A Kind of Magic

Still blogging with my three co-bloggers!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, mostly.  Sometimes?  Don’t judge me.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl           

Froggie 

Moma Rock

            This week, I chose the topic, and I asked everyone to write about either a physical or personality trait you find attractive in other people. 

            I came to this subject in a bit of a round about way.  Lately, I have been on a major Queen kick (the band, not the woman).  I’ve been listening to their music and watching documentaries and videos.  In my indulgence, I stumbled onto the video of a live show put on by the band’s drummer, Roger Taylor, several years ago, in his barn.  He’d put together his own band, made up of men many decades younger than he, and performed a mix of Queen songs and his solo work.  He broadcast it across the world (I cannot recall what year, but Google “Roger Taylor cyberbarn” and you will find it easily – I’ve included the link here to save you some time).

            I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for ol’ Roger, even in this video, where he’s nearing 50 and little resembles the almost pretty young man he was back in the day.  I like his voice – it reminds me of Rod Stewart – and I really like his percussion work.  And, so, I watched.  Roger alternated between playing the drums and singing and just singing at the front of the stage.  Towards the end of the 45-minute set, Roger was at the microphone, leaving the drumming to his young backup partner.  And then, quite quickly, he did this thing where he counted up on his fingers and moved his hand, signaling the band to make the switch to the next verse. 

            I was really impressed with that moment, and it didn’t take long for me to realize why.  What I saw there was a combination of the most attractive traits I find in other people.  In moving his hand that way, Roger showed that he was both confident and competent.  He owned that stage; he commanded that band.  And he did so with the fluidity and confidence borne of an uber successful career that has now spanned four decades.  I doubt he even thought about the move when he made it, so second nature did it seem. 

            In just a simple, literal, flick of his wrist, Roger Taylor showed that he knows exactly what he is doing, and that he knows that he knows.  In that flick of his wrist, he showed all of us, too.

            That competence and that confidence are extremely attractive to me.  As Fitzgerald penned in The Great Gatsby, “Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.”  Indeed, here is something so appealing about someone who knows what he is doing, who does it well, and who has no doubts as he attacks the task at hand.  Confidence and competence seem hard to come by; I don’t know too many people who exhibit these qualities on a regular basis.  But I do find that they tend to go together.  If someone is competent and he knows he is competent, he will feel confident.  That confidence will, indeed, show in the way he carries himself:  the way he speaks, the way he walks, even the way he gestures.  A flick of the wrist means much more coming from someone who is truly, truly good at what he does. 

            There are few times that I feel either competent or confident – and even fewer where I feel both.  The feeling arises slightly more often now that I am older and have “practiced” certain skills for a longer time.  For example, I would never call myself a great attorney, but I’ve come to see that at least as to certain legal skills – legal research and writing, for one – I am a competent attorney.  For that reason, I am confident when I do a research project or author a legal brief or memo.  But that feeling was a long time coming, more than a decade and a half.  And it doesn’t carry over to all legal skills, either.  Am I competent attorney?  Sure.  But you’re better off asking me to write a brief than to try an entire case alone.  Could I do it?  Perhaps. But I would not appear confident – because I question my own competence in that less-than-comfortable setting.

            Just this week, my kind friend Alex introduced me to someone via email.  In doing so, she described me as a skilled writer and competent attorney (among other complimentary language).  I wanted to tell the recipient, “Hey, Alex is exaggerating!”  More often than not, I question my own competency in most areas, and I do not feel that I exude confidence.  Hell, I’ve been a parent for two decades, and I still say I have no idea what I am doing.  I fake it, of course; can’t let the children see you sweat.  But inside, I feel the sinking doubt in my stomach while the second-guessing commences in my head. 

            I wonder whether I will ever achieve the competence and confidence of dear ol’ Roger, whether I will be able to stand before a huge audience of sorts and merely move my hand and know that I am in control, that the call I am making is the correct call, that I have got this.  I’d like to think so.  But, in the meantime, I’ll leave it to the masters:  the Roger Taylors and the Jon Bon Jovis and the other skilled professionals who have worked hard to hone their craft, to raise it to a true art form.  Gives me something to focus on besides their pretty faces. 

