Old Before Your Time

Deb: I have a few friends who are old before their time. Do you know what I mean? I am not talking about “old souls” here. I am speaking about the people who act their age. Or what they perceive to be the way someone of their age acts. When we are young we tend (mostly girls I think) to want to be older. This can start as early as six or seven, when a girl has her first cool girl babysitter or is perhaps visited by a cool older cousin. It can also happen when a little girl gets her first crush and longs to be taken seriously by said crush. I did not have this particular trait. I always loved the exact age I was and I was serious, silly, mature and immature within the framework of any particular year. Still am. 

But as I watch these friends “acting their age” I marvel at the progression of it. Suddenly they are stuck in their ways. They have lost their openness. They are unwilling to try new things. They must have what they eat and what they drink no matter where they are or whom they are with. And for the record, I am a picky eater but I don’t travel with my own tea or my own biscuits or that ilk. I like to try and go with the flow as much as I can, given the givens of my allergies and dislikes etc. But people who are old before their time seem to lose their sense of adventure. They seem to become stuck, fixed, planted, immovable. 

As I listened to one of these friends on the phone the other night I thought wow, she sounds eighty years old. But she didn’t. Or at least she didn’t sound like the eighty year olds in my life. My Mom still sounds eighteen in her attitude towards life and adventure. So I realized that she wasn’t acting any particular age, but instead she was acting an attitude. A fogey attitude. She was behaving in a way she thought was befitting her number and her stature. And she is far too young to be this much of an old coot in attitude. My other friend has even affected a voice, a slow admonishing pinched voice. And seriously she is a doll and I love her. But what the hell? I felt like yelling “you are my age! What’s with the nosy neighbour demeanor?" She was all “we don’t vacation out of the country any more, it’s too dangerous. We stay fairly close to home.” She said that they travel on day trips with their own food (not because of the expense or diet) but because they are more comfortable knowing they have their own food with them. She went on to express some political opinions that so shocked me, as she was one of the instigators back in the day of many a good “sit in” for great causes. She has gone from left to right and I mean RIGHT and I realized in talking to her that it is partly out of fear and more surprising, out of embarrassment. I cannot tell you how many times in our conversation she expressed embarrassment about something she saw or something she did. It’s as if the simplest act like riding a carousel at the park would reduce her to a red faced sweating heap. Anything that she used to consider fun was now beneath her and humiliating to even think about. 

I told her about a trip we were planning with friends and a website that allows you to gamble with where you stay. You put in how many stars you want your hotel to have and what area you want to be in and it places you in the best hotel. I am so excited about this concept and she would have been as well in the day. But she scoffed.  She was in awe that I would even consider this radical idea I could tell I had just gone down in her estimation. She used to play a mean guitar and I asked her if she still played at family gatherings or at the local pub. She said she has not picked it up in years and that did not surprise me. After all, it happens to all of us from time to time when we drift away from something for a while. But her reason shocked me and it was the only time I responded by slightly challenging her. She said “the guitar! For heaven’s sake I am fifty-eight years old!” I was so taken aback. I told her that I drum. She asked if I was any good. I said no but that I loved it. She asked if I ever played in front of people and when I said yes, she reminded me of my age. Well that got my rebel dander up and I told her I was starting ukelele lessons this week and that I also sketch, often and badly. And then she hit the nail on the head. She actually stated exactly how she felt. I didn’t have to surmise her feelings for this post because the words flowed out. 

She said she was shocked that I would do that because there were so many other pursuits that were age appropriate and when I asked her when she started down this path of least fun, she responded by saying that with each decade since high school she has felt the call of propriety. She has felt it was imperative to act her age, whatever that means. She said that when children came along she felt and still does, that her fun was over. She is a good mom but very strict. She has lost her joy. Joy is to be observed now from a distance with a disapproving frown. Joy is for others. She is a grown up lady and she is going to act the role. I got off the phone and just sat there. We have made a date for lunch in September. I am meeting her at the restaurant in her town that she and her husband eat at twice a week. She will not try other spots because ... well, because “this is the restaurant my husband and I eat at twice a week.” And I will love seeing her because I loved her so much when we were young. And we will meet and we will be the same age. She looks great for her age but does everything to make herself look older. Her clothes, her hair, her make-up is so beyond her. If you had known her young self you would be as shocked as I am. So I will go and I will be who I am: the ever-changing Deb. And I will accept her for who she is and enjoy our time together. And she will be embarrassed by me and I won’t care. 

And when the lunch is over I will get in my car and when a great song comes on the radio I will make the car dance. It’s one of my favourite things. 

Five Crazy Things: Starring Roles

Barbara: What five movie roles could you or would you like to imagine yourself in? (Please keep in mind that my own list is really hindered by the fact that I don’t have a great memory for the details in films I’ve seen, so I can’t riff off a nicely subtle but comprehensive list for you—I’m hoping Deb does that :-) )

1. Ripley in Alien. Not for the aliens, mind you, but for her fierce badass fearlessness.

2. Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story. What I remember most about this film is Katherine Hepburn’s intelligent self-examination.

3. Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. Because, well, who wouldn’t want to be (aka: look like) Audrey Hepburn in their fantasies? And there’s nothing like a transformational story where you get to keep all the best stuff from the before and after.

4. Erica Barry in Something’s Gotta Give. (Yeah, that would be the Diane Keaton character.) So many reasons for this one: she gets to go through a complete existential transformation in a most liberating, cathartic way AND she gets to do it in the most perfectly beautiful Cape Cod beach house I’ve EVER SEEN!

5. Erin Brockovich in Erin Brockovich. I don’t care about her boobs or her hair, it’s her unflinching attack on the bad and the wrong and her tireless against-all-odds defense of the underdog and what’s right.

Deb:

1. Any of Doris Day's roles in The Thrill of it All, Lover Come Back, Pillow Talk, et al. I would love to be sexy and charming and funny and work with those gorgeous brilliant men!

2.  Jane Craig: the role played by Holly Hunter in Broadcast News. Great great role! Smart, funny, neurotic!

3. Nora Charles played by Merna Loy in the Thin Man movies: loving wife, dog lover, mystery solver, wit extraordinaire. 

4. Hildy Johnson played by the great Roz Russel in His Girl Friday—again, smart sassy, witty. 

5. Kim Macafie played by the sexy and brilliant Ann Margaret in Bye Bye Birdie—need I say why? 

Always At Your Text And Call

Barbara: I don’t think my daughter will mind me sharing this story with you—because I think she is as perturbed by the implications of this issue as I am. Our debate started because we were sitting around, en famille, chatting, and she kept getting text messages from her friend to which she felt obligated to reply. Now this wasn’t a dinner convo that was being textually interrupted (that would be a no-no in these parts), but an after-dinner “relax and unwind”. In other words, if she felt like she wanted or needed to respond to her friend, we had no problem with it. But, it turned out, my daughter had a problem with it! She just really wanted to detach from her friend for a moment (a friend who she LOVES) so she could truly just … relax and unwind. So I found myself asking her about that (lately) oft-discussed issue of young people always having to be “on call”.

