Read All About It!

Many thanks today to Kathy VanMullekom of the Daily Press for writing a feature article about "Remember It Now-Knowing I'm Alive" (my blog) in the 'Life Section - Real Women' of today's Daily Press. As of this writing, it is listed as one of the Most Viewed articles for today's dailypress.com.

To view the full article click here.

Blog Is Letter to Her Kids

It is a pictured article, but the pictures are not featured online. I plan to purchase about 100 hard copies (or maybe 10), so if you want one, let me know!

Thanks, Kathy!

Pack Your Bags, Kids!

Kids, Quit your jobs and pack your bags. Never mind, we’ll buy new stuff. Whatever you need, we’ll pick it up as we go. We are going to travel the world! I have come up with an idea that will set us on Easy Street for the next couple of generations.

How many times has a ringing phone sent you on a scavenger hunt against time? You run from room to room searching for the handset only to find it in the garage, out on the patio, under stacks of newspapers or in the dirty clothesbasket ready to be washed. Before you can locate it, voicemail has picked up. You try to play back the message but find that the battery is dead and must be returned to the base to recharge before you can retrieve that important call from the drug store reminding you to pick up the prescription you picked up two days ago.

Are you ready? Here it is. (Drum roll)

I envision a telephone that has a flexible wire connecting the handset to the base of the phone. That way, you will always know where it is and it will stay fully charged and ready to use. How efficient would that be? And you can keep your cell phones for use on-the-go!

It’s so simple. I’m surprised someone hasn’t already thought of it!

Gratuities Cheerfully Accepted

On a recent trip to the San Francisco area, I discovered that Airport Express provides a shuttle that will take me all the way to Rohnert Park for a very reasonable price. It was an hour and half drive, so this seemed a practical alternative to a rental car. The coach was clean; the ride was comfortable and uneventful. What more could a girl ask for?

Over the giant front windshield were two signs. The first was a yellow and black bumper sticker sized message. “Remain Seated for Your Safety.” The sign beside it was larger. The brightly scripted message: “Gratuities Cheerfully Accepted, Thank You.”

I travel quite a bit and, therefore, have a low expectation of courtesy and customer service. And still, I tip. I tip generously. I tell myself that I could be working for tips. I’ve told myself this for years and it has never happened, but it still could, I suppose. So I practice the “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” thing. I always exceed the minimum and there are times I tip far too much just because I want to show kindness.

When I read the gratuities sign, I remembered how, just minutes ago, the driver had thrown my bag into the baggage compartment. At that very moment, I remembered my laptop and asked him if I could retrieve my bag to get it out. His body language left no doubt where he thought I should put my laptop, but he complied grudgingly and I apologized for the trouble. When I disembarked, I tipped him. He was a grumpy old man. Instead of a cheerful, “Thank you,” as promised, the passengers received grunts as we pressed our hard earned dollars into his hand.

On my return a few days later, I waited patiently to board the bus while a party of seniors hugged each other, consoled one another over their latest current ailments and the driver loaded their bags. I saw he was closing the compartments so I said, “Excuse me.” He didn’t hear me. “Excuse me, please. I have a bag to go in there.” He closed the last compartment while I was still trying to get his attention. He finally looked my way. “Excuse me,” I said. “Here’s my bag, please.” Airport Express must teach body language in their training program. His mannerisms, like those of his counterpart a few days before, spoke very clearly indicating where he’d like for me to put my suitcase as he threw it inside the baggage compartment instead and slammed the door.

I found my seat and looked toward the front of the coach. The same neat signs were over the windshield. The first was a yellow and black bumper sticker sized message. “Remain Seated for Your Safety.” The sign beside it was larger. The brightly scripted message: “Gratuities Cheerfully Accepted, Thank You.” Personally, I think Airport Express should add another sign – “Services Grudgingly Rendered.”

But I arrived safely at my destination and that was, after all, what I paid for. Did I keep up my cheerful habit of tipping for substandard service? Nope. Not this time.

(NOTE: I received a very friendly and productive phone call from Airport Express. I would use them again for my transportation needs. Good job, Tony of Airport Express!)