 

Keep Your Nose Out of My Pants

Still blogging with my three co-bloggers!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, mostly.  Sometimes?  Don’t judge me.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl           

Froggie 

Moma Rock

Merryland Girl chose this week, and she asked us to talk about the transgender bathroom controversy.

            Sigh.  I believe all of my Five Loyal Readers already know where I stand on this issue, given previous FB shares and memes and comments.  I’ve been so vocal, I almost don’t see the point in elaborating here, especially since, as I sit down to write this, I am filled with anger that this is even an issue.  However, it is, and I do have a lot to say, so I’ll sum up my perspective on this ridiculous “issue” in ten points:

            (1)  I do not give a single care about who is using the bathroom stall next to me.

            (2)  I would rather pee next to a transgendered person than a close-minded, uninformed bigot. 

            (3)  I have walked this Earth for many decades, and in that time I have used many, many bathrooms.  I’ve used bathrooms in some “edgier” places, like hole-in-the-wall clubs on Hollywood Boulevard and questionable truck stops across the U.S.  Statistically, it seems more than possible that in the many years I’ve been alive, I have used a bathroom alongside a transgendered person.  I have never ever, not once, not ever, been bothered by anyone in a bathroom (except with a request to share toilet paper). 

            (4)  I do not need any lawmakers to protect me in any public bathroom.  I can take care of myself, and I can take care of my daughters.  I do not appreciate being victimized in this way.  Ignorant lawmakers:  do not blame this on me or my gender.  Want to help us?  Make sure we earn equal wages for equal work.  Make insurance companies pay for our birth control.  And stop telling us what to do with our bodies.

            (5)  I know of zero convictions of transgendered people who sexually preyed upon women or children in a public restroom.  Zero.  To the contrary, most sexual crimes against children involve people the children know and trust.  This includes a subsection of the priests I regularly interacted with when I attended more than a decade of Catholic school (thankfully, none of the priests I encountered were ever implicated in this travesty).

            (6)  When I ask myself why, why, why anyone would fear a transgendered person using the restroom associated with the gender with which s/he identifies, I come up with only this:  there exists in our country a group of people who associate homosexuality and transgendered with depravity.  The logic is simple, really.  If someone is gay, s/he is a pervert.  A pervert will behave in a perverse way; i.e., s/he will go into a different sex bathroom just to inappropriately touch someone, especially a helpless child.  Because, clearly, gay and/or transgendered equals pedophile.  

            (7)  I have been fortunate enough to know a transgendered person.  We shall call her Jenny.  Jenny is an attorney.  She is divorced and the parent of one child.  When I met Jenny, she was in the process of transitioning from male to female.  To do so included many, many steps, some physical, many more emotional and interpersonal.  Jenny changed her name; she used to be David.  She told her ex-spouse about her plans, but even more daunting, she told her then teen-aged daughter.  (It did not go well, at least at first.)  She called all of her clients to tell them of her transition.  (She is fortunate; many of them remained clients.)  She began the physical transformation.  She started wearing clothes marketed for women.  She bought a water bra and began wearing that.  She had her teeth filed down (ever notice that men’s teeth are larger than those of women?) and her Adam’s apple shaved.  She experimented with make-up and chose some heels.  She started taking hormones and saving up for the surgery that would allow her “parts” to match the gender she had been, inside, her whole life. 

            Jenny told me that, even though the transition was emotionally difficult, it was never really a choice.  She could no longer live what had for so long felt like a lie, no matter the consequences.  I welcomed Jenny into my home; hell, she even used my bathroom, the same one used by my daughters.  And we lived to talk about it!

            (8)  This issue seriously angers me.  It also saddens and scares me.  Because underlying this drive is the same feeling that underlies racism and other forms of hatred:  fear.  People fear what they don’t understand.  It’s the true definition of ignorance.  But instead of learning, of getting to know someone like Jenny and to maybe even like her, these people channel their fear into hate.  And that hate leads to what we are seeing now:  movements to ban transgendered people from using the damn bathroom.  Much like back when the color of someone’s skin determined where s/he could sit on a bus, which bathroom s/he could use, which drinking fountain was available.  I truly see no difference. 

