and you think, “Dear God, please let it be aliens,” you are not broken. Sheila Hammond has made the YouTube channel I wish I’d thought of. She is funny, and she is tellin’ it like it is! She’s done offering her sanity to systems that profit off her exhaustion. Amen, sister. Amen.

You can care about the world and you can set boundaries. You can opt out of chaos without opting out of your values. You can disengage without being in denial. You can scream into the void…and log off for a nap. Personally, I am done with risking participation in anything likely to jerk me around emotionally. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

In recent posts I have written about losing friends and family members because I won’t attend the protest march (what you resist persists) or join the group or contribute to the cause or watch the news. Don’t get me wrong, I respect them immeasurably. Their heart is in the right place. If I feel compelled to do so, I do know how. As far as I know I still have an FBI record from being arrested in the protests in Detroit during the 60’s and 70’s. Meanwhile that isn’t how I’m most effective. That does not mean I am sitting here doing nothing – but it is amazing the changes you can implement silently from your sofa once you get focused.

It’s scary at first to realize your personal power. However, you have to pull your spirit back into your body and listen. In order to overcome the addiction of culture you have learn to stop the performance art you called life for the past decades, otherwise you won’t know your authentic voice when it speaks. And it does. I hope you’ll join the me in the religion of NOPE. Because as Sheila says, sanity is trying to stage a comeback.

“I command my spirit into my body in full at this time.” – Carolyn Myss, Anatomy of the Spirit

May I suggest we nurture a song worm today:

May9

the devastating effects of OPD

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Last month was a blur. I spent the month in bed with pneumonia. Last week I had a clear chest exam. This week my OPD has flared up. No rest for the weary I guess. For those of you who don’t know, OPD is a spectrum disorder. Most of us have some degree of it. You might be surprised to learn that it is only slightly less prevalent in women than men, and that your risk is 37% higher if you live in the United States.

The symptoms of OPD (Obnoxious Personality Disorder) cause more harm than previously recognized here in the states, and are more easily identified in European countries frequented by American tourists. The expat population is currently being studied for their seeming immunity. Although one must wonder, if they didn’t somehow suffer the adverse affects of living around OPD, would they have moved abroad in the first place?

Symptoms often include an inflamed sense of entitlement, frequently followed by “the Karen effect.” One of my first clues of the flareup came around the need to wash dishes. Housework is often a trigger for me. I shouldn’t have to do it. Then there is the dilemma of having to cook for myself, but recent improvements in meal delivery options have helped with that.

The biggest trigger for me is the lack of high quality entertainment on the television. I subscribe to a dozen or more self-help streaming services and have thousands of movies and television series available to watch. Yet I am so picky that I can seldom find anything satisfying to quell the symptoms. I am frequently irritated, even at inanimate objects.

If you, too, suffer from the crippling effects of this disorder, know that there are resources available. Dial 1-800-I-BLAME-U, or try pulling your head out of your behind after a long, warm bath. This Netflix series will also help:

Mar15

obstacles in mirror may be closer than they appear

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This little reprieve away I went south – literally. I flew from Michigan to Arizona to help a friend make the trek back. As we are in our 70’s now, and our priorities have changed, she was moving from Tucson back to Traverse City to live close to children, grandchildren, and friends. To lend support and be supported; that’s what it’s about now that we are aging.

We finished up the last little bit of packing, and once the movers had the house cleaned out, she and I left to drive back to Michigan in her car. We left Arizona in a blizzard, which seems perfectly appropriate. Why wouldn’t we drive through the steep mountain passes of Salt River Canyon in a blizzard? Because as we know, WWASOS (white women ain’t scared of shit.)

She was driving. We had a hotel reservation and a deadline. We got through the mountain blizzard and both said, “well, that wasn’t bad.” The next morning I overheard two older truck drivers in the hotel lobby talking about that drive being the scariest thing they’ve ever done. We were in Gallup, New Mexico, headed to Santa Fe, and were informed by the hotel that our highway east was closed temporarily due to a semi pileup. The roads were icy and it was snowing. So we lingered over breakfast before taking off, and that drive was a breeze.

