Hearing & Listening

a hearing -listening poster..jpg

Thursday, November 14, 2019

Today I am grateful for hearing and listening.  I have been watching the open impeachment hearings, which I have recorded and will continue to record, so that I don’t have to endure every single word.

 

Since I can’t bear sitting around doing absolutely nothing but watch, even if some of it is riveting, I’m also crocheting dish cloths.  I already have six.  I crochet fast when I’m irritated and agitated.

 

Back in the day. . .way back, Himself and I spent a little time in couple’s therapy.  Look, you can’t “blend” a family, have a husband who travels for work for long periods and be raising kids, step-kids, cats and dogs without a few times where some outside help is necessary.  We have no shame about this.  It is what smart people do.  See how smart we are?

 

In therapy I would get pissed because I would say something and when he was asked what I said, it was nowhere near what he heard.  Not even close.  He would say, “I’m hearing you,” then repeat back words that barely came close to the issue.  In all fairness, I did the same to him.  What?  Weren’t we both in the same room?  Weren’t we both “hearing”?  Sure we were.  But we weren’t listening.

 

While I was talking, Mr. Himself Businessman was already framing his response or finding a solution to my problem.  He was fixing whatever my issue was, not hearing that I didn’t need anything fixed, just acknowledged.

 

While he was talking, I was distracted by the fact that he always turned into Mr. Himself Businessman during these sessions, therefore bamboozled the therapist into thinking he was the smartest person in the room.

 

Both of us pretended to be hearing, but what we were doing was forming our own defense, even though we were not under attack.

We weren’t listening to each other.  We were assuming we knew  what was being said, then twisting it to make it more desirable to our personal case and opinion.

 

It took a lot of sorting through to get to the crux of our biggest concerns. . .which, as it turns out, were very close to the same, although we each got there through a different approach.  We were so busy putting our own spin on what the other was saying that no one was listening. Who knew?

 

Watching the impeachment hearings, I can’t help wish that all involve, democrats and republicans, would get into “couples” therapy.  They sit there listening to testimonies, hearing opinions, hearing facts, but not really listening.

 

Republicans sit there, scratching notes, forming rebuttals, finding ways to besmirch good, non-partisan, honorable American citizens, who have dedicated their lives to the diplomatic core, refusing to listen to one thing they are saying.  They are so dug-in to defending the indefensible that while they pretend to hear, they refuse to listen.

 

Democrats walk on eggs, trying to not irritate the elephant in the room.  They paraphrase what was actually said, causing all manner of confusion.   They assume that every word out of every republican’s mouth is a flat out lie, yet there are many, many silent republicans who have not yet rendered any opinion.  What about them?

 

I’m no expert.  I have no vested interest in an outcome, except for my own outrage that those in power, with enough money, seem to operate by a different rule book than the rest of us, plus a legitimate fear for the democracy of America.  We should all be outraged about that.  And afraid.  And listen.

 

And while we are not supposed to muddy the waters with other cases, I’m a private citizen so I’m going to.  People are going to jail for a college admission scandal.  Many have gone to jail on bribery and corruption charges.  Martha Stewart spent time in jail because of insider trading.  If I get stopped by a cop and offer him twenty bucks, I’m going to get arrested on bribery, no matter how many times I scream it’s unfair and the cop is not a supporter of chubby white women and therefore biased.

 

All of those things are wrong and people should be prosecuted and serve time for them. But what is right in what has been happening at the top level of our government?  Have we lowered our bar and dropped our standards as a nation so much that we’ve distorted everything and will never see the truth on any issues, ever again?  Is everything now acceptable?  Is there no more right and wrong?  Why?  Can we let that stand?  Please no.

 

I suggest that everyone involved, all government officials, turn off the noise.  Stop listening to the shouting.  Stop fake-listening while writing down or forming your rebuttal.  Maybe if the good people, who must still exist on both parties did, we could stop this freak show of name calling and finger pointing.  It’s making us look ridiculous to the rest of the world and it’s embarrassing to me.  And I’m not only a voter, I pay my taxes!