We realized that this new age of online life really has produced—especially in younger people—a knee-jerk impulse to immediately deal with whatever is going on. If you get a text, you answer the text. If you get a call, you answer the call. Only if you are legitimately occupied (say, at work, or eating with parents who outright forbid the phone at the table) can you let yourself get away with not responding. I emphasized the “let yourself get away with” part because, of course, the person who is looking for you has no idea if you are legitimately busy or just, you know, relaxing and unwinding.

See, we older folks have no problem with letting our responses wait. (Or at least we didn’t, back in the day.) If you call us, text us, email us, Facebook us, etc etc, we will get to you when we bloody well get to you. If I have a meal to enjoy, or tasks to do, or a conversation to have, or an ice cream to lick, or a story to write, I will do them and ignore your every effort to contact me until I decide the timing is right for a return to my online life/responsibilities. (… Or at least this is how I think I am. I’m not entirely convinced, even as I write this, that I don’t find myself a bit anxious at missing or ignoring or postponing certain requests for contact. I’m not entirely convinced that this new technological age hasn’t, in fact, re-wired my neurons a bit to convince me that if I don’t answer that text or email immediately I am betraying some sacred (unwitting) oath to the online gods of Constant Accessibility.) We middle-agers were not brought up—as you younger peeps have—in a time of utter transparency; we’ve been more inclined to prioritize what needs to be prioritized in order to maintain a kind of necessary balance between “I’m here for you” and “I’m here for myself”.

My daughter was a bit gobsmacked to realize that—by always being transparently available—she had led herself down a tricky little black hole. So, after a bit of discussion, I began to walk her through the old tricks of the coping-strategy trade by reassuring her that she could—in all honesty—“miss” texts/calls because she is “otherwise occupied”, no explanations necessary. There will always be time for a more timely catch-up. No ill will to beloved friends, no ill consequences for a bit of “me” down-time.

I think she got it … in theory. But in reality, I’m not really sure if she’ll ever feel totally guilt-free about putting down the phone and stepping away from the screen.  I’m not even sure I will.

Deb: I SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO DISAGREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Okay, I don’t disagree at all! Sorry, Barbara, I tried. (see: Agree To Agree)  I know that the youngs are so much better than we are (generally) with all things online. And thank God for their ease of knowledge as their help has saved me lots of time and given me lots of laughs as they regale me with clips of comedy shows I no longer stay up long enough to watch. But what the boomers and beyond have going for us in spades, what we excel at, is the perspective. I “flag” my emails now, to help me prioritize, but if I am socializing or really just relaxing, I am not responding. And other than genuinely time-sensitive emails, I take my time responding. I try my best, I really do, but I am not putting my life on hold for hours at a time to respond to things that can honestly afford to wait. And, frankly, I am not guilty about it. At all. It is not Hal (yet) and therefore I am still the boss of it.

Answers To This And Other Questions

Barbara: Found this video that asks “What If Everyone Jumped At Once?”. Examined by the affable host of Geek and Sundry, he answers his question pretty quickly, and then asks—and answers—some other interesting trivia questions (one of which addresses why I keep to my roughly 250 Facebook friends: because if you’re going to be my FB friend, I do want to actually know you in some way (and yes, “knowing” you from the blog does count)!)

Agree To Agree

Deb: Barb and I, upon the founding of this blog, claimed in our tagline that we were different women, with different husbands and different opinions. We are different women with different husbands, to be sure. We have never crossed that line. Although those of you who are in the know are aware that during a ski trip some years back, I did accidentally fondle Barb’s husband Phil with both my husband and all our children looking on. Desirous of my plan to be a stealth fondler, I acted in haste and paid the price. For those of you not in the know, lest I seem like a middle-aged Angelina, I thought the area I was tapping into belonged to my own legal husband. Thank heaven the kids were old enough to laugh with us!

Riffing off Phil’s crotch (thank you Phil), and back to Barb and I, we have lately begun to question the validity of our tagline. The area we have clearly failed at, the area in which we have let you down, dear readers, is the claim that we have “different opinions”. Because we mostly don’t. And we don’t “don’t” on purpose. We simply put our opinions out there and, as it turns out, most of the time, we agree ... with each other anyway. We sure didn’t plan it that way, but as it turns out ... we agree. After two-and-a-half years blogging, this is becoming painfully clear. Or in this case, happily clear. We are not good cop bad cop, nor are we Betty and Veronica. We are kind of two sides of the same coin. Actually we are not really two sides. We are both crammed into “heads”, leaving the blog without a “tails”.  A great example of this is that Barbara thought it was hilarious that I mistook her husband for mine on that fateful grabby ski trip. See? We cannot not agree!

So here’s the question. Why? What is it? We come from different backgrounds and have a big gap in age. Born 9 years and one day apart. But we are sister thinkers. Sister feelers. Fellow Cancerians.  We are not alike in outward personality at all. But wow, we are SO alike in our deep chocolaty centres.

Before writing this post, I went through our relationship in my mind, fast forwarding and rewinding, and what I found was that we have indeed disagreed in the course of our friendship. The reason it doesn’t stand out as disagreement is that it is dealt with so swiftly and fairly that it evaporates almost immediately. Both of us have been on the receiving end of disrespect in our individual work environments in the past.  Both of us are people-pleasing, non-confrontational gals. So when we do disagree about a thought or a direction, we really truly go as far as we can to see the other person’s point of view. We agreed at the beginning of our working relationship that we would always go a mile in each direction of two ideas until we came to the outcome of each. Then we would examine them equally and let the winning idea present itself on merit. And it always has. Every time we have done that exercise we have both jumped on the winning idea no matter which of us was the instigator. I think that’s how we treat our friendship too. We are always there to bail the other out no matter what. We never seek to blame, as we are too busy seeking solutions. Are we lucky? Yes, we are. But, like our marriages, we work at it. Because the friendship is worth it.

Here are some things I would like to disagree with Barb on. I would like to disagree if she didn’t want to travel with me. I would love to disagree if she didn’t want to write with me. I would like to disagree if she ever says we should stop being friends.

So we agree to agree. But you can feel free to agree to agree, or agree to disagree, or just disagree. I’m fine with that. Apparently, we both are.  And for our part, maybe once a month we should get all in each other’s faces. Hmmmm ... no, we’d just end up crying! Or maybe we should change our tagline because we are clearly not living up to our claim:

“different ages, different husbands, different underwear”

Can’t argue that!

Barbara: Oh, Deb, I am so so glad you finally addressed this little conundrum of ours. And, man, do I LOVE the way you’ve addressed it. Every thought, every discovery, every observation you’ve made here mirrors my own feelings (what I mean by that is: I hadn’t yet fully formulated all these thoughts, discoveries and observations, but I WISH I had, and IF I had, I’d only dare hope to express them as adorably and wonderfully as you). Okay, I’m agreeing with her (aka: openly loving her) again, aren’t I?