Becoming My Mom

Stop any woman on the street. Ask her about her greatest fear. “I’m afraid I’m becoming my mother!” It’s not that we don’t love our mothers…we do! We love them more than anything. But face it, we grew up with them on a daily basis. How much is a person expected to endure?

Every morning, my mom came into my room interrupting my perfectly good sleep. “Joy, it’s time to get up.” I could ignore her once, twice, even three times. But that woman was persistent. She insisted I get up, eat breakfast, get dressed and go to school at least five days of every week. I hated it! She made me go to church. She made me do dishes. She gave me really mean looks and kicked me under the table when I made comments to embarrass her. Sure enough, when I had kids, I was just as cruel as my mom ever was. Unbelievable.

When my mom goes to the grocery store, she starts at the front and proceeds down the far right aisle. Let’s call this Aisle 1. Then she remembers she needs a loaf of bread, so she cuts across to the other side of the store (Aisle 10) to get the bread. Oh, eggs. She needs a dozen eggs (Aisle 3). Jelly (Aisle 7). Potatoes back to Aisle 1. And so it goes. Every time. It never gets better.

On a recent visit home, we went to Wal-Mart to pick up a bag of pinto beans. She still fixes my favorite meal every time I go home—pinto beans, cornbread and fried potatoes. My dad pulled out a $50 bill. “Dad, I’ve got a 5. I’ll go in with her…I’ve got it covered.” Poor Dad. He just rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sis, you don’t understand.” He parked his body on the bench as though he had been there, done this before. Sure enough, he was right. After several trips criss-crossing the grocery section, we had strawberries, lettuce, ice cream and a host of others items—including the 89 cent bag of pinto beans. We were in the checkout line when she told me to “wait here with the grocery cart. I’ve got to go get some corn meal.” I waited. I waited. I let everyone go ahead of me. I got out of line. I made a phone call. Here came Mom, her arms full of chips and cookies and about a half dozen other items … and just about to drop the entire load … while I stood there with the grocery cart as instructed. Sure enough. She forgot the corn meal and had to go back to Aisle 6.

I swore years ago that this would never happen to me. I would be organized. I would systematically go up one aisle and down the other, choosing my grocery items as I came to them. That worked great. Once, I think. With each backtracking step, I chide myself, “I’m just like my mother. I’m just like my mother. I’m just like my mother.”

But the truth is, I’m not just like Mom. My mom is a remarkable person. She has more talent in her little finger than I could ever hope to emulate. She has written volumes of poetry. Really good stuff. She is witty, funny, and insightful. A sought-after speaker, she decided one day that she just didn’t want to do that anymore…a loss for those who love her wit, wisdom and inspiration. She is an amazing cook. She takes food to people when they are sick or have lost a loved one. She waits on my dad hand and foot. She truly cares about people and they truly care about her. Obviously, I’m not JUST like Mom.

So, why do I fear that I am becoming my mother? Now that I think about it, it sounds like something I should work to achieve!

You Can Bet on Me!

Of course, you can bet on me...everyone else does!

My life insurance company bets I’m going to live (and pay premiums) for a very long time. And I place monthly bets that they are wrong. This is a bet I want them to win; and yet, I bet against them…huh? Remind me—if I win this bet, I win what?

My health insurance company bets I’m going to be sick. I’m betting that I’m going to be sicker than they think I am. They bet I’m going to fear financial ruin enough to pay them huge amounts of money each month. They win.

White Strips bets I’m going to hold a piece of white copier paper up to my teeth when I look in the mirror. They bet that when I do, I’m going to run out and buy their flimsy little peroxide-coated plastic wrap. They win.

Botox bets I want to keep my youthful appearance. They are betting that I will take whatever minimal risk there might be to pay someone to inject a tiny bit of lethal poison into my face. They may be right. We’ll see.

BMW bets that I am going to buy into their materialistic culture of prestige and egotistical philosophy. I fold. They win.

“Your name is Joy? I bet you are cheerful and happy all the time.” (How can someone named Joy be anything less?) I do my best not to let them down. Again, they win.

Want to place your bet on a sure thing? Step up to the table. Bet on me!

