I wake up Thanksgiving morning with eyebrows scrunched over a sad and confusing dream, a slight hangover, and Bruno Mars "I Think I Wanna Marry You" playing in my head, and I have a revelation.
The dream was of my parents having a ninth child (we don't need to go in to the whole explanation of how bizarre that is right now), whose birth I missed, but I read in the morning paper that he only lived long enough to look very happily at his parents.
The hangover is from a single beer and a conversation with my sister (Take this Cup Motivational and Spatial Design Consultant) about life being basically unfair and way, way too much work.
Bruno Mars came along in a video link the other day, sent to me by my good friend (and Take this Cup Marketing and Graphic Design Consultant) of a tear-jerking-from-even-the-biggest-jerk marriage proposal in which all of the friends and family of a couple (including a marching band and some friends on Skype) come out to dance and lip-synch along. Of course I cried. At the time I thought "a pox on these videos until late February, or I'll never survive!" And I thought it was too much for me because it made me feel like a spinster.
But here's the truth.
The video makes you cry (yes, it will make You cry) not because two people are getting married, but because a whole community of people love them so much that they spent hours putting together a synchronized dance for an audience of one. And because they happily believe in love.
Life is unfair, and it will give you a hangover. You will have to work and work and work, and you might lose everything. Or you might have everything you could possibly want and still be unhappy. But I realize this morning that the random unfairness of life has worked in my favor far more often than not. Being born itself, even for a minute, is an incredible gift.
I taught a Conversational English class in Korea in which the topic one day was what you would do with a month left to live on Earth. One student said "Everyone, write." I teacherly wrote on the board "I would write letters to everyone." Underneath I wrote "I'm sorry for.... Thank you for...." He stopped me and said something I don't think I'll ever forget. "Not sorry, just thank you."
There's no time to edit now- it's time to clean up and get the green beans and salad ready and celebrate this wonderful holiday. I won't list all of the things I have to be thankful for, except for you. Thanks for reading my blog. Thanks for believing in my dream.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KQSZbQWuSKs&feature=fvwrel
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
spiders and brake lines
It's funny what scares you. Or maybe you're perfectly normal and only afraid of heights that you may fall from or snake bites that might actually kill you. As for me, I like to take the quirky side of irrational. Apparently.
The 1973 Dodge Calypso that is to become the Take this Cup Coffee Truck is perched happily and safely in the back corner of the yard; backed there by a neighbor who offered to do it for me, likely without even knowing that the thought of driving the thing has been keeping me up nights for a week. I had been sitting in this chair, trying to take up nail biting, instant messaging my friend Harmony to talk her into guiding my drive to the back yard on her lunch break. Not because the treacherous roll around the corner of the house would be hard to navigate, but because the thought of doing it had me in a complete panic. As I awaited her response, I absently brushed the hairy eight-legged monster off my elbow without a second thought. (Well, there was a second thought, a few minutes later, as to why I hadn't jumped through the window screaming when a wolf spider was crawling on me, but even that was a rather calm thought.)
My sister Jesse gave me a ride to pick up the Calypso last week. I had a securely fastened manila folder of registration paperwork, printed out insurance emails and temporary plates and a promise that my new pal who was selling me the vehicle would help me drive it home. Just as soon as he was done at the dentist. He hadn't called back by the time we got there, so we took a detour to do a little shopping while I waited for the call. Is that actually my greatest fear, I wonder? Waiting for the phone to ring? Or slowly going mad waiting for the ring tone, like watching for an inanimate possessed object to come to life? That is precisely what I started to do, wandering the aisles of Target, checking the screen compulsively incase I suddenly went deaf and wouldn't be able to hear the ring on full volume. What if he just didn't call back? Just disappeared? Took off with the check and laughed to someone about how he'd pulled one over on this stupid woman from Bantam who thought she bought a camper on Craigslist. What if I would just have to go and retrieve the vehicle on my own, learning to drive this antiquated beast down Rte 202 as I went?
So relieved was I when he did finally call and we were at last in the bucket seats heading west that the brakes going out on East Main Street in Torrington didn't even get me down. I was still smiling, gripping the dashboard, as we rolled through a red light at a busy intersection, unable to stop, and into the Twin Co parking lot, where the emergency brake finally did its job.
Is it overdrive, I wonder? Or do we only start to think clearly and positively when we get close enough to a near-death situation to give us a little perspective? I still haven't had to actually drive it myself, but the Calypso, all five tons, is parked out back on just enough of an angle, aimed right at my window, right at my chair, spider and all, that if the brakes suddenly succumbed to gravity- well, I want to say that it would all be over quickly, but that's not true either. The fire and smashed house and unpayable hospital bills of that scenario are perhaps just enough to keep me and my sense of perspective happily in order.
You know what they say. If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up too much room. Some people sky dive. Me, I think about parking. Some people wrestle alligators. Me, I make business plans.
Stay tuned for the next action packed episode, wherein our heroine replaces a PVC pipe for the camper water tank......
The 1973 Dodge Calypso that is to become the Take this Cup Coffee Truck is perched happily and safely in the back corner of the yard; backed there by a neighbor who offered to do it for me, likely without even knowing that the thought of driving the thing has been keeping me up nights for a week. I had been sitting in this chair, trying to take up nail biting, instant messaging my friend Harmony to talk her into guiding my drive to the back yard on her lunch break. Not because the treacherous roll around the corner of the house would be hard to navigate, but because the thought of doing it had me in a complete panic. As I awaited her response, I absently brushed the hairy eight-legged monster off my elbow without a second thought. (Well, there was a second thought, a few minutes later, as to why I hadn't jumped through the window screaming when a wolf spider was crawling on me, but even that was a rather calm thought.)