 

I’d like to propose that all elected officials, in any political party, be required to attend anti-bullying, diversity and non-partisan-couples therapy.  I know that’s not going to happen, so for now I’d settle for ALL of them not only hearing. . .but also listening!

 

 

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Parallels – (original on 11-11-16)

a-couple-of-train-tracks

Thursday, November 10, 2016
Today I am grateful for parallels. It is not at all unusual for me to compare various incidents in my life with others occurring locally or nationally. This process gives me a perspective that is necessary for me to move forward with a positive attitude. Especially now. I need to be positive, or I could cave. I could crawl under a rock and stay there for four years. Yesterday I was inconsolable. And that’s not me. So I got to thinking, putting a spin on my fears. Finding a parallel.

I teach little three to five year old kids to swim. For many, especially the little ones, this is their first experience at learning something very scary and difficult from someone other than mom, dad or another family member. I take this responsibility very seriously.

When I have a new potential swimmer, the very first thing I tell them, before they even get their feet wet, is that I will never leave them alone in the pool. I will not dunk them. I will not throw them in. They can trust me. They will be safe with me. Then I have to prove that truth. Over and over I ask, “Am I ever going to leave you?” They know I expect the nodded head or the timid, “No, Miss Mary. You’re never going to leave me.”

In the beginning it’s very difficult. Their little bodies are like, screaming, flailing ironing boards. Tension shoots out of them like lightening. My own muscles are stressed to the limit as I hold and balancing them. I lift them up because until they can relax, even a little, each lesson will be futile. When they begin to connect, I push them. I expect them to try even if they don’t want to. “I want my mommy,” they scream an inch from my ear. “Yeah, well Mommy will be back later. Right now you have me so kick your legs, please,” I answer, with little sympathy. Yes, they might hate me. At least some of them. . .sometimes. It’s okay. Learning is hard. I can take it.

“Do you feel my strong hands on you?” I ask over and over as they claw at my neck or cling to me like Velcro. But when their bodies start to move, when they trust me enough to relax, then, and only then will they learn to swim. As the trust grows, the skill grows. Nothing breeds success like success. By the time my two strong hands turn into fingertips, then one hand, then one finger balancing them lightly, they have totally forgotten how afraid they were in the beginning. “I can do it myself!” they say as they push me away. It takes time. It takes trust. It takes effort on both parts, from them and me.

So where does the parallel come in that I mentioned earlier? The election. Not only did my candidate lose, but she lost to a person for whom I cannot muster one gram of trust. My body is tense, like shooting lightening. I am an almost screaming, terrified ironing board. The president elect has not said or done one thing that I have not found reprehensible.

This is me and it’s my blog, so if you feel differently, like half the country proved they do, then go ahead and counterpoint your heart out. . .in your own blog or your own head. If you are a woman I will probably never understand your reasoning, but then you have not had my experiences with abusers, so that’s okay, too. But I don’t trust him. And I am afraid on so many levels and for so many segments of our society that it shocks even me.

I have questioned presidents before. All of them. Many times. No matter what party they represented. Hell, I question myself and my own motives, so why would I let them off the hook? I have not liked some of the things many of them have said, including my chosen candidate this year. I don’t like everything I say, either. Sometimes I should filter more. We are human. I get that. I don’t expect utopia, especially in the political arena. I’m not that stupid. Just give me something, anything to not hate.

From the time I was 18 and allowed to vote, at some core level I believed that each new administration had some modicum of good intent. I believed they could put their own egos aside at least occasionally. I believed that they were willing to compromise and be flexible, even if I found their thinking autocratic. If we could meet on only one of the issues, I could convince myself their intent was for the good of ALL people.

Not this time. I do not trust the incoming administration at all. Not any of them. Nothing that has been said or done at this point has changed my mind. While some are telling us to give them benefit of the doubt, there is speculation that their behavior during the campaign was an act to appeal to the Reality Show, sensationalistic crowd; or to present a “brand” proving their candidate was “a man’s man. . .of the people”; that he was so damned special that he was above the dignity and decorum the position of World Leader demands. If that’s true, if nothing was genuine, then shame on them. Shame on them all, because all this snake-oil-salesman behavior did for me was to cause me to doubt every word he or they said. . .even if some of the words might have been true.