            I have worked hard to raise my children to be tolerant and understanding, to avoid the easy out of fear and to accept people as they are.  Perhaps being the mother of special kids has really brought this issue home; after all, there was a day not long ago that kids like mine were locked in insane asylums, their differences viewed as deficits, their actions misunderstood and thus feared.  Again, I see no difference as to the fear and ignorance here.

            (9)  I’m ashamed to say that my now-home state came close to passing a law forcing transgendered people to use the bathroom matching the sex listed on their birth certificate (how they would enforce this, I neither know nor want to know).  Progressive Nashville stepped in to save the day, with musicians and business owners and even the producers of the show Nashville warning that such a law might drive them away.  I am sorry it took economics to change the state’s mind (for now; the law was merely tabled).  I am also sorry that people have chosen to boycott Target for its position on this issue.  More stuff for me, I guess, as I have happily used my RedCard several times since the Target announcement.

            (10)  Let me end my rant with a story.  I know the attorney Jenny because she represented my ex in a child support dispute.  I hired my own attorney, an extremely kind and competent man named John.  Before the first hearing, I mentioned to John that Jenny was transgendered; I did so not to gossip, but to let him know Jenny’s previous name.  I spoke to John after the first hearing, to see how things went.  He laughed as he told me that he did not notice that Jenny was a transgendered person, that he completely forgot what I had told him until another attorney he knew pointed it out to him that day.  My point is this:  Jenny does not want to stand out.  She works hard to not stand out.  Jenny wants what we all want:  to be accepted for who she is -- a parent, an attorney, a friend, someone who was born in a body that did not quite match who she knew herself to be. 

            I would gladly share a bathroom with Jenny.  I would gladly allow my daughters to share a bathroom with Jenny.  And I wouldn’t even think twice about sharing a square.   

 

I Can't Even . . .

Still blogging with my three co-bloggers!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, mostly.  Sometimes?  Don’t judge me.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl           

Froggie 

Moma Rock

            This week, Moma Rock chose, and she asked us to write about life’s frustrations.

            Moma Rock suggested the topic during a messaging session between Merryland Girl, Moma Rock, and me.  We were venting about various stressors with which we were dealing at the time.  Our issues were different, but our frustrations were the same.  Moma Rock smartly thought it might be helpful to write about them. 

           

            Funny enough, the main frustration on my plate right now is one I’m not at liberty to talk about at the moment . . . which is really, really frustrating.  So, there’s one for you:  I become quite frustrated when I am not able to express myself.  I’m a verbal processor, and I work through problems by talking and even writing about them.  When I can’t, I literally feel like I’m going to burst.  I feel, well, frustrated. 

            Since I can’t discuss that source of frustration, I sat down and thought about other things that generally frustrate me, and why.   

            Here’s one (and it massively underlies the “thing” I can’t write about right now):  I become frustrated when I can’t control a situation.  I don’t mean that in a general sense; I accept that much of life is out of my control, particularly the actions of others.  For the most part, that’s okay because, for the most, part, other people’s actions and choices don’t affect me all that much.  But when they do, and when I cannot do anything about it, I get extremely frustrated.  I’m talking about those times when I need someone to communicate with me, but she doesn’t.  Or when I can’t do my part in something until someone else does his part, and he doesn’t.  If someone’s work ethic does not match mine, I can feel the frustration rise.  In those situations, I want to make something happen and I cannot, and I hate it. 

            I’ve also come to realize that I absolutely hate when someone comes to me for advice or input and then I later realize – usually after spending a good chunk of time talking to the person – that they never really wanted my advice but instead were merely seeking my approval.  This almost always happens in situations where my approval would not be readily forthcoming.  I end up feeling manipulated and like I’ve wasted my time.  And, of course, I feel frustrated.

            Then, too, I’ve discovered that I get very frustrated when I want to help someone, but I cannot.  I hate seeing anyone in pain or distress, and when I cannot fix the situation, I become not only sad, but also frustrated.  I’m a fixer at heart, and to stand back helpless feels like torture.  Again, I suppose this is a control issue, but in a good way.  I want control so I can take care and solve the problem.  But I know that’s not always possible.

