Reduce, Recycle, and Remorse

I've been thinking a lot about acquisition lately. I saw a video a while back that detailed the cycle of "stuff," from its manufacture to its disposal. The spokesperson quoted a lot disturbing statistics about the cumulative effect of rampant acquisition on our physical world, which may or may not be entirely accurate, but she made her point with me. Regardless of our personal, political, or spiritual stance on things, we need to consider having fewer of them... things, that is.

Up until now, I've seen, heard, and read messages like this and felt momentary concern, but this time I actually internalized it. And it haunts me. The video suggested that people in our culture usually buy/consume for the purpose of being considered worthy. I instantly rejected that assessment. But the idea played upon my conscience any time I bought something that wasn't absolutely necessary to survival. Clothes, for example. I realized that I was not buying them because I didn't already have perfectly good ones at home; I was buying them to create an impression that made me feel a certain way about myself.

Then, one of my dearest friends -- not a fanatic about saving money (or even needing to) or the environment or really anything other than the welfare of her family, which is only normal in my circle -- told me she was going to try to go a year without buying any new clothes. My first impulse was to ask why, but my new and not so welcome enlightenment kicked in and her vow suddenly made sense.

Now, I'm all about reducing, recycling, and repurposing -- this was seeded in early marriage, when the bucks just weren't there to do otherwise. But it never occurred to me to cut down on personal items like clothing, for heaven's sake. After all, clothing is made of biodegradable material, right? That was the logic and the justification I used on a lot of items I wanted, not realizing that being biodegradable most often doesn't mean the item will ultimately end up in the optimal conditions for degrading. More likely, it will end up sealed into a landfill with no exposure to the elements that would cause it to break down.

I really admire my friend for her commitment. Unfortunately, I'm not sure I'm ready to make it myself. But here's the rub: Some of the immense enjoyment I've always gotten from acquiring self adornment and elements of home decor is now tainted by the niggling, persistent cognizance that I don't really need it, I'm probably buying it to enhance my image, and the item will ultimately end up part of a big ol' heap that eats up green space somewhere.

Hence, my list of things to feel guilty about has lengthened.

Thankful Bikers in Paradise

Zounds, it's been a coon's age -- can we still say that? -- since I last posted! And I have so very much to say!

Mostly it's about my family; so there's your warning. Feel free to bail on me if you don't want to read all kinds of hilarious and schmaltzy stuff about those near and dear to me.

Okay, time's up. No turning back now.

I just spent the most amazing, memorable, and extraordinary Thanksgiving with my family in Key West. (I warned you.) My son, herein known as Ferdinand, rented a house for us among the palm trees and six-toed Hemingway cats, and we made full use of it's many charms: A pool and poolhouse, multiple decks, window views galore of tropical paradise, gorgeous interior, huge media center, and very engaging company. (We brought that last feature along with us, including Milton of the Strutting Tutu, my son and daughter-in-law's Corgi.)

Thanksgiving -- the day itself -- was pretty close to the traditional experience, albeit played out in a more exotic setting than our barnhouse. But then, anything is a more exotic setting than the barnhouse.

Yep, we baked pies, stuffed the bird, peeled eggs -- gotta have deviled eggs -- and gave effusive and heartfelt thanks to our gracious God, as we always do. But this time there was somehow, impossibly, even MORE to be grateful for as our three generations (and a fourth on the way for Andy and Jen) gathered to break bread and celebrate our blessings.

After turkey day, we packed the rest of our time there combining and recombining for shopping, scooter-riding, dining, dancing, and scuba diving. Yet, it was relaxing. I can't explain that, but I'm glad it was.

As an amusing aside, I'd like to mention that, on the day we spent scooter-sightseeing, we gave each other biker names. Yeah. And nobody messed with us. We were just that intimidating.

So, in memory of an exceptional Thanksgiving holiday, I'd like to give a shout-out to my gang, from their big, bad, biker mama -

Geezer, Mad Max, T-Bone, Slash, Loose Lois, and Stabby Sue --

Can't wait to get back there and crack it with my clubbers again. Mind your mingers.

Love,
Geezer's backwarmer, Blisterbuns

The Mountain

When I arrived at my weekly volunteer gig yesterday -- scooping for the ice cream social at the nursing home -- I got some bad news.

All the volunteers acknowledge that we should expect to hear about the passing of the elderly residents there now and then, but nothing prepared us for what we heard yesterday.

A lovely young woman who was a private aid to one of the residents, someone we'd always enjoyed chatting with on Wednesdays, had killed herself. She'd been a single mother and left two kids behind.

This had a leveling effect on me that I didn't expect. She'd been so sweet, so willing to linger a while and talk to us, as if she appreciated the connection we had... or at least the connection we thought we had. Apparently she was feeling desperately disconnected from anyone.

