I hope it helps, if and when you find yourself in this situation.
I hope it helps, if and when you find yourself in this situation.
THEN: Changing The Time
NOW: Changing The Time
With the end of Daylight Savings, I’ve been thinking a lot about Time. That elusive concept that always seems to pass too slowly when you’re young and way too fast once you’ve crossed the half century mark of your life
I mean, really. One minute you’re walking down the aisle in a cap and gown and the next you’re wearing a backless gown and being wheeled down the corridor for a colonoscopy.
So, I’ve been thinking. What if instead of simply turning the clocks back an hour in March and then gaining that hour in October, we could actually save time itself?
If all those hours of Daylight Savings were actually saved in Personal Time Bank accounts.
Every Daylight Savings we would add another hour, not be used until we turned forty or of an age when we could really appreciate time. Our hours would accumulate and then each fall when we turn the clocks back, we could go to our time bank and withdraw whichever hour we wanted.
Think about it. You could withdraw an hour from a day in high school when you followed your crush around, waiting for him to smile at you. To remind yourself of how young love felt. To help you relate to that hormonal teenage daughter sulking at you from across the kitchen table who wants only to send a text to her boyfriend and not have to listen to you bitch about her lack of respect.
You could withdraw an hour from the day your child was born and relive how it felt to cradle her in your arms. Before she learned how to talk back.
Or maybe an hour from when you were laid up in bed with a broken bone. An hour that would remind you to slow down, take a deep breath. You don’t need to be there for everyone, all the time.
If you were sad over something, you could take a “happy” hour from your bank to remind you of life’s ups and downs. Perhaps withdraw an hour to help you through a tough situation. Or even an hour to spend with someone who is no longer with you.
You could revisit the days when we called each other to say hello instead of sending emails. When a text usually meant a book, a virus referred to something attacking our bodies, and a window was a large opening looking out onto the world.
And let’s take it one step further. How about being able to withdraw against these hours whenever you needed a few extra minutes to meet a deadline? Instead of rushing from the market to the soccer game to the doctor’s to the office, you could borrow from your Time Bank and make that tightly squeezed day, just a bit easier.
Or maybe even trade hours with your friend to see how it really feels to walk in someone else’s shoes. Oh, how we could learn to stop judging and just accept each other.
Best of all, we could loan hours to someone whose life is being cut too short.
Oh, the possibilities are limitless.
If only this were possible. But, it’s not. So, I’m going to use this hour for some “me” time.
How about you?
If someone had told me when I was a peace-loving, bead-wearing hippie chick that as a middle-aged woman I would be married to a Republican, watch not only CNN but Fox News and frequent a bar at a Disabled American Veterans facility, I would have called that person batshit crazy.
I was a free-spirited, liberal girl out to change the world. I could never sleep with someone who owned a gun and voted for Nixon. But life doesn’t always turn out as we imagined.
Decades into the future, that hippie chick fell in love with a conservative Vietnam veteran. And, after subjecting him for years to poetry readings, self-actualization meetings and Woodstock wannabe festivals, agreed to accompany him one night to a place I never dreamed of going.
How has your life changed?
Have you ever been in the wrong place at the right time? Experienced a moment which changed your life for the best, although you didn’t realize it until it was over?
It was the seventies. The decade of tie-dye clothes, disco dancing, big hair and swinging. It was my decade of wanting so badly to be loved, to find a husband, to start a family that I was willing to say yes to anything.
So when Bryce, a co-worker I had a huge crush on, asked me if I wanted to go to a swinger’s party, I said sure. Seconds later the word NO swelled to goliath proportions within my mind, but failed to come out. Instead I asked, “What should I wear?”
“And now for the rest of the story.” As Paul Harvey used to say.
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We got a new puppy! Meet Ziva. And if you have anything you would like chewed, please bring it over.
So, the other day, I looked down and wondered whose hands were those attached to my wrists. They looked too dry and wrinkly to be mine. They reminded me of my grandmother. Well, she was a hard working woman. Having her hands might not be such a bad thing.
Then I looked at myself in the mirror. And I realized that my teeth weren’t exactly in the same place as they were yesterday. But my smile was still a good one.
And my ears. Well, let’s just say, I knew from family photos, that this particular part of my body would someday get larger.
In fact, it seemed that the entire landscape of my face was experiencing a shift in its foundation. From a geological point of view, I was experiencing eruptions (old age spots), floods (eye leakage), and quakes which were producing in new fault lines everyday.
Most of these changes I expected and was having no trouble dealing with them.
But the other day, I discovered something quite unexpected.
I took off my glasses. Something was missing. I leaned closer to the mirror. And closer still. Until my nose pressed against the cool surface. Yes, this particular part of my anatomy had vanished.
Where there should have been a nicely shaped arch covering the length of my eye and beyond, there was this little apostrophe. Just hanging there. Like it actually belonged on my face.