            Not surprisingly, I handle frustration by verbally processing it.  I complain, I vent, I talk it out.  Eventually, I feel better, I guess, at least until the next time.  I’m working on letting more things roll off my back, but I’m a work in progress.

            And, of course, the fact it’s taking so long to learn to calm down a bit?  Is totally frustrating me.

           

 

Dear Uncle Walt . . .

Back to blogging with my three co-bloggers!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, mostly.  Sometimes?  Don’t judge me.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl           

Froggie 

Moma Rock

 This week, I chose the topic, and I asked everyone to write an open letter to someone or something.  Here is mine:

Dear Disney Corporation:

            It should not be this hard.  It just shouldn’t. 

            It is supposed to be a vacation.  A vacation.  Taking said vacation should not require hours and hours of pre-planning months prior to taking said vacation.  It should not require scheduling every single moment of every single day of something (a vacation) that is supposed to be relaxing.

            There is absolutely nothing relaxing about planning a trip to Disney.

            To the contrary, merely cracking open the Unofficial Guide to Disney World 2016 broke me out in a cold sweat.  Studying the app trying to figure out which rides merit use of the Fast Pass + literally kept me up nights.  And actually logging into the website and attempting to reserve meal and ride times triggered the absolute worst of my OCD and Type A personality.  I will eat at Be Our Guest, goddamn it, even if it means relentlessly checking for a reservation when I should be working, cleaning, running errands, reading, living my normal life.  And how is it possible the damn Dwarves Train is no longer accepting Fast Pass + mere days after I was even eligible to sign up?  It’s absolutely insane.

            Also, how am I supposed to know what the hell I will want to eat two months from now?  It took me a half hour to decide what I wanted for dinner tonight – and my choices were fairly limited.  Sure hope I’m craving Italian food in early June.

            While I’m on the subject, it should not take two people, both of whom have advanced degrees, to actually plan said “vacation.”  Once my first panic attack subsided, I reached out to my dear friend Karen, who herself had spent hours upon hours planning her Magical Trip several months ago.  I squeaked out a pathetic, “Help me,” before giving her my username and password and credit card number (I offered her my first-born child, but she politely declined).  She walked me through the restaurants and the rides.  I am not a stupid person; I mean, I’m an attorney and I read pretty complex documents on a regular basis, but I still cannot make heads or tails of your Disabled Services pass requirements.  And calling the number in the brochure?  Not super helpful, thanks.

            I’ve had what I call “Disney issues” for years.  Many moons ago, I lived in L.A., where I met several people who worked for The Mouse.  Did you know that Disney has a policy wherein if an employee writes a screenplay while employed for Disney – even if it is written during non-work hours – Disney considers that screenplay its property?  Or that some of corporate employees refer to the company as Mouschwitz?  I lived in California for two and a half years and only visited Disneyland once, largely because of the high price of admission.  My perception of the company did not improve with the birth of my first child, more than two decades ago, and my corresponding realization that Disney floods the marketplace with super-appealing characters – and then charges a roughly 30% premium for any toy or item of clothing containing the characters’ faces.  And don’t even get me started on Michael Eisner; I mean, I’m fine with corporate CEOs making a lot of money, but not when the real stars of the show are making minimum wage while wearing ridiculously hot costumes in July.  In Florida.  Trickle it down, man, trickle it down.

            Disney redeemed itself some a few months ago when it granted Daniel Fleetwood’s wish to see the latest Star Wars film before his extremely untimely death last November.  Disney helped make Daniel’s dying wish come true, and the company scored big points in my book.  I’m hoping this is the beginning of a new, improved “nicer” Disney, one I can forgive as I fork over $14.00 for a Dole Whip.

            I am told that, ridiculous planning aside, my family and I will enjoy our trip and will cherish our Disney memories.  I can only hope this is true.  I will say that I have fond memories of my earlier trips; I can even remember the words to songs from the Country Bear Jamboree – and it has been many, many moons since I saw those big old bears.  I almost hate to admit it, but I am looking forward to riding the Haunted Mansion and Space Mountain once again.  I only wish that it didn’t take so much freaking advance planning.