I have to emphasize Deb’s point that when we started blogging we really truly imagined we would disagree more—not for the sake of it, but by virtue of the fact that we were—on paper—quite different. And also for the sake of really showing the “two sides of the coin” thing. Looking back, I find it hilarious that we (pretty much) always agree. I love the way you’ve expressed the “why” of it here, Deb, and I (quite naturally!) agree with all your points. The double irony is that we’ve gathered an amazing group of like-minded souls here that often (but not always) agree too!

I do think it makes TMA a lovely, welcoming place. BUT I’d also like to reiterate that we are always open to differing opinions, especially because we talk here about the things that affect us and, by doing so in an open and vulnerable way, we also get to revel in the tweaks and shifts that inevitably come from getting a kaleidoscope of different reactions from all of you.

As much as I am definitely a “people-pleaser”, one of the best lessons I’ve learned from this experience is how to own my own opinions, even if they’re different—and, yes, even if they’re the same. For me, not worrying about pleasing people all the time (because I now truly understand that I can’t) and seeing my true heart for what it is has been a HUGE personal development. Would it be easier if everyone, including you, Deb, always agreed with me? Sure. But I still love that even the same opinions have different variations, and even the different opinions that are expressed here are done so with loving care and compassion. It has—believe it or not—made me less fearful and more patient with the many utterly different opinions out there and everywhere.

As for your new tagline, Deb—yup, our underwear is definitely, always, and 100% different!

Any Way You Slice It

 While The Cat's Away Annette Will Play:

Annette: Frequent guests of The Middle Ages have come to expect a discerning discourse full of wisdom and affirmation as Barb and Deb share and dispense insight with equal parts perception and compassion. Well, with apologies, you won’t be getting any of that today as personally I ration my limited supply of wisdom and, good intentions notwithstanding, end up contributing little more than a meaningless gasp to most meaningful disclosures. But I’m happy to throw a story at you and will be delighted if you even find a hint of a lesson in it!

The husband and I are well on your way to being empty-nesters. While we’ve yet to find ourselves with too much time on our hands, we have had the occasional conversation about what we will do with all the time that used to be devoted to raising the four offspring.  Our current shared hobbies involve things like travel and sourcing art so our tastes are a little too pricey and our retirement fund a little too dicey to occupy ourselves thus on an average day. 

So our thoughts have turned to trying something new…If my women’s magazines are to believed, the benefits will be numerous. In addition to reinforcing our bond, we’ll stave off cognitive decline by forcing our brains to make new connections and our aging cells will find themselves charmed by the additional social interaction. Acknowledging the limitations of my personal maxim, which is to say if you can’t do it in high heels I don’t do it, after some consideration we settled on improving our culinary skills as our activity of choice since we both love fine food and often labour over a hot stove together. With thoughts of the ‘next level’ floating in our heads, we registered for a technique class at Williams-Sonoma demonstrating the use of a mandolin.  

As we gathered on recent Saturday morning with our fellow class-mates, it became instantly apparent that we were the “newbies” in a sea of fanatical regulars.  An obvious clique of the most solid sort, the students consisted of well-heeled women who, regardless of age, had a matronly air and a couple of men best described, if I may borrow from Dickens’s as "delicate creatures, whom a breath might have withered". When the chef, under whose tutelage we would be slicing it up, arrived, he was greeted by said regulars like an arriving rock-star. However, he was not, by any stretch, cut from the same cloth as the celebrity chefs that fill our TV. screens in that he lacked physical presence and exuded anxiety. In fact, his manner was such that I leaned in and whispered to my other half, “His nerves are worse than mine!” which I can assure you is a grim assessment indeed.

In due course the class began and “Roberto”, as the regulars cooed every five seconds on the five, began the demonstration.  In a nod to my original call about his comfort level in front of a group, he mumbled and shook and generally screwed-up with awkward unease. It was one of those painful encounters wherein you wriggle with nervousness for someone just for bearing witness! (Spouse, who is a professor, in what would have to be an understatement of epic proportion, kindly assessed that he was not a natural teacher.) 

The regulars didn’t seem to notice though as Roberto collapsed the mandolin mid-julienne, launched a red pepper into space and dropped, then discarded as he couldn’t get it back on, the guard designed to protect fingers from the guillotine-like blade. They were busy shouting out their own observations about their mandolins and how they use them at home to perfect effect. (Of course this begged the question as to why, if you had been using a mandolin like a pro for twenty years, you would attend a demo of same.) As they continued to interrupt with inane questions and comments, the husband observed they were all much like his students…constantly talking while the lesson was being taught and shouting out random bits of information in some tribute to their presumed mastery of the subject at hand such that they miss the lesson entirely.  

As the class continued, Roberto used the mandolin to artfully slice the vegetables for a frittata which he proceeded to prepare in the special pan that has been created for that very dish for Williams-Sonoma by Calphalon. (If you want my opinion, I think shifting the $150.00 Calphalon Unison Slide Nonstick Frittata Pan Set was the real reason we had all been lured to the store early that weekend morn but will allow that’s just speculation on my part.) It consists of two interlocking pans that connect by handles that fit into one another allowing the pan to be flipped and the frittata to be completed directly on the stove eliminating the step whereby it would normally be placed in the oven to complete the cooking.  

The demo of the pan set inspired incredibly detailed interrogation from the throng with one woman insisting that Roberto measure each of the pans so she could ascertain the exact dimension leading us to wonder is she was using a toaster oven at home. And another, upon hearing the brand name “Calphalon” earnestly inquired “Roberto, are those pans made of anodized aluminum layered over stainless steel?” which caused the spouse to hiss, equally earnestly, to the back of my head “Shut the f*ck up!” in recognition that no one would ever have any need  for such knowledge. To our delight, it continued thus until the taste testing. I am pleased to report that what Roberto lacked in leading- man charisma, he more than made up for in sublimely delicious skill.

So what did our stab at shared self-improvement reap? Will our future be filled with mutual Le Cordon Bleu adventure? Ah…I’m going to say no! Even though we did deign to purchase a mandolin, I’m thinking our lives won’t change much beyond the fact that my fall pies will now be filled with apples sliced into perfect concentric circles.  For having witnessed it, neither of us could imagine mustering the passion that these foodies brought to a mere mandolin demonstration. (God love ‘em…if a stack of sliced peppers inspires such unmitigated excitement how must they handle the spectre of a perfectly stuffed chicken breast?)  So for foreseeable, the husband has returned to his poker and chess while I’ve returned to my gardening and party planning. Apparently, for now, we’ve got our own interests and never the twain shall meet… How about everyone else…anyone given a new activity a go recently? Love to hear how it went…and what, staying with the food theme, was your take-away?

Five Crazy Things: Mood Music

While the cats are away, Day 2: Welcome, Dawn!