Why else would this happen?

As the day passed and we heard more about her situation, we found out there was this issue, and that problem, and perhaps she thought her kids would be better off if this or that, or maybe a physical condition seemed hopeless. Regardless, the finality of her act was something none of us would ever be able to fathom. Her pain was only hers, since we'd never truly connected.

And those children.

I really didn't know her well; she was just a Wednesday friend. But I'm left wondering why I have such a hole in my heart and when I can expect it to heal.

The Molehill

Holy hair highlights! In a trivial example of how life goes on, I messed with my hair color today. I thought I needed to pump up the drama a little, to make my hair a little less solid brown and a little more hey, look at me! So I put a few blondish streaks in it. Thought I would give it a little glimmer.

Now I'm trying to decide if I look like Morticia. I guess any change takes some getting used to. Maybe I'll post a picture and invite you to be brutally honest...

Nah.

I'll be trying it out next week on my whole brutally-honest family in Key West. Of course, with Key West as the frame of reference I'll probably look exactly like what I am: A relatively conservative, borderline pudgy, Midwest, middle-aged woman.

Yuk.

Maybe I'll put a few more streaks in for good measure, put a little distance between me and mediocrity.

S'more Time with Old Friends

I ate my seasonal s'more last night.

The s'more is, hands down, the ultimate autumn treat. Eaten any other time of year, without the scent of burning leaves as accompaniment, it tastes less than 75% as good.

Of course, prepared in an authentic setting -- around a campfire -- there are pitfalls. My fellow marshmallow roasters and I fell victim to every last one of them last night.

I went first, tripping on a rock on the dark path to the firepit, and nearly doing a face-plant in the underbrush.

Most of the rest of the setbacks were due to marshmallow mishandling. I'm convinced they use melted marshmallows as an adhesive in the aerospace industry. I can't begin to imagine what they do to our digestive tracts.

First, Big Boy -- who has apparently forgotten the childhood skill of how to eat a s'more -- ended up with it squeezing out the corners of his mouth, creating kind of a Hannibal Lector mouth-guard effect. A flashlight shone in his face revealed white bubbles and strings barring his mouth as he talked. Later, he'd developed a growth of fuzz and brown leaves like a grotesque Fu Manchu.

Meanwhile, his wife Primrose stood by shivering and reading aloud the shameful ingredients on the marshmallow bag, refusing to engage any element of the great outdoors, from the smoke to the skewered marshmallows. Rosie stayed clean and pristine, as she stood at the epicenter of an invisible sphere of crisp airspace between her and the tree-stump seats, firepit, and sticky husband.

The hostess and s'more ingredient assembly person grew webbed fingers with unidentifiable particulates stuck to them, as Granola Girl plunged into the roasting arena, toasting fork loaded and ready to fire. Before long GG's marshmallows were perfectly browned, bulbous, and threatening to plop into the fire -- the quintessential, s'more-ready, purpose-of-life state for any lucky marshmallow. Show off.

Across the firepit from me, my husband Boone efficiently loaded his mallows, stuck them directly into the flame and set them blazing, then quickly blew them out with a firm, "I meant to do that," then tried to pawn the hot, ashy lumps off on someone else. Mr. Generosity.

Our host sat motionless behind the beam of a flashlight with only his legs showing, a disembodied voice offering wry commentary on our shenanigans. He astutely pointed out that this night, as most of our past get togethers, had devolved into the usual hapless nonsense accompanied by his wife's and my helpless hysteria.

Ah..... old friends and sticky s'mores. Life was good last night.

Read the Fine Print, Genius

I'm easy. Hopefully you won't find that on any restroom walls, but at the Visa Customer Service Department, they're replaying the recording of my call today and yukkin' it up bigtime.

A word to the wise-but-wandering minds out there: "Read the fine print" isn't just your grandfather's admonition; it's actually a relevant reminder for modern mindfulness.

And I am fertile turf for such a cautionary seed. Being what I like to call a Big Picture Person, I often overlook menial details... like did I deposit that thousand dollar check or I don't remember if I should cut the red wire or the green one.

So far I haven't maimed or bankrupted myself or anyone else (that I'm aware of) in my happy little conga lifeline, but there's no doubt my flippancy has caused me to make the occasional misstep and get a bit behind the beat now and then.

Today, I discovered a Visa gift card that I bought for someone last Christmas but ended up replacing with another gift. So I thought I'd hit a small, but not insignificant, jackpot -- $50 to spend any way I liked. It was like a visit from a very generous Tooth Fairy who let me keep all my teeth.

Then I noticed the expiration date on the card was one month ago. Dang, Gina. Well, I'd just call the 800 number and get a replacement or an extension.

So I did, but I didn't.