Carry Me!

A young man walked by carrying his little girl. She sat perched on his elbow and forearm, her sandaled feet dangling in rhythm to his steps. Her right arm rested comfortably around his neck as she used her left hand to point out those things that she wanted to share with her daddy. Her face was next to his making it easy for either of them to plant a kiss on the other at any given moment.

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed when all you see are kneecaps passing by. “Daddy, carry me.” That’s all it took to be swept up from a two-foot-six-inch vantage point to being able to view the world from what seemed to be a mountaintop. Instead of trying to hurry and catch up, suddenly I was effortlessly keeping stride with the crowd. I was being carried. I was safe in Daddy’s arms. I was seeing the world as he saw it. I could squeeze his neck just as hard as I wanted to and feel his strong arms hold me close.

I remember my mom carrying me to bed and telling me stories and tucking me in, saying our prayers at night. I don’t actually remember, but I am sure she carried me on her hip as she fixed dinner or washed the dishes. She carried me when I was tired of walking. She carried me when I cried and needed comfort. I loved to be carried. I loved the security of being held close. I love being loved.

I loved holding my kids, rocking them to sleep, and carrying them in my arms and on my hip. I loved their softness, their scent, the way they fit so snugly in my arms, the way they hugged me as we walked along. I loved holding each of them, in turn, and carrying them until little by little, they didn’t need to be rocked, or carried, or eventually, held on my lap anymore. It was a gradual process and as one got too big to be carried, there was another to take his place, and another. And then there were none.

I miss seeing the newborn baby in his mother’s arms as she pulls back the blanket to show you the cute outfit the child is wearing today. Or the new dad, still a little insecure about how to hold this new life in his strong arms, proudly displaying this little girl who stole his heart so quickly. I miss hearing, “Here, would you like to hold her?” Instead, Mom pushes back the sun visor to show that precious baby scrunched down with its head cocked to the side, harnessed in securely and swinging just a few inches from the ground in a ‘safe’ piece of equipment. Babies now spend hours and hours in this ‘touch-free’ environment.

Does that bother you at all? Or is it just me? Perhaps it’s only because I loved that closeness so very much—as a child and as a parent.

It occurs to me that I have not been carried by anyone now for many years. Granted, it would be a little strange and incredibly awkward. Nor have I carried my children for many years. Again, strange and awkward. But I miss that, don’t you?

I suppose the next time I am carried—a very long time from now, I hope—it will take six men to do the job. I won’t feel the closeness or the comfort. I won’t feel anything at all. That’s incredibly strange and awkward!

However, I will be watching from a mountain top view, carried in the arms of the One who loves me the most. Talk about comfort and safety!!

The Hare, The Maltese and The Princess

As we approached the Princess’ castle, (Ok, it was Sara’s condo.) we heard Gracie (the Maltese) barking frantically. This was not her typical ‘Hurry up! I can’t wait to jump all over you’ bark from inside the front door. This was frantic. It was more like, ‘Get out here quick! You’ve got to see this and do something about it’ from-outside-on-the-patio bark. Gracie actually communicates quite well for a dog.

Sara went out to see what caused all the commotion. Within seconds, I heard her shriek as only a princess can. “Mom! Go out there and see what that is!” she screeched as she ran inside and slammed the door behind her clutching Gracie tightly to her chest. “Hurry!”

There are things that I will hurry to do. I will hurry to Macy’s to use my 20% off coupon. I will hurry to Dillard’s to get those shoes I saw yesterday. I will hurry to take a shower when I’m running late. My list of things-I-will-hurry-to-do does not include running through her back door into her small-enclosed patio to investigate “what that is.”

“What does it look like?” You’ve got to start somewhere, right?
“I don’t know. It’s I think its an animal.” She thinks it’s an animal?—as opposed to a vegetable or a rock?
“How big is it?” This is an important bit of information if I’m going to consider going out there.
“I don’t know. But I think something is wrong with it.” I’m hoping for a small chipped rock or a wilted carrot.
I made my decision. “I’m not going out there, Sara.”
“Mom, you HAVE to! We can’t just leave it there.”
“Oh, but we can. And we are going to.”
“Mo-om.” The two-syllabled ‘mom’ gets me every time.
“Ok. But you’re coming with me...and leave Gracie inside.”