Dawn: Before we get started here, I’d like to thank Barb and Deb for asking me if I’d like to write something while they were going to be away. I was thrilled they asked, they were thrilled I said yes. Here’s the result of the thrilling love-fest:

A lot of the Olympic athletes have been shown listening to iPods in between races or meets or whatever. Does anyone else here wonder what they’re listening to, or why? Does it relax them? Does it motivate them? Does it annoy the crap out of them and give them something stupid to distract themselves with while waiting around for their turn? It could be any or all of the above. Point is, it's obviously doing SOMETHING for them. 

What 5 songs motivate you? Pick you up when you’re down? Just make you jump up and dance?

I also call this list “Five songs I never skip over when they come up on the iPod or radio.”

1. “Come Sail Away” by Styx (1977).  I discovered Styx in high school. One of the songwriters, Dennis DeYoung, is damn good at putting how I feel into words with fantastic music. This is definitely one of his best. (Plus, piano!)

2. “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey.  Journey’s “Escape” and Foreigner’s “4” albums were the first true rock BAND albums I owned. (Before that, it was all K-tel.) This song is what got me singing into a lipstick-tube microphone for the first time. (And it has piano!)

3. “Freeze Frame” by J. Geils. Poppy, funky, pointless FUN. The video was fun. (Anyone remember a bunch of guys in white overalls throwing paint splats all over a white set?) The beat is fun, and it makes my mood FUN. I love it love it love it.

4. “Walking in Memphis” by Mark Cohn. This is the song I believe I sing better than any other song. Best listened to in the car by myself. ;) (And, more piano!)

5. “It Don’t Make Sense (You Can’t Make Peace)” by Styx (2006). Dennis DeYoung and the rest of Styx “divorced” in 1999. The recreated Styx covered, and seriously reworked, this song and turned it into something whose funky sound is stuck firmly in my head.

Okay? Ready, set, go!

Barbara: Oooh, I love this topic, Dawn, because a) I wondered the same thing about the athletes, and b) I definitely have specific mood music.

1. “Song 2” by Blur, for getting motivated (cliché, I know, but it was my gear-up song waaaay before the sports arenas adopted it).

2. “Bohemian Like You” by the Dandy Warhols. This song just makes me feel happy and good and ready for anything.

3. “Wolf Like Me” by TV on the Radio. For power. Oooh, yeah.

4. “Cosmic Love” by Florence and the Machine. For working. For uplifting. Ready for everything/anything. “I Will Wait”, a new song by Mumford & Sons, is doing it for me in this regard too.

5. “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails. For feeling sorry for myself. Which sometimes hurts so good. Johnny Cash’s version works too.

When the Universe Holds Your Hand (Startled by Grace)

While the cats are away, the mice are gonna play! Heeeeeeere’s Rigel:

Rigel: On this blog, Deb and Barbara have often guided us into conversations about a) taking care of ourselves, and b) how to take deliberate care of others in times of need. But, today, I want to talk about the times when, in small but well-timed and therefore significant ways, a force outside of ourselves seemingly steps in to provide precious incidents of unexplainable, unexpected grace and tender loving care. I am not talking about huge moments. Quite the opposite!  I am talking about tiny little treasures––scattered moments of surprising personal significance. These are itsy bitsy events precisely timed to make a big difference. When I think about these tiny moments of grace, in my mind's eye, I see hands that are bruised and bloodied from hanging on so tight to a ragged cliff face, dangling over a deadly abyss. And, for a moment, these tired hands are being taken into the soothing, healing hands of an angel and being refreshed, having the scrapes washed and bandaged. The big problems aren't solved. But, the moment's agony is soothed. Those hands may then go right back to holding onto that cliff face dangling over that wretched abyss, but they will do so less tired and with a stronger grip. I want to talk today about when the universe holds my hand.

Just to be safe, here are two bits of full disclosure to smooth potential ruffled feathers. First, I do not believe in coincidence.  Y'all might, and that's cool. I think most coincidences can be explained away by running lines of math and physics that are beyond what I have an intellectual grasp on. Some things are just bound to happen eventually if the iterations of probability and a congruence of variables get run for long enough. But I also believe some portion of coincidences are actually quite deliberately fostered by an outside force.  And that brings me to my second disclosure. This bloggie family is made of people along the full range of the faith spectrum. Because I am a Christian (albeit NOT Fundamentalist––I am a social justice oriented, feminist, increasingly radicalized Christian), heavily influenced by Reform Judaism (tikkun olam being my chosen sacred, guiding principle), as I write this blog post, my vocabulary will be influenced by my theist perspective. I think of God or angels holding my hand. But, the concept holds when applied using terms such as Allah, the Universe, karma, good energy, Mother Earth, or even the plants thanking you for the nourishing compost you just spread—any outside, larger, cosmic energy you endow with a degree of sentience. Also, as a Christian, I believe in the “small, still voice” of the Holy Spirit and that people who are open to this voice can be moved to be used as God's hands and feet on Earth. I can't count how many times I've heard stories and witnessed beautiful adventures that began with something along the lines of, “I didn't know what was going on with him. I just kept feeling a strong nudge to go by and check on him. Turns out it was perfect timing!” I can only see the words I'm typing through my own eyes. I do not mean to alienate or offend anyone. If you who are reading this are, for example, an atheist who believes in coincidence, I'm eager to read your take on this subject! I hope that the discussion on this post pretzels up my brain in a really fun, interesting way that I get to ponder over for days to come! But to write with any voice but my own would be a lie.

So, what do I mean by having my hand held? What do I mean by being startled by tiny moments of grace? I am not talking about huge things like a sudden windfall of money, the healing of a disease, or rescue from a car accident. I am talking about very minor, incidental, seemingly insignificant little drops of elixir that startle me with the positive in the midst of the negative. For example, during a teeth clinching, jaw aching, tension headache inducing, aggravating, really pissy day, I get into the car, crank it up, and the radio springs to life singing to me a happy, old favorite song with lovely memories attached. I pause for a few heartbeats and smile a little. My fevered mind suddenly stops, dives into a pool of clear, cold spring water, and then breaks the surface and draws in a deep breath. I am refreshed by perfectly timed grace, which I do not believe is a coincidence. And, afterward, I am better able to cope with the garbage. I have been startled by grace. My hand has been held, and my perspective has been shifted a few millimeters in a healthier direction. Or, after a day of dealing with a seemingly endless stream of mean, rude, spiteful, selfish people, I'm suddenly presented with a tall, handsome stranger of a man with smile crinkled eyes, a deep voice, and strong hands with long fingers—a gentleman who holds a door for me and gives me a nod and grin while calling me ma'am. How can I not feel a warm flush of happiness wash through me upon this reminder that not everyone is hateful and unpleasant? On a day when I'm feeling unbearably trapped and suffocated in this town, the library will call and say that an interlibrary loan I requested many, many weeks ago has come in. Perfect timing! Suddenly, I have a happy bit of the outside world for my eyes and brain to gobble up exactly when I most needed it! Or, as happened last week, in the two days before time for child support and my paycheck to deposit when there was less than dust in my bank account after having paid a high electric bill, a big packet of grocery coupons came in the mail, including coupons for customer appreciation freebies that happened to be for a couple of luxurious, indulgent favorites of both my son and myself.  We had what we needed to get by with careful planning, but that packet of freebie coupons gave us a surprise abundance, a small joy, treats in the middle of no margin of error. Does a packet of coupons from that grocery chain come a few times a year?  Yes. But, what was so special to me was that the packet arrived on THAT day. To me, it felt like a cosmic treat saying, “Someone is paying attention to how hard you've been trying, how careful you've been being. Someone knows how hard you've been fighting to make sure your son feels safe, secure, and provided for. Someone knows you're tired. Here's a little present for you to open to let you know you aren't really alone. Now, walk up to the grocery store and get your free goodies to enjoy until the money comes at the end of the week.” It's tiny, perfectly timed gestures like these that are often just enough to reboot my virus-ridden mental hard drive. They grab me by the scruff of the neck, yank me up, and remind me, “It's not all bad. IT'S NOT ALL BAD. Someone is paying attention. An angel just held your hand.” It's grace as a perspective check.