When did this happen? I have a ton of hair everywhere on my body. On my head, it’s thick and curly with a mind of its own. The ones under my arm are long and snaky. If I don’t shave regularly ( I know, I should wax) they sneak out from the sides of bathing suit. There are several making a regular appearance above my upper lip. And no matter how many times I pluck that nasty one on my chin, it keeps growing back like a garden weed.
So why had my eyebrows gone missing?
I thought about all those wonderful adjectives associated with one’s brows, words used to describe feelings and emotions.
Sadness: Her eyebrows dipped inward.
Confusion: His bushy eyebrows crinkled.
Determination: Her eyebrows, straight as a ruler, told me she played by the book.
Flirty: He lifted one eyebrow and winked at me.
Eyebrows scrunch, gather, stray, lift, sag, tilt. They are an important part of our face.
I couldn’t help but stare at myself.
I was totally shocked.
But, of course, you couldn’t tell by looking at me. Because I no longer have eyebrows to raise in surprise.
My dad reading to his three grandchildren
Today is my third fatherless Father’s Day. That’s not to say that my dad isn’t with me. Because he’s always in my heart.
When I was growing up, my father brought in the bacon. All of it. He went to work every morning at 6:00 and came home every evening around 5:30. When he walked in the door after a hard day at the office, my mom handed him a cocktail, the newspaper and a slice of rye bread. (Don’t ask. I’m not sure why he wanted this, unless of course, it was a symbol of being the bread winner.) For the next half hour he would sit and relax while my mom finished making dinner and my sister and I set the table.
I guess you’d say he was a lot Jim Anderson on “Father Knows Best.” And back then I believed he did know best. After all, he was the man of the house. My father.
This routine lasted for many, many years until my sister and I started high school, at which time our mom wanted to go to work. Not so much for the money. But how many times can you change the bedding, scrub the toilets, rearrange the pantry, or play golf in one week?
But Mom going to work wasn’t the only change that took place in our household. Now my father’s daughters were dating. Goodbye Jim. Hello Archie Bunker.
My father wasn’t exactly like good old Archie, but when it came to the boys his girls were bringing home, he could be quite judgmental. After all, he had once been a teenage boy and he knew how boys could act toward girls. When their daughters start dating it must be a scary time for fathers. And of course, as a teenage girl, I knew my father did NOT know what was best for me!
Some of my boy friends were definitely “undesirables” in my father’s eyes. In looking back, I can’t say as I blame him. With only two daughters, he had five son-in-laws. So, I guess he had reason to be concerned.
Eventually I left home in order to discover who I was in life. Always with the security of knowing where to find my father. In his workshop.
Throughout the years he was always building something. From gigantic wall units, to roll-top desks to rocking horses. Toward the end of life he turned to small wooden objects such as stamp holders, bagel tongs and boxes with secret openings. Sometimes he actually made me guess what it is that he had made.
But I never had to guess how much he loved me. And of all the things he built, the best is the strong foundation upon which I live today.
And I’ve since learned one truth: My father really did know best.
Who doesn’t love summer? Who doesn’t love reading? Who doesn’t love reading on the beach or by the pool or in the spa or inside a nice air-conditioned room.
Don’t miss this huge giveaway by my friend Kim from Let Me Start By Saying.
62 Books! 37 Authors! Click here to enter. Giveaway ends on 6/8/15.
My old, trusty friend
The act of masturbation has been around since the beginning of time. But a large scale celebration of this action is relatively new. And what could be larger than an entire month dedicated to playing with oneself? Yes, you heard me right.
Here in the United States, it is Masturbation May.
At first, I assumed this celebration was put on the calendar by Hallmark. This greeting card company has a line of salutations for just about everyhing else, why not one for whacking off?
The jilted lover could send a card saying, “Since you won’t play with me anymore, I have to play with myself.”
The health conscious consumer could buy a card with the slogan, “A diddle a day, keeps the doctor away.”
But I was wrong. In 1994 U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Joycelyn Elders suggested that masturbation be taught in sex education classes. As a result, Elders was fired. My God, how could she suggest such a thing?
The sexually active folk in San Fransciso got their panties all in a bunch and set out to right her firing.
On May 7, 1995, California sex advocate Dr. Carol Queen with the assistance of Good Vibrations, a retail store in San Francisco, held the first National Masturbation Day and thus Masturbation May was born.
I’m not sure it was ever included in the cirriculum. But I do know that most of us don’t need any concrete lessons. Besides, the act is unique to each person.
In my case, I have early memories of lying on our livingroom floor in my favorite flannel nightgown. I’m not even sure how old I was. Old enough to know what felt good. At the time my grandfather lived with us. My behavior was quite alarming to him (as my mother tells it.)
She quietly explained to him that I was Private Dancing. Then she firmly, but gently told me that it was something I should do in private.
And take it from me, there are a lot of private places where one can release all that built up tension.
The way I see it, a month devoted to masturbating is really a month dedicated to loving oneself.
And as my mom told me a long time ago, if we can’t love ourselves, how can we expect anyone else to?