So the brave hunter and the timid Princess carefully opened the door and crept silently in the direction of the corner of the fence where the unidentified—apparently injured—creature was lying on its back, all four legs twitching in the air.

“What are you going to do?” the princess whispered in my ear while standing safely and closely behind me.
“I’m not going to do anything. It’s dying,” I whispered back lest the six-inch beast suddenly jump up and attack us.
“You have to do something. How do you know it’s dying?”
“I’m a mother. We know these things. But I’m not doing anything. I’m not ITS mother.”

About this time, the unidentified dying creature staggered to an upright position sending us screaming and running to the safety of the castle.

Peeking through the closed blinds (you can never be too careful), we squealed like girls as the baby bunny shuttered and fell to his back with all fours in the air again.

“Mom, you have to do something. That thing can’t die on my patio.”
“It is dying on your patio. Get over it.”
“You have to get it off!!”
“And just how do you propose that WE do that?”
“I don’t know. You just go pick it up and throw it over the (eight-foot privacy) fence.”
“You have got to be kidding. I’m not touching it. Do you have a shovel?”
“You’re not going to beat it to death, are you?” asked the wide-eyed Princess.

We went to the tool shed and surveyed her pathetic choice of gardening instruments. (Idea!) “Do you have a pitchfork?” asked the evil mother.
“Mom! You wouldn’t!”
“Nah! I was just kidding. Hand me that BBQ skewer.”

Eventually we found a pair of garden gloves. After several attempts to approach the dying creature and just as many retreats, I scooped the pitiful thing up in my heavily gloved hands and fearfully carried it out the patio gate and gently set it beside the big oak tree.

Locking the gate securely, we pulled the hot tub steps over to the fence so we could observe from a safe vantage point. Against her protests of, “It’s going to die. It doesn’t need water! Don’t go out there!” I took a small bowl of water and set it near the critical creature and we went to Starbucks to calm our frayed nerves.

When we returned, we carefully mounted the hot tub steps and peered cautiously over the fence. The bunny was gone. I like to think we saved a life that day…or perhaps we just provided some predator with a convenient and tasty snack.

Salt of the Earth

The year was 1984. This was the day Peter would surrender the last vestige of his symbolic protest against the Establishment. An avid hippie in his youth, Peter had long ago, little by little, over two decades moved into the mainstream of corporate quagmire. Leaving behind his social concerns and socialistic ideology, Peter had for quite some time had a healthy bank account and assets to be envied by the established elite.

You see, Peter remembered hearing as a child, “You are the salt of the earth.” One day as he worked behind the counter of the local movie theater, he over salted the popcorn. Moviegoers by the scores returned to the concession area for soft drinks. When he observed the phenomenon, Peter began to over-salt the popped delicacy routinely and on purpose…and he raised the price on soft drinks. Astounded, he realized that he could not out price his thirsty customers’ willingness to pay exorbitant amounts of cash. Who would have believed it? Movie patrons were not only willing, but standing in line, to spend $5 for a fifty-cent drink and another $5 for a fifteen cent bag of Peter’s salty snack!

But today would be the day that Peter would surrender his thinning gray scraggly ponytail for a chic trendy haircut to compliment his custom Armani suit. Yes, my fellow movie fans, you know this gentleman best by his popular moniker—Salt Peter.

(Note: I realize you found this article confusing given my usual blogs written about my thoughts. This is just a fun piece I wrote one day. While doing some research, I came across the term "saltpeter" (feel free to google it) and this whole funny concept just came to me. Call it creative writing. You've heard of that, right?)

Moby Dick, a Rowboat and Tartar Sauce

That’s how I would describe my feelings right now…I am going after Moby Dick in a rowboat with my fork and little jar of tartar sauce! How’s that for optimism?