Then there are the really bad times. During an ultra-difficult day or in the depths of the rancid, sticky bowels of a long, dark night of the soul, I may be struggling in suffocating muck and mire, frantically screaming red alert klaxons in my mind begging for huge miracles and sweeping changes. During these hours when hope has begun to fail and frustration is hitting critical mass, it is most often one of these out of the blue tiny moments of grace from a source outside of myself that starts to wake me up, that puts a crack in the wall of dark fog.  When I get like that, I get to where I can't imagine things getting better. I can't see out of my pit. The fog has blanketed out any light, any sense of goodness in the future. And I really, really suck at getting myself out of that mindset. And, then, for example, my computer will chime, and there'll be an email from Deb replying to an email I had sent her days before. And that email will contain something that makes me smile and laugh and makes me feel loved EXACTLY at the second I needed that. (Deb, I bet you didn't know that sometimes your insomnia is well timed!)  Or, in a day when I'm so deep in my pit that I've begun to slide down into my bunker mentality, hiding from phone and email, not leaving home, sheltering in place, out of the blue a friend who had no way of knowing that I was in the midst of a dark spell will call up and say, “I'm bored. It's almost Sonic half price happy hour. Can I come pick you up, and we'll go get a soda?” When the universe holds my hand like this—the startling, tiny moment of grace—it gives me enough pause to enable me to once again feel the faint flicker of belief and hope that refuses to die in that place deep, deep in my chest where the most essential corner of my soul seems to be almost physically tangible. A gentle whisper takes my hand and reminds me, “Stop. There is love. There is hope. You are not alone. Be still for a few seconds. Feel gratitude for this moment of grace.  Gratitude. Gratitude. Gratitude.” These tiny gestures of care give me a reorienting jolt – the proverbial slap to the face in the midst of hysterical negativity. I can begin to see through a lens of gratitude instead of being blinded by fear, rage, or panic. It doesn't fix everything. But, it helps me imagine that in a few hours or a few days, I WILL feel better. It reminds me that this feeling of unfixability, of hopelessness, is an illusion that will pass. When the universe throws me one of these exquisitely timed tiny moments of grace, I grab at the warm, fuzzy metaphysical security blanket with a grip so tight that the knuckles of my spirit's fingers are whitened. I pay attention. I collect these graces and line them up on a bookshelf in my brain and take them down, flicking through their pages at later times when I need a reminder, a gratitude tinged perspective check. A tiny moment of grace not only changes the challenge it has interrupted. The gratitude wrapped memory continues to heal long after the occurrence.

Why did I chose this topic for the blog today, even running a risk since it is religion tinged? So often this blog and the precious people within its embrace are the source of these tiny moments of grace. So often, I have witnessed this bloggie family being the handholds. And, not just for me. How often in the comments have we read someone's words that the topic for the day was exactly what she needed to read that day? How often have we answered that small, still voice to close ranks around one of our number who is wobbly? I know y'all have done it with me, and I count it a profound privilege to have been able to be a part of doing it for some of y'all. How often have we read the words of someone who has never spoken up before but who is chiming in for the first time to describe experiencing a perfect, cosmic hand-holding via this blog? How many of us now have at least one new, offline friend that we met online through this blog—someone whom we never would've met otherwise but who has since fully integrated herself into our lives? I do not believe this bloggie family has coalesced by luck. Nor by the commonality of Colin fangirldom. I believe this bloggie family has been formed as a sacred act of grace. The angels, God, the universe, whatever you want to call it is holding our hands.

Colin fangirldom. Yeah, I went there. * deep breath * Most of us have outed ourselves as Colin fangirls. But, you know what? The whole Colin and Whose Line? thing is an absolutely essential part of this topic. And, I would be a shameful coward if I didn't address it. Colin, Ruth called it perfectly in a conversation she and I once had. She said that your work is your ministry. That is 100% true. You are an instrument of God's grace. You and your work are angelic hand-holding. How many of us have admitted to finding, through Colin, a spark of light, laughter, hope in the midst of unbearable darkness? How many of us medicate our insomnia not with drugs but with Whose Line? clips on YouTube? How many of us have written in discussions on this blog how Colin's work has helped us, encouraged us, taught us, warmed us, freed us when we were locked up in a bad place in our heads? How many of us have sought refuge in Colin's gifts? The big, bad thing that was plaguing us at that moment wasn't fixed, but enjoying Colin's work was that tiny spark of grace that helped refresh our spirits, helped open up our minds to healing. A silly little something like finding the right comedy video at the right time opened the door to a much larger torrent of grace. A perspective shift, an unclinching, a deep breath. I do not believe in coincidence. And how many of us? The majority of us? How many were led into this bloggie family via Colin? A larger gift that has flowed from an already precious one. Many of us have previously expressed our gratitude here on the blog. But I'm saying it here in this post in a really face heating up, heart racing, tummy churning way, hands shaking hard to type way: Thank you, Colin. Thank you for your work. Thank you for introducing us to Deb and Barbara. Thank you for your kind, gentle, patient strength. Thank you for all the times you have answered that still, small voice.

I also want to make sure that I reveal here, publicly, with complete honesty and clarity my profound gratitude to Deb and Barbara for so frequently being open to being the instruments of these moments of cosmic care. From the beautifully unique approach of each woman flows beautifully unique grace. For example, Barbara often presents a perspective I never could've imagined but that is exactly what I need to examine at that exact, precise moment. She's freakishly accurate. And Deb is the only person I know who can fuss at me hard without hurting my feelings.  And her fusses always fall at exactly the right time. That cold splash, that jolt, that reorientation. And they both are the perfect kind of silly when I am wound way too tight. As instruments of grace, their notes are played with the purest, richest tone and pitch. They are earthly angels being used to hold my bloody, bruised hands. The praise and gratitude I feel about this cannot be covered even by the strongest adjectives and superlatives. Exultant? Profound? Rapturous? Enormous? No. There are not words sufficient to cover my gratitude for Deb and Barbara. They both demonstrate love in a way I've never known before.