            The Happiest Place on Earth?  I suppose it remains to be seen.  Right now, to me, Disney World feels like the most tedious, forced, neurosis-triggering spot of land in these United States.  But I suppose it’s nothing Liver Lips McGrowl and a Mickey ice cream bar can’t remedy. 

 

Karma Karma Karma Chameleon

Back to blogging with my three co-bloggers!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, mostly.  Sometimes?  Don’t judge me.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl           

Froggie 

Moma Rock

            We didn’t have a group topic this week, so I’m going with a topic suggested by my friend, Laura:  Do you believe in karma?

            Long answer short:  No – but I sure want to.

            I’ve mentioned before that I am not much of a believer in tenets like fate or kismet or things happening for a reason, et cetera.  I don’t pray to any higher power (though I do send energy – more on this later).  I believe in randomness and coincidence; not very romantic, but very true, for me, anyway.

            I know karma is not as simple as we tend to think it is.  It’s a whole complex “thing” (at least from what I’ve read), but in our society, we tend to break it down simply into “what goes around comes around.”  Said otherwise, karma means that if we intentionally do something wrong or hurtful, we can expect something bad to happen to us at some later time (this also applies to good behavior, as well). 

            The idea of such an evenness appeals to me.  I appreciate the thought of a balance of good versus bad; I enjoy the idea that if you intentionally put bad into the world, it will come back to you later in another form so as to smack you in your face and teach you a lesson, or that if you give something good, it will be returned to you.  However, I also like the thought of unicorns and jackaloupes, but my wishes won’t make them real.  I have lived a lot of life, and I’ve seen too many people behave badly and put horrible, negative energy into the universe with little to no negative karmic reaction.  I know that if you think about it, you, too, will be able to picture at least one human who seems to skate through life doing as s/he pleases with nary a consequence in sight.  Hell, three faces immediately come to mind.  Three.  Then, too, I know of truly good people who seem to have fallen in the path of not-so-good life experiences, people who suffered unduly or died young.  There is no fairness there, only randomness.

            I have seen what looks like karma in action, and it has given me pause, but only briefly.  For example, I know of a few people who were less than faithful in their committed relationships and then who, years later, were “rewarded” by their later partners cheating on them.  It’s tempting to scream, “Karma!”  But then I remember a few other people I know who behaved the same way and never had the behavior turned back to them.  Which leads me to believe the first set weren’t experiencing karma at all but instead were just suffering the downside of being bad at choosing and staying in relationships.  No karma – just poor choices.

            Funny thing:  Although I don’t believe in karma, I live my life as if I do.  A few years ago, I had a convo with a friend who is not religious and doesn’t believe in an afterlife, etc., but who baptized her kids into a church that does embrace these beliefs.  When I asked why she bothered, she said, “Well, what if I’m wrong?”  That’s kind of how I feel about karma.  I try not to put too much bad out there, and I never, ever intentionally mistreat anyone, lest it happen to me.  I try to do right by others, and I try to do good where I can.  I suppose some of these choices are rooted in my desire not to want to poke the bear that is karma (should she exist) – but maybe I behave this way simply because I’m not a jerk.  Either way, I’ve got myself covered.  Or so I hope.

            Karma aside, I do believe that humans share energy:  good, bad, and other.  Everything in this world is made up of energy, which means, to me, that everything is connected.  I believe that someone’s negative or positive energy can affect someone else and change the other person’s mood.  (I’ve seen it happen, more than once.)  A handful of times in my life, I have been near a person whose mere presence made the hair on the back of my neck stand up – and I have gotten away from that person as quickly as possible.  I believe those people emitted energy incompatible with mine.  Dangerous energy.  I don’t know whether we can direct the transfer of energy, but I sure try:  If someone is sick, I close my eyes and focus on healing and feeling well, and I try to send some of that healing energy to that person.  Do they feel it?  I can’t say.  But I can say that the times I’ve asked people for supportive thoughts and energy, I’ve felt buoyed simply knowing they are thinking about me.  And that’s good enough.