I have launched into the deep armed with a business license hooked onto an idea. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a good idea. I take that back, it’s a GREAT idea. I’m so excited about it that I splash all over myself trying to get everything done. I have my notebook, my ever-growing checklist and an ocean of tasks ahead of me. My little boat rocks from time-to-time and I get the occasional wave of nausea, but I see land ahead and can’t wait to get there.

Yes, I have started my own business. (For those of you who take me so literally, I feel I must explain that I am not actually going fishing for a whale.) Not because no one would give me a job, mind you, but because I decided that I need to make my own decisions. I was weary of stressing out because it was never enough. I was tired of working long, long hours then staying awake at night worrying about tomorrow. And the irony is, I loved my job so incredibly much! But I knew it was killing my spirit. I had allowed it to rob me of my joy. (No pun intended!)

I must say that I prefer what I am doing now. I feel adequate. I feel empowered. I pat myself on the back. Good job, Joy! I am meeting my goals. I am accomplishing more every single day. I enjoy working long, long hours even though I am currently putting zero money into my bank account; I am doing it for me! I am doing it because I know I can do for myself what I have done for others all these years.

I have a small, but supportive volunteer crew. (You are volunteering, right?) Many, many thanks to those who listen, ENCOURAGE and offer suggestions. Each day I move a little closer and gain a bit of confidence that I can really do this.

Each time I eat a Filet ‘o Fish sandwich at McDonalds, I think of you!!

How Old Will I Be?

Call me strange. Call me neurotic. Obsessive. Quirky. Sick. Want to see me with that “deer in the headlights” look in my eyes? Ask me how old I am and I become paralyzed as I start searching for a way to escape. I want to lie…and I keep that option open. But what I really want is to ask you, “Is there a reason you need to know?”

I despise those questionnaires that we all have to fill out almost on a daily basis.. Name, Address, City, State, Zip, Phone Number, Cell Phone Number, Email Address, Date of Birth. Whoa! Back up the truck there, Pete! Date of Birth?? Date of Birth???This inquiry causes me to break out in a cold sweat—Who wants to know? Why? Do I have to answer this question? I look around to see if anyone is watching. My hands tremble. My heart races. My breathing becomes shallow. My mouth goes dry. All color drains from my face. Tears begin to run down my cheeks. Slobber trickles down my chin. I’m in the throes of a full-blown panic attack.

Come on…Do you really need to know how old I am to sign up for your free newsletter? Does my age matter if I am opening a bank account? Or applying for yet another credit card? I mean, these people can plug my name into Google and find out more about me than even I want to know. My age should be low on their priority list.

I suggest that we stop asking that horrible, intrusive question. If it is a legal issue, just ask, “Are you of legal age to sign a binding contract in your state or locality?” If relevant, ask simply, “Are you over the age of 18?”

Again, I raise the query, “Who wants to know and why do they care?”

At what age will I start bragging about my age…again?

I was in line behind a little lady the other day. I was really quite annoyed with her anyway. As she took each item out of her cart, she folded it nicely and handed it to the cashier along with an explanation of why she felt compelled to purchase each article. “This rug will go beautifully with the wallpaper in my bathroom. This kitchen towel is exactly what I’ve been looking for. I collect chickens, you know.” On and on and on. Finally, as eternity was just ringing the last bell, she was finished. Did she pay by credit card like the rest of us? Oh, no! She pulled out her checkbook and started digging in her antique bag for a pen. “How do you spell Value City? Does it have an ‘e’? Is it one word or two?” (I’m thinking, “Who gives a care? Just sign the check.”)

Then, of course, the cashier had to ask for an ID. (Now, have you ever wondered why they do this? How does a photo ID affirm if the check is good? Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask for a copy of your last bank statement? Prove you actually have the cash to back up the check?) Of course, my little old annoying lady had to dig in her purse to find her wallet. As she handed over her driver’s license (yeah, that in itself is scary), she remarked that she would be 90 years old on Tuesday.

Don’t we quit saying that when we are 12? “I’ll be 13 next week.” Those were the days when we just could not wait to be one year older. I don’t remember the last time I was inclined to say, “I’ll be ___ years old next week.” I can’t imagine when I will be ready to say it again.

Perhaps when I am 89, I will have reached the age once again that I just can’t wait to be one year older.