Anyway, to close, I want to ask: Do you experience cosmic hand holding? How do you perceive it?  How do you explain coincidences of grace? Do you ever get your mind rebooted by a tiny event? What's your perspective on gratitude? Basically, what's your take on all this?

And, also in closing, I want to say that I love you all and feel limitless gratitude for the grace filled gift of this bloggie family.

Love and hugs,

Rigel

Need A Laugh? How ‘Bout A Maniacal One?

Barbara: I was searching for something fun to share with you guys today and stumbled upon this: a collection of the 100 greatest maniacal laughs. About time someone thought to do this—thanks, James Chapman! Even though these laughs are maniacal, I’m gonna bet it makes you want to laugh too.

(PS I think I’ve actually seen most of these. But which one is my favourite??? And also, so few women, so much Nicolas Cage…)

PPS Deb and I are going to be gone on our annual Girls’ Farm retreat for the next couple of days. Usually we’re gone over a weekend, so no blog misses, but this year we’re going from Wednesday to Friday. Instead of hanging up the Gone Fishin’ sign, we asked a few regulars to post here for us. Thanks, you guys! So keep checking in and commenting, and don’t be shy to play and have fun—we’ll catch up with all the shenanigans when we get back. 

How I Learned To Love My Grey Hair (…but not in the way you think)

Barbara: I wish I loved my grey hair in that way: the way that means wearing it proudly and showing it off. I have a few friends who own their natural colour and I am in true admiration of it. They look beautiful—the grey compliments their complexion and plays up the sparkle in their eyes. But the truth is, I am not in that particular headspace. I actually find the whole idea of going full-on grey a bit hairy, or, without wanting to split hairs, maybe more hair-raising. In fact, I am in a bit of a follicle just thinking about it. (…sorry! okay, I’m done.)

I have never actually loved my hair in any way. It is too fine, too blah, disobedient, inglorious. I remember standing in front of the mirror when I was younger and bemoaning the lack of thick lusciousness that I admired and envied on the heads of—apparently—everyone else (especially, of course, on the heads of movie stars and super models; you know, ordinary people like that). Far from being my crowning glory, my hair felt like my naughty nemesis.

I can say that age does (or can) bring wisdom in this regard. Truly, all the stuff that made me feel so less-than, so lacking, so icky when I was younger begins to mean less and less. As you all know well from our blogging here, the best part of aging is caring less to measure yourself against others, and caring more about owning who you are, flat hair and all.

My hair turned grey well before its time. I mean, my dad had a whole head of grey hair in his 40s, so maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but my mother still doesn’t have much grey and she’s in her 70s (don’t tell her I told you!). It took me a while to notice because I’ve been a die-hard hair-colourer since way back. It was my hairdresser who finally pointed it out—not in a cruel way, but noting that she would need to keep the grey hairs in mind when she coloured. “Grey hairs?!!!” Arggghh. I watched my roots in horror as the random greys became the “skunk” became the “all over”. There it was—another unwelcome change I would have to make peace with.

And then my hair surprised me!

Those greying hairs that were winnowing their way under my artificial colour? They were also improving the texture of my fine hair, giving it more body and movement. Random—but once much coveted—flips and waves were suddenly animating the blah limpness. And if I brush it into a ‘do, it—finally, for the first time ever—staaaaaaaays!

So, while I’m not making any grand strides forward for the age-movement here, I did want to share the giddy news that not every change we’re predisposed to think of as “unfortunate” has a sigh-inducing outcome. No, some ends aren’t split at all. Some ends are smooth and silky and have a perky little bounce.

Deb: Barb, you are so very right, although as I write this I can’t help thinking of our blog tag-line which in part says “different opinions”, which I realize we rarely have. I think I’ll blog about that!

Annnnnnnnnnd back to this post––A hairdresser once told me that he found that his clients who take HRT (don’t you love the things we tell our hairdressers?) fared better in the hair department than woman who did their menopause naturally. My first thought was, “Why are you telling me this?” (given that I was not taking said drug), but as I got grey I experienced exactly what Barb has just said. My hair is bouncier than ever and I love it. I do dye my hair and plan on continuing to do so for some time. I highlight it too and it is really all about the highlights when it comes to hair body. Very recently a friend said that her hairdresser said it was time for her to go grey. She is 58 and her hairdresser said that we should let ourselves grey when we get a certain amount of grey, because as we age our faces take on a colour that supports the grey, and not the colour we are choosing. That may be true, but clearly I am not there yet as I like the way I look right now. I think there comes a day when every gal looks in the mirror and says, “It’s time.” And I will do it some day, but I can tell you for sure, it won’t be any time soon! 

Rush To Relax

Deb: The other day I was pushing the limits on the kitchen cleanup when a simple thought occurred. I was picking up paper with one hand, emptying the dishwasher with the other, while making eyes at the lower door window with its puppy nose imprints, glass cleaner in my paw. All of this is normal for me. I have no issue with wanting things to be tidy and clean. But it suddenly dawned on me that I was moving at the speed of light. Truly. My dogs were staring in the direction of my scent and couldn’t even see me. I was just that fast.

And I thought, Why am I rushing? And how many times a day do I do this rushing? I realized with some alarm that I am so in love with the relax that I am rushing, panicked to accomplish all my chores in an attempt to achieve the ultimate chore reward—the relax. So I thought about it and was reminded of that old classic tune ... “Whistle while you work, Hitler is a jerk, Mussolini bit his weenie, now it doesn’t work.” ... sorry, got off track there with memories of grade three recess. 

What I thought about was The Seven Dwarfs (should I have capped that?). Is that their official moniker—The Seven Dwarfs?

I thought of their peppy happy little song, sans Hitler. What I really thought of was this idea of being happy at your work. I don’t mean your artistic work, your “trained for” work, your passionate work. I mean your toilet cleaning, counter wiping work. I mean the work that never ends. Hmmm, another song comes to mind. “It just goes on and on, my friends”...

I’m talking the crap work, you know what I mean. I strived to break the Olympic record for the empty dishwasher-clean stove-sweep floor-athon. Although I missed a shot at the podium, I was chuffed at achieving my personal best. Then it hit me. I was rushing to relax. These cleanup minutes have become empty time. They hold no value to me because I am simply getting through them. Am I really truly going to throw these moments away?

No. I need to pimp my clean. I need for it not to be the lousy wasted moments of my life. So tonight as I cleaned up, I put on Annie Lennox and I danced around the kitchen as I sashayed with the clean pots and pans, worthy partners all. I am vowing to take the piss out of tidy, the crap out of clean. I am going to rock that garbage disposal till it screams for limp scallion stems. 

Although the Seven Dwarfs got second billing, they had it goin’ on.