            So, no, as much as I’d like to, I don’t believe in karma.  I don’t believe that what goes around, comes around, or that someone reaps what s/he sows.  There’s no cosmic scorecard in my world, no threat of lightening bolts or karmic retribution.  Could I be wrong?  Of course.  But I hope to never know.  Because even without the threat of a universal wrong-righter, I choose to live my life putting as much good into the universe as I can and making amends for the times when I misstep, which is often.  Should it come to pass that I have misjudged how the universe works and should karma, indeed, exist, I sure hope she – and karma is for sure a chick – doesn’t unleash her wrath on me . . . because I’ve heard she can be a real bitch. 

           

 

A Little Advice from Miss Julie.com

Back to blogging with my three co-bloggers!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, mostly.  Sometimes?  Don’t judge me.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl           

Froggie 

Moma Rock

            This week, Merryland Girl chose, and she asked us to find a life hack and try it out and write about the results.

            So, here’s where I admit that I had no idea what a life hack is.  (I felt a little better when I asked my ten-years-younger friend Kym, and she didn’t know, either.)  I went online and looked around and decided I am too stuck in my ways to try any of the suggestions, even if they are meant to make my life easier.

            Which made me realize that whether I like it or not, I really am a creature of habit.

            For a long time, I never considered myself as such.  Routines sound boring.  We equate them with being stuck, and who wants to think of my life in those terms?  And then, of course, some major, disruptive life events popped up a few years ago and completely shook up the routines I did have, and boy, did I notice.  Suddenly, I longed for the comfort of the same ‘ol, same ‘ol.  What once seemed lame suddenly sounded almost luxurious.

            I’ve written before about how I don’t like to get stuck in my ways, how every few years, I get the itch to move or switch jobs or careers or at least paint colors.  And that’s true.  But at the same time, on a day-to-day basis, I tend to carve out a routine – and I do not do well when it’s messed with.

            These days, since school is in session, my routine is dictated by the kids’ schedule.  I’m up at 6:15, and then spend the next half hour prompting them to get ready (“Brush your hair,” “Is your snack ready?”, “Put on your shoes,” “Don’t forget your meds,” “Are you really arguing about that??” et cetera).  Then it’s off to the bus stop; if the weather is bad, I drive them (it’s about three-tenths of a mile away), but if it’s not, they prefer to walk without me (“None of our friends’ parents walk them to the bus, Mom!”).  I remain home where I actually wake up (so not a morning person).  I eat breakfast (usually one of a cycle of four things).  If I have legal work to do, I do it; if I don’t, I’ll get showered and head out to run errands.  I’m out for a few hours (buying certain things at certain stores), and then I head home for lunch.  That’s followed by my walk with Kym at 1:30 (when it is more consistently warm in the mornings, we will switch our walks back to 7:00am, after the bus leaves, and everything else will shift accordingly).  Unless I have a dearth of work, I tend to be fairly productive during the day.

            Our afterschool routine recently changed, and here is where the problems began.  The 12 was swimming three days a week and had a social group one day a week, which left only Friday afternoons free.  I came home from the bus stop, fed the girls a snack, and then we got into the van and drove across town to swim practice.  Practice, even when I just dropped her off, sucked up a couple of hours, meaning by the time we came home, we launched into the dinner and pre-bedtime routines.  There was not a lot of discretionary time.  The routine was exhausting, but in a controlled way, and I guess I came to rely upon it.  But after a spate of ear infections (and a few other things), the 12 quit swim, and suddenly I had a lot of free time.  The extra time actually threw me off – I did not know what to do with the additional hours.  I ended up scheduling an hour of occupational therapy on Tuesdays, which helped fill that day, but only for two hours (therapy plus drive time).  What else to do?  I cannot just have open time.  It never ends well.