They will have to sit me on the edge of the pool for a long time. They will have to reassure me constantly. They will have to prove, in the first days, that they will handle the running of MY government far better than they handled their abrasive, offensive and embarrassing campaign. Because I do not trust them. And I need to trust them because this is MY country, too. It will take considerable effort on their part so they better get on it. Right now.

When my little swimmers have gained my trust, worked hard and feel confident, I say, “Now you can do it! Show me!” They know that I expect them to push off towards me, alone, reaching and kicking. They do not need to physically connect with me because they are confident I’m there if they need me. I lessen my grip so that they can grow.

That’s what I need from the new administration. Give me some confidence. Provide me with a basis to relax my fears, to calm my nerves, to sooth my soul, to lessen my grip. . .to trust you, even a little. I want to trust you. I want to believe you will be there for ALL people. You have an obligation to show honor and respect for those who held that position before you. Learn from them. I want you to listen to someone besides your egotistical self.

Give me a reason to one day write another story on parallels. Stop acting like an arrogant, lying, misogynistic, bigoted, grandiose, self-back-patting, racist idiot. Half of the country believes in you. . .half doesn’t. If you can become who you claim to be, then show me! Because I don’t trust you and I’m not pushing off in any shape or form until you do. Show me. . .now! Before we all sink.

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Mom’s New Place

a pic of mom at pub_LI

Sunday, November 10, 2019

Today I am grateful for my mom’s new place.  To say I’m grateful is a huge understatement.  Thrilled, elated, euphoric, gob-smacked, delighted beyond words is more like it.  There aren’t enough adjectives.

 

I haven’t seen my mother this happy since she left Arizona many years ago.  The change is quite simply unbelievable.  It’s amazing how the human body and soul, even a 93 year old one, can bounce back once the abuse stops.

 

Not only is NO ONE screaming at mom. . .everyone is treating her with kindness and concern.  EVERYONE!  What?  Is this place Heaven.  We sure know what that other place was, so maybe it is.

 

We were holding our breath the first day someone took her down for breakfast.  When I asked her what she had she was as excited as a kid at Christmas.  “I had a huge cinnamon roll, bacon that tasted like bacon, a glass of orange juice and two cops of HOT coffee!” she said.  “It was the best meal I’ve had in months.”  No more plastic-play-food disguised as the real thing. Halleluiah!

 

Since those first days, she has gone on to tell me about the remarkable food she’s getting on a daily basis and how she doesn’t mind drinking more fluids because she thinks she feels better when she does.  Gee, why didn’t we think of that, my sister and I, who have been harping about it for years?

 

Because of breathing issues, the nurse at her new place decided she needed to go to the emergency room, which turned into an overnight stay at the hospital.  When she got back “home”, one of the workers came to her room to tell her that she had come in to pet her cat and make sure Louise had food, because she thought she might be lonely without my mom there.  Who are these angels?

 

A bunch of women told her they were taking her to BINGO, even though she can’t see well.  She won the first game.  Maybe they won’t tell her when it is anymore.  Haha.

 

Mom sits with new people all the time at meals and prefers the men because she can understand their voices better because it’s in a lower register.  That’s her story and she’s sticking with it.  Foxy old broad!

 

Already she is making plans for her hair and nails to be done on the premises.  They are sorting out her nebulizer treatments, checking on her several times a day, helping her maneuver the remote and every single person who comes into her room pets Louise, the cat.  I think that last act of kindness means more to her than all of the rest.  Especially since one worker at the Hell-Hole Place refused to come near her because she was so “allergic” to cats and often didn’t even get her meds to her because of it.

 

My sister posted the attached picture of mom sitting in the pub, having a beer with new friends, so full photo credit goes to her. They are allowed two drinks (free and included) a day and there is a happy hour.  Hour?  Try a whole life!