Barbara: Ha! I do very much relate to this, Deb, as I have found myself, on many an occasion, rushing through my chores. Or worse, nursing a sense of stress that I’m not doing them quickly enough, or that I haven’t yet gotten to them, or that as soon as I’ve done it, I will have to do it all over again. Why do I (we) get so stressed about something as simple and fundamentally non-taxing as The Chore? Deb, I love your Personal Best, Seven Dwarfs initiative! In fact, it reminds me of something a yoga instructor once told me: when you do a chore (ie, like washing a dish), it’s the best time to unwind and put yourself in the moment. Take that dish and really observe it as you clean it, really, as corny as it sounds, be in that moment. With your dancing and singing, Deb, you’ve shown us how to do it. Now if only I could get you to tape yourself doing it and post it here so we can really see how you do it :)

Five Crazy Things: TV Shows

Barbara: In the spirit of yesterday’s spirited conversation (you guys ROCK!), I thought it might be fun to name our favourite shows for our ages. 5 might be hard, but here you go!

1. Gilligan’s Island (this from my childhood—I’d watch the reruns after junior school every single day)

2. 30 Something (ironically, when I was 20-something)

3. Twin Peaks (need I say more?)

4. Friends (in my 30s)

5. Game of Thrones (right now. I love magic realism, and this baby has awesome characters of ever age, although the older ones are by far the most interesting)

Deb:

1. I love Lucy

2. The Dick Van Dyke Show

3. Andy Griffith

4. Twin Peaks

5. Friends

6. Six Feet Under

7. Buffy the Vampire Slayer

8. 30 Something

9. Friday Night Lights

10. The Mary Tyler Moore Show

11. Gidget

Yes, I know, couldn't stop myself. 

What are yours?

Too Old To Be Sexy?

Barbara: I was gobsmacked the other day to read a Facebook-linked article about the fact that Harry’s Law—the TV show featuring Kathy Bates—was cancelled … not because there weren’t enough viewers, but because they were too old! Too. Old. How depressing is that?

I always knew that networks favoured the younger demographic, but I truly thought it was because they must watch more. Even if that didn’t actually jive with my reality (my daughters are NOT loyal TV watchers). But when the viewer-numbers totally support a show and then to find out that those great numbers still aren’t enough to secure a show’s future because it's geared to older viewers is soooo disheartening.

I hate to rant about this inequity because it’s kinda like ranting against bad officiating at an Olympic soccer game between Canada and the US ;) –if you can’t change a bad call, might as well accept it, right?

But do we have to accept it? According to the article, baby boomers spend—get this—400 BILLION DOLLARS MORE THAN ANY OTHER GENERATION. EVERY YEAR. Yeah. Every year!! See? I’m hoping that if I yell it loudly enough, advertisers will want to not just take my money, but maybe, maybe, tell my stories too.

In fact, you don’t have to look farther than Deb and I to hear tales of authentic and charming film and television ideas (if I do say so myself) that have been embraced by producers for these qualities … and then rejected by networks for their target demographic.

I know young people are sexy for their youthful glow and hot bods, but surely our money and spending potential should be waaaay sexier. I mean, you can sell us houses and cars and vacations and insurance and investment opportunities and expensive creams and, well, I could go on and on, right? My girls? The supposed ideal demographic for advertisers? They struggle to pay for their inexpensive goodies, and then have loyalty to exactly none of them afterward.

Every time I hear another story about how no one wants to tell our stories because we’re not sexy enough, the more I want to go all “cougar” on the networks and prove them otherwise. Except, of course, Harry’s Law, with its 8.8million loyal viewers (for NBC, second only to Smash in popularity) should have paved the way for us and still couldn’t do it. And if they can’t do it, how can any of us older viewers/creators hope to stake our place in storytelling?

I mean, I love the “young people” shows and movies. I’ll go to Batman and I’ve watched and loved Girls. But I can also say that 21-year-old Stefanie is very excited to see the new Meryl Streep film, Hope Springs. And why? Because she “loves watching middle-aged people navigate life”. I swear to god, direct quote. I think lots of young people like to watch older people do their thing. It’s about knowing what to expect down the road. It’s about relating to each other, learning from each other, speaking to each other from all different vantage points. It’s about accepting each other, age spots and all.

Life is interesting in every shape and size. Please open the door to this reality and don’t dismiss us because … I don’t know, because we aren’t as sexy as our kids.

Deb: My blood boils as I read this. Barb is too classy to refer to an exact recent incident because in fact she was my co-writer, but the project was rejected not because of the writing, but because it was felt that Colin and I are too old to be the “leads” in a series. Our middle-aged plot lines are not interesting to the general population apparently.  GENERAL POPULATION???? See above for Barb’s rant regarding just who is doing the spending!!!! But, nonetheless, a few months ago after peddling our pilot around, we were told in various subtle and not so subtle ways that we were, well ... past our TV prime. Now I am pretty darned good at moving on with stuff like this, but I told Barbara that I was frankly daunted by this for a few days. It is the first time in my life, next to the day I found out I was menopausal and could no longer have children, that I felt redundant. So I hope that some other middle-aged couple comes along and does it for us, and for the considerable audience that is waiting to see their stories represented.

Where The Wise Things Are

Deb: This just killed me in its simple message and honesty.

Ten Second Life

Deb: I think I have already made it clear that I love the Olympics and watch every second I can make time for. I admire, above all, the drive and commitment and passion of the Olympians. I love focus. I love when people know what they want and let nothing stand in their way in accomplishing their goals and their dreams.

A Canadian newspaper critic was going on in his usual snide fashion about the 100 meter race and how foolish we are to make a big deal over it, given that it only lasts ten seconds. Today as I was waiting with bated breath for the men’s hundred meter to start, my husband surprised me by saying the same thing the critic had said. He wasn’t disparaging the 100 meters like the critic did, but he was saying in a nutshell that “it’s almost like watching Nascar, except given that it is only 100 meters, it’s over in ten seconds. I mean what are they going to do after it is over?”

Wow. We could not be farther apart in this regard because I see it as something else completely.

Firstly, all due respect to my husband, I do not view their race, their training, and their moment in or out of the sun, as something they need to parlay into something else. It is what it is, in that moment in time and all the time spent leading up to it.

To me the 100 meters is a glorious parallel of what life is and the living of it. Working and playing and loving the path that leads us, ever closer, to our goal. And that ten seconds? (or less than ten seconds if you saw today’s final) IS life, I think. It is this precious life of ours that gets shorter and shorter. At this stage of my life, I get it. What did I do with my ten seconds? What did I accomplish? And more that that, what can I still do with the seconds that are left?  Shorter and shorter it gets as we near our end time here on earth. I see that ten seconds as the brass ring that must be grabbed every time we wake up to another day.

Ten seconds is a lifetime and a lifetime is ten seconds. It makes glorious sense to me.