            For me, open time often becomes unproductive time.  I let myself get sucked into a TV show or Facebook or a real book or a crossword puzzle instead of returning phone calls or scheduling an eye doctor appointment or writing my blog post (wondering why I missed the last two weeks?  Here’s your answer).  It’s like my brain goes on vacation.  And then, suddenly, it’s bedtime and I’m like, “Crap, I didn’t [fill in the blanks with one of the eleventy billion things I totally forgot to do].”  And I wonder why I can’t sleep.

            As I thought about life hacks and my inability to successfully manage unscheduled time, I remembered a convo I had with the 12’s social group leader, Miss Julie.  This woman is one of the most productive, organized women I know.  She runs her own business and spends hours and hours working with special kids and attending IEP meetings and counseling parents, yet she still manages to return phone calls and text messages and manage the rest of her life.  A couple of months ago, after group, we were discussing the 12’s disorganization (autism affects executive function, which frustrates my child, as she is inherently an organized person) and she said that she, too, struggles with getting things done, especially on “down” days.  She told me that if she has a day off, she absolutely has to make a checklist of things she needs to do that day – or else she won’t do anything at all. 

            Thinking about it now, I see the logic in Miss Julie’s advice.  If I stop seeing extra time as down time, I might, actually, get something done.  It never occurred to me to treat it like work time or even like my walking time, to schedule it, if not to the minute, then at least in general terms of a list of things I need to get done that day. 

            I did not try Miss Julie’s system this week, because it’s spring break and we are expecting guests and I knew there’d be little “extra” time, as I’d fill the hours cleaning and hiding junk (I’m nothing if not honest).  But I will give it a go next week, when I’m back to some semblance of a routine.  I’ll try to plan ahead and make sure I don’t have any blocks of unused time.  I may need to find my day planner (it’s somewhere) and utilize that, as I prefer paper organization to electronic phone alerts.  I’m hopeful that Miss Julie’s system will work for me, and perhaps jog my lately sketchy memory.

            And I’ll try to remember to block off a half hour to write a follow up as to whether the system worked.  If I don’t get distracted. 

 

A Riddle, Wrapped in a Mystery, Inside an Enigma, With a Side of Cheese Fries, Please

Back to blogging with my three co-bloggers!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, mostly.  Sometimes?  Don’t judge me.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl           

Froggie 

Moma Rock

This week, I chose the topic, and I asked:  Do you consider yourself a conspiracy theorist?

            The first time I recall ever hearing the title “conspiracy theorist” was in my second year of law school, during a Juries class.  A 3L asked some bizarre question – I don’t remember what it was – prompting the professor to say, “I consider myself a bit of a conspiracy theorist, as well.”  We all laughed.  Well, maybe not the 3L, but the rest of us.

            I’ve thought about the subject over the years, but never really labeled myself one way or another.  Sure, I enjoyed the movie JFK and liked to think there was something more at work besides a single crazed assassin, but I didn’t think that made me a conspiracy theorist.

            And then I moved to Tennessee.

            Specifically, I moved to a large subdivision in the Blackman area of Rutherford County, into a new house surrounded by neighbors who, essentially, keep to themselves.  I always have the need to fill a void, and so I found myself idly wondering about their lives behind those always-closed doors and curtained windows.  I didn’t give it too much thought … until things started happening.

            First, the neighbors on one side disappeared.  Poof!  They were there one day and the next they were gone.  No cars in the driveway, no kids in the yard; even the play set disappeared.  A family of four and their nanny, just gone. 

            Of course I was curious.  We hadn’t seen a “for sale” or even a “for rent” sign in the yard.  We hadn’t seen a moving truck.  We hadn’t seen anything unusual at all.  But there were no signs of life, other than the interior garage light and some external lighting.  Blinds were down.  All was quiet.

            My mind went crazy.  Where had they gone?  Did the bank foreclose on their house?  Was there a family emergency?  Or – and I admit my brain went there – was there a murder-suicide??  (In my defense, I state the following:  (a) I watch ID Channel approximately 23 hours per day; and (b) when I told my Mom about my vanishing neighbors, her brain went to the exact same place.)