 

My mom now has a happy life, which means that my sister’s family and mine are now happy, too.  Deep breath!  Sigh!  Thank you all again for all of your support.  Who would think a little kindness, decent meals and acceptance in a great new place would make all the difference?  Me!

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Do-Over-Days

a bright light

Friday, November 8, 2019

Today I am grateful for do-over-days.  OMG, before 7:30 a.m. I was already so agitated that I thought I might pop a blood vessel.  Why?

 

Himself, who needs to use the facilities several times during the night, banged his leg once four years ago and now feels he needs to have light to maneuver his way.  Never mind that we have street lights and traffic lights that glare into our house all night long, especially now that the leaves are gone.  He needs a flashlight.

 

I used to think I’m a light sleeper but I think he’s more of a loud awaker!  For some unknown reason he was up at 6 a.m. to get routine fasting blood work taken.  I don’t think they even open until 7.  I was jolted out of a sound sleep by the flashlight he was “being discrete” with, hitting me full-on smack in the eyeballs, like I was a felon in a dark alley!  “What the HELL!” I shouted.

 

“I can’t hear you I don’t have my hearing aids in!”  He left the house fast.  Good thing.  It’s no fun yelling when he doesn’t have his hearing aids in anyway.

 

I always tape Good Morning America and especially wanted it today because a friend’s granddaughter was going to be dancing as part of the Disney show, High School Musical.  I got my usual breakfast and tea and sat down to watch from the recording.  It wasn’t recording.  The FIOS was wacky.  I couldn’t fix it in my usual way.  Nothing worked.  I couldn’t even bring the guide up.  You know what that means.  I had to call tech support!  Please, no!

 

But first I went on line because they always swear it is so easy to do that and will save you time.  Hahahahahaha.  As if!  I found a number I had used before, written in my book.  And code numbers and passwords and all manner of useless crap.  See how smart I am?

 

“We are experiencing a higher than normal call volume.  Your call will be answered in 15 to 20 minutes.”  Really?  Everyone is up at 0’dark thirty calling Verizon tech support?  Or is Beulah the only one on at that hour and she had Indian food last night so she can’t leave the little room?

 

I wait, listening to horrible noise/music and whack around on the keyboard to try to resolve my “issue”.  I’m on a chat, in a support, order a new remote, just because this one has been pissing me off anyway and as long as I’m there I might as well check that off my list of things to do and I wait.  And wait. On hold.  Tra la, tra la!

 

After about a half an hour on hold and on line, I find a prompt to do a magic-reboot of my “systems”.  Oh, if only it were that easy on the human body. . . just reboot!  I’m told to click on this or that and that all of my whatever will be down for a few minutes.  My whatever has been down for longer than they know.  My computer stayed connected, but the phone went dead.  My now almost 45 minutes on hold were over.  Beulah was still you-know-where anyway so who cares.

 

It looked like I ordered the remote. . .or six of them. . .not quite sure, and there was another number to call if my problem hadn’t been solved.  It hadn’t.  Actually my problems were growing or was that just pressure from the steam building up in my brain?  This time they had to text my cell to give me a code number that I had to tell them right away or we would all self-destruct and by then I didn’t care too much if we did.  Bye-bye.

 

I was prompted to say yes, say no, say I have no frigging idea about a dozen times before I screamed, “REPRESENTATIVE!!!”

 

“Your call is very important to us.  We are experiencing an unusually high call volume at this time.”  Are you kidding me?  “A representative will be with you before you whither away under a house like the Wicked Witch of the West.  You could try going on line or clicking your heels together three times, but we doubt that will work either so you’re stuck waiting.  Have a nice day and enjoy the music.”

 

I waited on hold.  And waited.  And poked around on the computer.  And nothing changed with the TV.  Each time a recording came back on the line I swore at them.  Badly.  Big, bad words.  The mother of all swear words!  Words that no one should say, finally ending with a string of expletives that would make Whoopee Goldberg blush!

 

The TV went black.  It started going through its paces, re-booting and fixing itself.  What?  How did it happen?  Was it the call?  The computer?  The cursing?  I don’t even care.  It’s fixed.  I hung up on Beulah, logged off the computer and grabbed my gym bag to go to the pool.