We were reminded what a spectacular country this is. Wow, it is beautiful. Very inspiring. My dear friend treated us to lovely hotels and meals. We drew tarot cards and we cried a little and laughed a lot – and solved all the world’s problems you’ll be glad to know. Only a little witchcraft was involved…some reiki, some prayers (aka spells), and a good deal of coffee…

And I am home, my favorite place to be in the entire world. I am once again reminded of how addicted I am to my routine, my creature comforts close at hand (not at the bottom of a bag) and how I do so love the trees and the birds and the lush rolling hills of Michigan. The topography is soft and undulating here, like me. This is my land.

Dec15

crisp roast potatoes and the Reindeer Union

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Well…as I am slowly getting back into writing daily, I find myself with a couple of short posts this week. This one is just for the fun of it, and who is more fun than Stephen Mangen? I’ve always admired how he thinks fast on his feet. He reminds me of my brother who was also astonishingly quick witted. My Mother carried that trait into our family, and my son inherited it. I, on the other hand, am one of “those people” who suddenly think of a clever retort at 3 a.m. the day after the conversation.

Nov17

dimming up…

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“What fresh hell is this?” – Dorothy Parker

Living with chronic illness is exhausting, but by far the worst illness I deal with on a daily basis is the OPD. OPD (Obnoxious Personality Disorder) and it’s symptoms are debilitating. When I am miserable, feel like life is not treating me fairly and God has abandoned me, I know where to go for help. I go to church. Right here, today, with Carolyn Myss. She is my spirit animal, and lucky for me, she’s got clues to spare.

And then I channel my inner Elizabeth Bigelow and remind myself what a privilege it is to be alive in the here and now, even if I don’t know how the technology works…

Sep18

I hear the band playin’…

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Please remember, always click on the blog heading for the updated version as I often edit after hitting publish…

The cat woke me around six a.m. His bowl was empty. This is my favorite time of day, just as the sun is coming up. But I hadn’t slept well and I really didn’t want to get up. My son was already in the kitchen getting ready for his work day. He’s been staying here since his relationship broke up. Feeling he had no other choice, he left her with the house they bought together, her teenagers, the dogs they adopted, his dreams, and oh yeah, much of his self worth stayed behind, too. He has continued to be as supportive of them as he possibly can be, physically, emotionally, and financially. This has required considerable patience on my part (let alone my friends and therapist) – but then, I don’t want to be the mother-in-law who thinks her son can do no wrong. I’ve had one of those.

The day he called and asked if he could come here I felt a huge sense of relief. Finally. Watching the abuse he seemed determined to cope with was nothing short of painful. He was mimicking the scapegoat role I had so effectively demonstrated for him my entire life. Everything about us must be wrong because God knows we never did anything right. But perhaps some healing could finally happen. We are a multi-generational family of survivors – survivors of alcoholism, physical and verbal abuse, and blatant narcissism. Our awareness continues to grow as our healing unfolds.

He’s been here longer than either of us expected; the better part of two years now. It has not been easy. But most days I am grateful for this time to get to know him as an adult, to spend time together investigating family history, to address our mental and emotional dysfunction, to have the opportunity to do the healing work we both need and deserve. I’m in my seventies, he’s in his forties, and for the first time in our lives we are safe. We have a safe place. I wonder where that will lead us.

Most mornings I am up hours before him or any hint of daylight. I feed the cat first (the boss of me), make coffee and head back to my cosy room with a book. If I haven’t fallen back to sleep, I hear him in the kitchen but leave him in peace. Well, I leave me in peace, because let’s be honest – I am far too easily irritated when my thoughts are disrupted before I’m ready to talk. But this morning I wandered out and made us both coffee. Here’s why he is one of the few people (okay, maybe the only person so far in this life) I’ve ever been able to live with: he is funny. He is blessed with my mother’s sense of humor. My brother had it, too. I was not so blessed. He is funny right from the get go when his feet hit the floor. Wow that is impressive!