I explained my situation to the friendly, foreign representative, and she asked if I'd mind holding for a few minutes. When she came back, she gave me three options: I could trade up to a higher value card for the additional amount plus a $5 charge, I could get a replacement card for a $10 charge, or I could receive a refund check for a charge of $10.

Well, I thought, my bad -- I should have expected some sort of penalty (the fees) for not using the card before it expired. So I opted for a refund check.

The rep did some quick calculations and told me my refund would be in the amount of $25.

Twenty-five dollars for a fifty dollar card? I thought the fee was only $10, which I politely pointed out to her.

Yes, she said, also politely, but after a period of 6 months, Visa accesses an additional fee for every month you don't use the card. So they would take an additional $15 off the card's original value based on the five additional months I failed to use it.

Let me get this straight... I gave them $50 plus the $5 purchase price -- so $55 -- last December that they could put somewhere to earn interest, but now MY investment has been cut by less than half 11 months later, due to THEIR various "administration" fees?

"This is a really bad deal for the consumer," I feebly stated to my helpful customer service rep. "With gift certificates and merchandise credits, you have by law two years to use them, maybe more in some instances, for the full amount. I don't think I'll be buying any more of your gift cards."

Wow, could I be tough or what?

Then she giggled. Seriously -- she giggled, and said, "I'm sorry but those are the terms."

I've been told I have a flair for comedy, but this was a prime example of the lack of control I have over it.

I put on my readers and looked at the fine print on the card, and darned if Miss Chortles wasn't right. So I thanked her, politely but not sincerely, for her help and gave her my address for the measly, scum-sucking refund check.

Oh, I know -- it's only $25. But darn it, it's the principle.

Financial interactions should somehow be made simpler and more accessible to the mindfully-challenged. I'm utterly convinced I'd be a wealthy woman if they were.

Dittoe, All Over Again: Parents Under House Arrest

It occurs to me that lately my columns have been almost exclusively about kid issues; i.e., discipline, adolescent behavior, nostril piercing, etc. And though I=ve enjoyed your overwhelmingly positive feedback to these columns, I thought it might be a good idea to vary my repertoire a bit by dealing with some grown up subject matter. To speak seriously to an issue of grave concern involving people of maturity and sophistication. And so I shall.
My social life is in the toilet because of my kids.
I don=t mean to come down too hard on the precious darlings, but the glaring fact is that they've sucked the life out of my husband's and my extracurricular activities. It used to be that they asked us what we were doing on a weekend and worked around our schedule, but that's all changed. Anymore, we gear our nearly extinct recreational time to their increasingly aggressive social doings.
I remember when we actually had friends. Now what we have are fellow survivors. People who, like us, have pubescent freight trains barreling through their lives scattering in their wakes the debris of their formerly dynamic social selves.
You can spot us in any crowd. We're huddled in small, murmuring groups of two or more, usually on week nights, huddled in neighborhood cafes. We sit by the windows sharing war stories and keeping constant vigil over passing vehicles, casting frequent glances at our watches so as not to stay too long and tempt fate.
We have come to know that a house with no parental presence, what I like to call an unadulterated house, sings a siren song to bands of roving teenagers. We know that even if we post guard dogs and wrap barbed wire around the periphery of our property when we leave, kids on the outside will make any heroic attempt to get in. Kind of a reverse-Papillon phenomenon.
What is it with today's kids? (Now I'm beginning to sound like something from the musical score of Bye Bye, Birdie.) What motivates this frenzied pursuit of social nirvana? For me to keep up with that kind of social schedule would require supplemental oxygen. I'd be going to movies, eating tacos, and glow bowling with a tube in my nose.
But I don't ask nearly that much. Maybe just an unhurried dinner out or movie with friends (if I still recognize them). Biannually would be just fine.
It just happens that we attempted that very thing last night. First we had to flush seven fifteen year old sled riders out of the house and deliver our twelve year old to a party. We were only ten minutes late for the movie, which was a record in punctuality for us. Afterward, we actually had coffee and conversation with some delightful people we vaguely recall interacting with about a year ago this time. Although we all have teenagers and hence, permanently knitted brows and eyes trained to surveillance, with relaxation techniques and slow breathing patterns, we managed to sip the coffee at a controlled pace without spilling a drop. Then acting very casual, even blasé, we said our goodbyes, got in our cars, peeled out, and hauled tail home like our fannies were ablaze.
Much to our astonishment, there was no sign of covert celebratory activity at our house. And wonder of wonders, upon making a few phone calls, we found that all children were where they reported they would be, in houses that were indeed adulterated.
Something is terribly wrong. I hereby alert all parents of teenagers in the area to be on their guard. Circle your wagons, batten down the hatches, and secure all exits. The sneaks must be planning the mother of all parties for next weekend.