 

“I think I need a do-over-day,” I said to Himself as I stormed out the door to his laughter.  He loves my creative language when I’m really pissed.  He won’t be laughing so loud tonight. . .when I shine that blasted flashlight in his eyeballs!  Or worse!

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Senses

a comuter train crowd.JPG

Thursday, November 7, 2019

Today I am grateful for my senses.  We went to a play in Philadelphia yesterday, called “A Small Fire” which featured actress Bebe Neuwirth, one of our favorites.  Oh boy.

 

We don’t usually say too much while sitting in our seats, because you never know who you’re next to or in front of or behind.  After waiting 20 minutes for the ladies room line to dwindle, we hit the streets to stroll our way back to Suburban Station and take the train home.  We talked.

 

“What did you get out of the play?” Himself asked me, always thinking that I will have something profound to say because I’m such a die-hard-theater-rat.

 

“Well. . .” I began, watching him waiting for my profound words.  “A short nap, that’s for sure.”

 

What a shame.  I just didn’t like the play.  Was the cast great?  Yes, they were all awesome.  Watching Bebe respond, or not respond to her surroundings when she had lost her sense of smell, taste, sight and hearing, was an exercise in fine acting.  The others held their own very nicely.  But for the most part they should have been on mics.  You simply couldn’t hear them, and we were only in the sixth row.  I doubt those in back caught two words.  This is not TV or film.  It’s live and we need to hear.  My hearing is excellent but I missed a lot, I’m sure, and I strained throughout.

 

There were some funny lines and bits, but for the most part those seemed contrived to me.  It was as if someone who read the play in an earlier draft said, “You need to lighten things up.  Haven’t you got some way to do that?”  So, the author did.  In an odd way.  With pigeons.

 

We stopped for a cup of tea and something wonderful/awful and fattening and talked some more.  “I just can’t pinpoint what was wrong with that play,” I kept saying to Himself, who only cared about the huge brownie in front of him at this point.

 

But it bothered me.  I’m a writer.  I should be able to figure this one out.  It ran 80 minutes.  That’s 20 minutes longer than a one-act play is allowed to run.  Did this start out as a one-act and someone suggested making it longer for the main stage?  I don’t know.  But it seemed possible, since so much seemed contrived.

 

By the time we had marched the million miles (that’s how my back felt, what with the ball of nails spinning around in my lower lumbar region, causing me pain with every step) back to the station, I was frustrated by more than asthma and sciatica. What was it about that play?  I had wanted to love it!  But I didn’t.  And worse than that I felt stupid because I didn’t get it.

 

We got on an “express” train at 4:15, which stopped and waited so much it was far from express.  But sitting in that jammed full car, having gotten up so that a lovely young Asian could sit in the middle seat, I really started thinking about that play.

 

What was missing?  Was there too much?  Was there not enough?  Then I caught a clean whiff of Ivory soap coming from the young Asian woman next to me.  I drew deep breaths to smell more of the familiar scent.  Someone standing in the aisle smelled like they could use a little Ivory soap.  Another one passed wind so strong you could almost taste it.  Gross, but you know what I mean.

 

Almost everyone, standing or sitting, was tapping into a phone or computer.  Some were talking out loud, business as usual, no matter that 50 strangers were eavesdropping.  Or was it only me? There was a lot of activity with a lot of different screen saver shades lighting the train car.

 

After a long wait we were finally moving again and the screeching metal-on-metal of the wheels groaning to carry us forward overrode the clicking of fingers on devices.

 

I shut my eyes, pretended I could not see.  Pretended I could not hear.  Pretended I could not smell.  Pretended I could not taste, like Bebe’s character and I knew what was missing from that play. . .for me, anyway.

 

How can you write a play about a loss of smell and only talk about a gas leak odor?  Just think of all of the other odors you would miss, baking bread, crockpot anything, Thanksgiving, chocolate chip cookies baking, shampoo, new mown grass, leaves, even the cigarette smoke I noticed when walking to the station.  No smells.  Imagine no sense of smell.