My auDHD does not allow me to think that fast. So when I caught myself scowling this morning, I circumvented my crabbiness by saying, “Help me out here, please. My face is stuck,” revealing my frown. I had just sat down at my laptop. He simply replied with a directive: “Hello, Dolly by Louis Armstrong.”

Little did he know it would bring tears. I was ten years old the year my mother took me to see the musical at the Fisher Theatre. It starred Angela Lansbury. God, growing up in Detroit in the 1960’s was magical. As a privileged white child, of course. But back then what did I know…

Sep7

just brave enough

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I’m stuck. I’m stuck in a cycle of fear. Nobody ever talks about fear, except to say let it go. As if I wouldn’t if I could be free instead. Fear is ugly. We don’t like to admit we have fear. It shows weakness, a lack of conviction, loss of personal power, a rift in the habit of prayer or a lack of discipline. Why pray when you can worry?

My fears are projections, to be sure. I’m not actually in any kind of immediate danger. What if my fears are unfounded? All I know is that it is 4 a.m. and my stomach is in one big hard knot. I have a lot of things I can worry about, some rather trivial and some quite serious dilemmas. Worry is a bad habit and I have well developed neural pathways for it. It doesn’t take much to speed along that highway. I need a runaway truck ramp for this heavy load.

Sometimes I just have to be with it. To talk to myself as if I am my only child; to be patient and soft. Soft. Not strong. I need to be just 10% more curious than afraid. Find just 10% more humor than skepticism…

“I will dream as I see fit.” – Phil, American Dreamer

Aug30

everything you’re looking for is what’s causing you to search for it

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My son’s father is coming to visit this week. I don’t like him. Obviously I loved him once, in a previous lifetime decades ago. But recently my son spoke a minor complaint about him and I replied, “well, yeah…he’s a pain in the butt.” Now I regret saying that, of course. My son loves and admires his Dad. I spent years consciously not bad mouthing him, regardless of how he treated me. But we’re all adults here. I do make an effort to be cordial, friendly, and even inclusive. I’ve now entertained he and his significant other in my home when they are summering in the area. We’re all adults here. As my son was growing up I had less and less contact with my ex-husband, but now he’s ba-aacccckkkkk….retired and vacationing nearby on a regular basis. So I shall enter into the great what is. I’m an adult, right?

What constitutes “a pain in the butt?” Someone who is needy but not aware of it, who has a personality trait spelled D-E-F-E-N-S-I-V-E. Or macho in this case. Passive aggressive. Emotionally immature…I could go on…let’s not. You get the idea.

Look – we are all needy. It’s a given. Far needier than we wish to admit. Also a given. We all have total blind spots in the self awareness vehicle of our life, headed for an inevitable crash into the wall of our defenses, bleeding out our vulnerability. That’s why we practice compassion when we are in control. Because we all want that airbag to deploy. Okay, enough with the vehicle metaphors.

I’ve been listening to Anne Lamott, as I am prone to do from time to time. The queen of vulnerability. Certainly one of my most revered creative influences, I listen to her any time I don’t write for a few days, weeks, months (I don’t do that anymore; I know better.) As she says, it hurts to not write. Stop not writing. Sit down and “scribble and spew…” This blog is testament to that practice. It’s always been a lightly edited journal of my thoughts, both welcome and unwelcome. I let my crazy show here.

I do so highly recommend you attend her workshop:

If you are one of the readers here who write, or draw, or dance, or caretake, or paint, or sing or sew or imagine, THIS IS YOUR SIGN! Don’t wait. Stop not doing it. So whaddayasay, Thursday at 7?

“Perfectionism is the enemy of freedom. How do you let it go a little bit? You write badly. ” – Anne Lamott, and if you don’t have a copy of her brilliant book on writing: https://amzn.to/3Z4i3dJ