Barbara: Of course you know, Deb, that I am just as much of an Olympics fanatic as you are, and I want to tell you: I LOVE this analogy. First of all, I also LOVE the 100 meter race. It is exciting and dynamic in ways no other race can be. To me that’s the nutshell of “why do it”. No other race can give witness to that burst of human physical prowess or answer the question “what is the top human speed?” The other races, by comparison, must factor in stamina and endurance. But on a totally metaphorical sense, I think the comparison between life and the 100 meters is sublime. It is over in a flash, and so many of us—if not all—will ask at some point, “Well, why did we do it/bother/make such a big deal over it?” We’re all running it, whether we realize it or not. So let's train for it, fight for it, revel in it. Eat it up. It really does go by so very quickly... Just remember, the glory is in the running, not the final medal at the end.

When The Other Shoe Is On My Foot

Barbara: My daughters both work at a fashion retail store—it’s a job they LOVE, both reveling in the latest looks, the fun of helping customers find the perfect outfit, and the camaraderie of working closely with an excellent bunch of cohorts. Stefanie was regaling us with shop-talk the other night over dinner, and talk turned to customer-manners. Now, obviously these guys have experienced every kind of customer over the years—and they truly love most of them—but every now and then, the girls get treated, well, like “girls”. Young people who have no lives or feelings of their own. Like the time a couple of women decided to stay and shop 45minutes past closing. The ladies were having fun, they were trying on clothes, they were gossiping and giggling … and they suggested to Stef and her co-worker that they “didn’t mind that they were staying so long, did they?” To which Stef and her co-worker insisted, “No, not all.” The thing is, of course they minded—it had been a long day, it was late, and they were anxious to get to their respective homes and eat a late dinner and relax, but were too polite and service-oriented to say anything.

Why am I telling you this? Because my darling daughter informed me that it turns out that many middle-aged women are routinely—if not rude, if not mean or icky—very entitled. Way more so, she insisted, than any younger customers that come into the store. Of course, I’d been smugly certain that it would be the other way around. And while I found this news both shocking and fascinating—enough, in fact, that I totally knew I was going to blog about it as soon as I could—I was way more shocked and fascinated by the fact that a mere few days later, I, moi, me, myself, your humble blogger, your friend (remember this part, please), exhibited a crafty bit of entitled shopping myself.

Now before I over-sell my rudeness, I will proviso this by saying that I consider myself pretty thoughtful for the most part. I do think about other people when I am out in the world, I am reasonably self-sacrificing (okay, not always), and I do care that other people aren’t getting shafted by my demands and needs. So, by these, my own high standards, I was a bit taken aback by my own “entitled” moment.

The other evening, I needed groceries for dinner and rushed to the store to stock up. I pulled into a parking spot and when I got out of my car realized that, thanks to a lack of painted lines, I’d taken up the equivalent of two spots. I knew this, and yet still headed off to run my errands. When I got into the store and, after madly scrambling to grab my armful of dinner ingredients, I found myself in a loooooooong line at the checkout. I was frustrated, but settled in for the wait. Then another cashier showed up and opened a new cash. One line-bound customer ran for the newly opened cash, but everyone else stayed in that first looooooong line. I hesitated as second after second after second ticked by and no one moved. I knew I could say something; I could, for instance, have kindly suggested that maybe some of the people in line ahead of me might consider grabbing that eagerly awaiting line-less cash. But what did I do? I lifted my armful of groceries, steadied my nerves, and nimbly picked my way through the patiently waiting customers until I—who had been far back in the line—was now at that sweetly empty second spot in line.

As I loaded up the conveyor belt with my goodies and glanced out the window at my two-spot-taking car, I couldn’t help thinking, “I am that woman. That middle-aged, entitled (also white and middle-class) woman who thinks the world revolves around her.” I’m telling you, I vacillated between a feeling of dumb self-horror and selfish excitement. I had consciously, purposefully—but not proudly—stepped outside my box.

Would I do it again? Probably not… Am I changing for the worse? I don’t think so. But I am certainly not the utterly gracious, selfless, and generous consumer I had blindly assumed myself to be.

I know I am, but what are you???

Deb: Wow, this is a tough one. I know you to be that honest gal who is always considerate of other people’s feelings. I say everybody deserves one of those “playing outside the lines” every once in a while whether they are middle-aged or not. I hesitate to answer this one for myself lest I be deemed a goody two-shoes, but the truth is, and I am not lying a lick, I have backed in and out three times to make sure I only took up the one space and I am always the person who defers and says to that person in front of me, “Did you see the next line just opened up?”

You hate me right now, don’t you, Barb?  I am certainly not saying in any way that I am the better person. Nor do I think you are about to go out and rob a bank. It is just that I was brought up by Nan and Jim, rules followers, purveyors of fair play and all that rot. My brother is the exact same. So it is just not in me to do that. Hell, I have a wheelchair parking pass on my car all the time and I only use it when Dad is in the car. Yes, I am that girl. Sorry, darling friend, but here’s what I will say, “Halleluiah, Barbara is human!”

Quick Bean

Deb: Good day, everyone, we wanted to post Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth's debut as a Bond Girl at the opening ceremonies of the 2012 London Olympic games, but it has disappeared in its original form. Instead, please enjoy Mr. Bean’s star turn in the London Symphony Orchestra.

Not Singin’ The Second Time Blues

Deb: In the theatre there is an expression: “second time blues”. Maybe it isn’t just a theatre thing, but the concept is that the night after an opening night, is always the worst night to go and see a show, for any number of reasons. But it can apply to anything, I guess.

So when we came back up to the beach house this year, I wondered if we would suffer the dreaded “second time blues”. You know that friggin’ thing. We have all done it. How often do we try to recreate a moment or event? It is a painful and challenging journey, isn’t it? Nothing sadder than watching yourself trying to have fun. Trying trying trying! Forced laughter, making it new. Woo..............Hoo.

Happy to report that no such thing has occurred for us on this, our second year at the beach. The things that were great are still great and we are finding a different and familiar rhythm this time. We’re mixin’ in up, mixin’ up the fun. We have put a few new “games” in this trip, one of which I will report on next week, complete with photos. Even the spotty internet which is making my Olympic watching a challenge, is not dampening my spirit. I catch what I can when I can catch it. As we do our beach walks this year, I have found, each of the days, a heart-shaped stone. I have collected three of them. I have for years collected rocks from places we travel and put them in a bowl beside my bed. What can I say? I’m a rock fan.

The big difference for me this year is my new camera. Our friend Greg, one half of the couple we share this trip with, has a wonderful camera, the photos from which I shared last year on the blog. Well, didn’t I covet that camera all year, wanting to click click click like a pro! How else could I take close-up shots of random flowers!  So my lovely husband bought me the camera for my birthday and, while I am just getting to know my new friend, I will share with you some shots of the first few days of Beach House 2012! Forgive me this brevity-bloggie please. I am chillin’ with the ice cubes.

No Second Time Blues for us.

Barbara: I do know what you mean, Deb! Sad but true, it can happen. Just so glad to hear that this is not the case for you and the Beach House gang. You all sooooo deserve the break and the rest and the quiet. Also, very excited your new camera is proving every bit as exciting and interesting as you imagined it would. These pix are just BEAUTIFUL!