 

Then what if you can’t taste? I would be thin.  So very thin.  Because I simply love the taste of almost every food, except cream corn and oatmeal.  Some I like better than others, but that doesn’t’ mean I don’t like the lesser ones.  Imagine no sense of taste.

 

Himself has a considerable hearing loss and while I holler at him sometimes out of frustration, I shouldn’t.  It must be awful to not be able to hear what everyone else around you can.  Imagine no sense of hearing.

 

Then there is sight.  My own mother suffers from a loss of sight.  She often says, “you have no idea” and I know I don’t.  But I can say that I live in fear of losing my sight.  I love looking at things in different ways.  I love lighting and shadows and colors and form and a billion other things that I take for granted seeing.  Imagine having no sight.

 

Those were the four senses that Bebe’s character lost.  Quickly.  Why?  We never found out.  But if I were to critique the playwright, I would say spend less time with the contrived homing pigeon bit and spend more time with the emotions and memories involved with the loss of those senses.  Imagine the humor you could find in the things your glad you don’t have to smell, or taste, or see, or hear.

 

I felt the play lacked.   It’s entirely possible it was too esoteric for me and that I’m not smart enough to get it.  That’s fair, too, and a real probability.  But without fleshing out the ramifications of losing your senses, it just didn’t work for me.  I leave you to think about what you’d miss if you lost yours.  Smell.  Taste.  Hearing.  Sight.

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One More Thing to Argue About With My Sister

a judy pic

Monday, November 4, 2019

Today I am grateful for one more thing to argue about with my sister.  How’s that for a lead-in?  Gottcha, right?  You have a sibling?  Then you know what I mean.

 

My sister and I are very different.  That doesn’t mean that she’s better or I’m worse, or she’s right and I’m wrong or I’m right and she’s wrong or that anybody is wrong or right or better or worse.  Just different.  Didja get all of that?

 

Since she left New Jersey to live in Madison, Wisconsin I don’t know how many years ago, but a lot, she has been looking for her niche.  Music is her go-to escape, passion and talent, so it didn’t take long before she was involved with the music in her church.

 

There are a few musical groups that she and her husband are involved with, but they meet infrequently and didn’t seem to be enough to fill her time.  Boredom sets in when she doesn’t have things scheduled.  She doesn’t do boredom well.  I kinda like a little boredom now and then, except I call it down time.  See how different we are.

 

I tried to get her interested in her YMCA but it didn’t take.  There’s always a book club but it’s far away and only once a month anyway. Nothing was clicking for her, except the years.

 

During one of our recent conversations, she mentioned a Plato Group, that meets once a week, where she could share stories about her life.

When I got over picturing her with Playdoh the child’s clay and realized she was talking about Plato the smart guy, I was all for it.  I’d have been okay with the clay, too.

 

So now she is writing.  How cool is that?  I will support anyone when they want to try something new so I was thrilled she was venturing forth.  Besides, if writing is as therapeutic for her as it is for me, it will help her deal with the rest of her life.  Just like I am here.  Gottcha again!

 

What surprised me is that she asked my opinion.  Oh boy.  Great.  Swell.  Sometimes writers new to the game ask and opinion, but they really don’t want one.  They want to keep every rookie mistake intact, want to whine over every coma and argue over every proposed deletion.  Words are sensitive things.  I get it.  I also had to get over it.

 

So after helping her work through about four pieces, which didn’t need much more than judicious cuts and a few tweaks, she sent me this weeks piece.  Then called me.

 

I was ready for her.  Had that thing already saved because the last time her computer went zots and lost what she had written.  I had to send her the one I had, unedited, in a rush so she’d be ready for her class.  Clay would be so much easier.  Here’s tonight’s phone workshop. . .she calls. . .

 

HER:  Okay, I’m ready.  I was so confused about how to do this.  Are you ready?  You sound breathless.  Are you breathless?

ME:  I’m running around moving cars and whatever.

HER: Why do you have to move cars

(I will spare you the rest of that part.)