            I spent hours considering the possibilities.  I surreptitiously walked the perimeter of their house, looking for clues.  I may or may not have even Googled their address to see what I could find.  There, I discovered my first clue:  an expired Craigslist “house for rent” ad.  But if they rented the house, where were the new tenants?  And why didn’t they take their stuff?  Finally, when I could take no more, I texted their nanny; she had given me her number months earlier when I approached her about some weekend evening babysitting (I double-checked that she didn’t work for them on weekends – I’m not a babysitter poacher).  She told me where they went and why.  A few days later, the husband pulled up with a moving van and removed most of the furnishings.  He filled me in on the rest, how they moved because of his wife’s job in Nashville and the long drive blah blah blah.

            Mystery solved.  Not too exciting, but at least there won’t be a Dateline episode filmed on my block. 

            A few months passed, and my stupid gall bladder surgery kept me in the house, away from my neighbors.  The holidays followed, bringing with them yet another chance for neighborly surmising.  Several of my neighbors travel for work, including the husband of one of the families on my street.  His pattern seems to be gone for about 20 days, home for about 10, give or take.  I know this because I am home most days and I see his car in the driveway when he is home, and because my kids have befriended his kids.  Shortly before Christmas, his kids mentioned that they were having an early Christmas because he would be traveling for work – on Christmas.  I paused.  This seemed odd.  Whose job prevented them from being with family on Christmas?  Especially one so close to a weekend?  First responders and hospital and restaurant staff aside, everyone gets to be home (or near home) for Christmas – even the President!  I don’t know my neighbor’s exact job, but I do know he is a consultant, not something I would equate with needing to be absent on December 25.  I thought about it, theorized as to where he could be. 

            I’m almost ashamed to share my answer.  I blame the creators of all Lifetime movies ever, because I thought, “Maybe he has a second family.”

            I felt better when I told my Mom about his absence and she said, “Maybe the family you know is his second family.”  (I have no doubts as to why I think the way I think.)

            This mystery remains unsolved.  I am not done considering possible scenarios.

            But I must pause, as another mystery has entered the fray.

            Our neighbor on the other side is a single dad who has his boys roughly half the time.  When I met him, I also met his girlfriend and her daughter; they weren’t living in the house, but they did a lot of time there, at least from what I could tell by the cars in the driveway.  Two weekends ago, I headed up to the Nashville Flea, leaving my husband and the kids at home.  That evening, my husband asked if our neighbor had said anything about moving out (he literally just moved in six months ago), as he had seen a small moving truck in the driveway.

            He had my attention.

            My husband didn’t watch to see if the neighbor was moving stuff in or out, (what is wrong with him??), but I had been inside the house early on and it had seemed fully furnished.  My brain went to work.  What could he need with a moving truck?

            I didn’t give this one too much thought, as I assumed maybe he had gotten some new furniture or some such thing.  But then, last week, the light bulb went off.  I had not seen the girlfriend’s car in a long time.  Weeks; certainly more than a month.  I wondered, Did they break up?  Was the truck for her stuff?  Are we looking at another Dateline mystery?  (I know it wasn’t a murder-suicide because I’ve seen his truck coming and going, but it still leaves lots of other options . . . ).  Do I have any single friends who might like him?

            I’ve paid some attention to the comings and goings next door, and the girlfriend’s car has yet to reappear.  I’m assuming the most prosaic scenario, a break up, but I consider this mystery as “open.”  I sure hope the case doesn’t go cold.

            Now, I realize that you might be thinking that all of this makes me less of a conspiracy theorist and more of a nosy neighbor, but I would argue that it’s a distinction without a difference.  I believe the same intellectual curiosity lies at the heart of both labels.  I?  Am a seeker of the truth.  I need explanations.  And, truly, there is something fun (for me, anyway) in trying to solve a mystery of sorts.  What’s more interesting:  a lone shooter, or a vast government conspiracy involving LBJ?  It’s a no-brainer. 

           

            Last week, I was walking with my neighbor, Kym.  She lives in my subdivision, but not on my block.  I was telling her the latest mystery/conspiracy, looking for her theories. 

            I said, “This neighborhood sure is full of intrigue.” 

            She looked at me with just a touch of a smirk and said, “I think it’s just your block.”

            Now, what in the world could she mean by that??