My sister Jesse gave me a ride to pick up the Calypso last week. I had a securely fastened manila folder of registration paperwork, printed out insurance emails and temporary plates and a promise that my new pal who was selling me the vehicle would help me drive it home. Just as soon as he was done at the dentist. He hadn't called back by the time we got there, so we took a detour to do a little shopping while I waited for the call. Is that actually my greatest fear, I wonder? Waiting for the phone to ring? Or slowly going mad waiting for the ring tone, like watching for an inanimate possessed object to come to life? That is precisely what I started to do, wandering the aisles of Target, checking the screen compulsively incase I suddenly went deaf and wouldn't be able to hear the ring on full volume. What if he just didn't call back? Just disappeared? Took off with the check and laughed to someone about how he'd pulled one over on this stupid woman from Bantam who thought she bought a camper on Craigslist. What if I would just have to go and retrieve the vehicle on my own, learning to drive this antiquated beast down Rte 202 as I went?
So relieved was I when he did finally call and we were at last in the bucket seats heading west that the brakes going out on East Main Street in Torrington didn't even get me down. I was still smiling, gripping the dashboard, as we rolled through a red light at a busy intersection, unable to stop, and into the Twin Co parking lot, where the emergency brake finally did its job.
Is it overdrive, I wonder? Or do we only start to think clearly and positively when we get close enough to a near-death situation to give us a little perspective? I still haven't had to actually drive it myself, but the Calypso, all five tons, is parked out back on just enough of an angle, aimed right at my window, right at my chair, spider and all, that if the brakes suddenly succumbed to gravity- well, I want to say that it would all be over quickly, but that's not true either. The fire and smashed house and unpayable hospital bills of that scenario are perhaps just enough to keep me and my sense of perspective happily in order.
You know what they say. If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up too much room. Some people sky dive. Me, I think about parking. Some people wrestle alligators. Me, I make business plans.
Stay tuned for the next action packed episode, wherein our heroine replaces a PVC pipe for the camper water tank......
Monday, October 8, 2012
in the mean time...
I've been making sandwiches. I've been working at a grocery store deli in town that gets a fair number of people looking for lunch. I'm not sure if it was the girl who always gets a wrap with just lettuce and mustard or the guy who wanted a buffalo tender sandwich with hot sauce and bleu cheese dressing or someone in between, but something today gave me a new theory.
It seems that medical news and updates lately say more and more that the importance of food outweighs medicine. Food can heal us. Eating things that aren't food can hurt us. (I think we learned this from Curious George and the Puzzle Piece many many years ago...)
It wasn't terribly long ago that a career in medicine was considered lowly. The same guy that cut your hair could chop your tonsils out for you. It makes me wonder if in a hundred years or so our current sandwich making could be the thing that makes the kids in history class guffaw.
What if the future of food service is therapeutic? What if the kind of cheese and amount of mayonnaise you want becomes secondary to the bedside (counterside?) manner that someone can offer? The consultation, the genuine care? The sandwich doctor takes a look at your complexion, assesses your mood and your general health and offers some suggestions. Let's prescribe you extra tomatoes for lycopene and Vitamin A, a little extra lettuce for digestion, roast beef for a little protein boost and horseradish for antioxidants, and a little mayonnaise because you need to have some enjoyment.
What is it that people are looking for when they stop to get a coffee and something to eat? Why didn't they make the economically wiser decision to buy groceries and a thermos?
Mostly, you need someone to recognize and validate you, seriously consider your needs and help you make decisions. You could probably make a good sandwich choice on your own. But then again, how many times has a doctor told you to drink a lot of fluids and get some rest?
What does the girl with the lettuce wrap or the guy with the fried sandwich really need? More than anything else, to be recognized and appreciated as beautiful exactly as they are, and told that they are worthy of something creamy and delicious and that people around will be happy that they enjoy it.
Just some thoughts for the sci-fi future, when we will look back in horror at the days of yore. I hope you had a wonderful lunch today.
It seems that medical news and updates lately say more and more that the importance of food outweighs medicine. Food can heal us. Eating things that aren't food can hurt us. (I think we learned this from Curious George and the Puzzle Piece many many years ago...)
It wasn't terribly long ago that a career in medicine was considered lowly. The same guy that cut your hair could chop your tonsils out for you. It makes me wonder if in a hundred years or so our current sandwich making could be the thing that makes the kids in history class guffaw.
What if the future of food service is therapeutic? What if the kind of cheese and amount of mayonnaise you want becomes secondary to the bedside (counterside?) manner that someone can offer? The consultation, the genuine care? The sandwich doctor takes a look at your complexion, assesses your mood and your general health and offers some suggestions. Let's prescribe you extra tomatoes for lycopene and Vitamin A, a little extra lettuce for digestion, roast beef for a little protein boost and horseradish for antioxidants, and a little mayonnaise because you need to have some enjoyment.
What is it that people are looking for when they stop to get a coffee and something to eat? Why didn't they make the economically wiser decision to buy groceries and a thermos?
Mostly, you need someone to recognize and validate you, seriously consider your needs and help you make decisions. You could probably make a good sandwich choice on your own. But then again, how many times has a doctor told you to drink a lot of fluids and get some rest?
What does the girl with the lettuce wrap or the guy with the fried sandwich really need? More than anything else, to be recognized and appreciated as beautiful exactly as they are, and told that they are worthy of something creamy and delicious and that people around will be happy that they enjoy it.
Just some thoughts for the sci-fi future, when we will look back in horror at the days of yore. I hope you had a wonderful lunch today.
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