ME: I have to get my computer open and pull it up.  The piece is really pretty good.

HER:  I don’t know.  Something is wrong.  I feel like it’s not, like I don’t write very well.

ME:  (Laughing) That’s a feeling you better get used to.  I still have it and so does every writer I know.

 

Then I tell her what I think has to happen, which involves cutting a huge chunk from the bottom of the piece and putting it up at the opening.

 

HER:  Wait!!!  What?  You lost me!  Where?

ME:  I told you, move that all up.

HER:  All of it?

ME: Yes, all of it.

 

Then there was a lot of arguing over getting rid of that word, take this and do that with it and I don’t think you need that at all and what she would and would not do and what I would or would not insist on to make it better.  You know.  Sister talk.

 

HER:  Wait!  Hold on!  I have a black cat walking across my keyboard.

ME:  Did you do it?

HER:  NO!  I’m holding the phone.  I can’t do it that fast!

ME:  Why don’t you put me on speaker.

HER: (Loud grunt) MOVE.  (I assume she’s talking to the cat.)

ME:  Are you ready?

HER:  Hold on.  Oh crap.  Now where did that go?  Hang on a minute.

 

The phone clunks on her desk, but now I’m on speaker, which is great because I can her every click of her keyboard louder than my own and I’m in the room with mine.

 

ME:  Are we ready?  Did you make the change?

HER:  I don’t know why I have to change that.

ME:  You don’t have to do anything, but if you don’t, when you read it to your group you will see how it slows you down.

HER:  Okay, okay, I guess I can always change it back if I don’t like it.

ME:  Right.  If you don’t glitch on it.  (She will glitch on it and leave it)

HER:  I don’t know where Tim is.

 

Her husband.  I swear, she has the attention span of a gnat, but I don’t say that. . .until now.  Haha?  Is she laughing?  Someone go peek in her window.  Maybe her husband is home by now and can shoot me a message.

 

ME:  Now go to the top and I’ll read the first few words of every paragraph to make sure you have it all in order.

HER:  Okay.  Hang on.  Cat!?  REALLY!  Move! (I assume the fur-ball is back.)  Wait, wait!  Molly is calling.  (Her daughter) I’ll tell her I’ll call her back.  Hang on. (I’m on hold.)  Are you there?  Hello!  (She obviously can’t hear me screaming hello)

ME:  I’m here!  Why can’t you hear me?

HER:  Oh, okay, there you are.  Where were we?

ME:  Seriously? You know I’m going to write about this conversation when we’re done here!

 

Then I’m going to go into the kitchen, get two forks, one for each eyeball, and stick them in prongs first.  Deep.  I’m so glad my sister has started writing and that she has a talent for it.  And I’m honored that she asks my opinion and sometimes takes my advice.

 

But the real reason I’m glad she’s writing is because as my sister, and because we are such different people, we just didn’t have enough things to argue about before.  Ha-ha!  We’re good now.  BING!  Heartprint!

 

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Colorful Leaves

Wednesday, October 30, 2019

Today I am grateful for colorful leaves.  When we lived in Jakarta, Indonesia for three years, the seasons never changed.  It was tropics, tropics, rainy season, tropics all year long.  The season I missed the most was Fall, when the leaves turn color as a final gift before the onslaught of winter.

 

If you’re paying attention you know Himself and I went to Jim Thorpe, a quaint town in the hills of the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania.  (See what I did there, Chuck?)  I drove and he was supposed to be taking pictures.  Haha.

 

The colors were spectacular. . .so spectacular that even my photos don’t do them justice.  There was no sun, but it was still gorgeous.  I managed to capture a few pics during our travels and will share them.  I think I even got a clear one of those stupid buzzards when I snatched my phone out of the hands of Himself in frustration.

 

The rain has taken down half of the leaves from the maples in front of our house and we walk them in every time we enter.  I don’t even care.  Usually when I pick them up off the kitchen floor, I study them for a little while, just to recognize their beauty before I trash them.  I will remember forever what it felt like to live without them for three years.  I didn’t like it.  Because I love the colorful leaves of Fall.

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