I Hereby Bequeath.....

I wonder how my mother would have finished the sentence fragment that is the title of this post had she left a last will and testament. But, she didn't. Instead, scrawled in a spiral notebook in her elegant, but nearly undecipherable, script were a few scant directives that only a few of us understood and that had no legal weight whatsoever. She left with no indication as to who was to get what,  and so each of her fourteen surviving children gets to guess and formulate opinions concerning her desires.

I'm trying to take the higher ground on this. I keep telling myself that no one thing that belonged to my mother means so much to me that I will fight with any of my siblings to secure it. I just want my mom back. But, things have gone missing from the estate, and even though these were items of nominal value, disregarding sentimentality, I find myself mildly irked by their disappearance. And I hate that it bothers me. Or maybe what perturbs me is that I cannot come up with a statement to justify my removal of anything from mom's house as some of my siblings can, i.e., "I know Mom would want me to have this."

I'd like to think Mom would have wanted for me to have her garden shears and maybe her trowel or hoe. I'm pretty sure she would want me to take a cutting from her rose bush so that I could start a new one. (We shared a love of beautiful gardens and especially of hybrid roses.) I'm also fairly confident that she would have wanted me to have a big clump of her lily-of-the-valley, any of the wayward ferns that crossed the invisible boundary of their shady bed into the lawn, and all of the bearded irises that manage to survive this northern winter.

But, Mom did not specify that I was to have any of these things. So, tell me, how do you divide a rose bush fourteen ways?

Potato Soup for the Soul

So much for New Year's resolutions...
I might have known I would not be able to "write a bit" each day as I vowed, overly optimistic, as 2015 hurtled towards us. Maybe I should shoot for a weekly post. That would be a more realistic goal.
I continue to have very dark thoughts. How dark? Think of being in a deep underground cavern in which there is no, and never has been, light whatsoever. That is how dark my mood has been. Are my meds working? Who knows? They have been giving me some very thought-provoking dreams at the very least.
The common element in my dreams is of someone in despair intoning "I can't do this any more." In one, I was stuck in a huge vat of cream of potato soup trying (unsuccessfully) to swim my way to the surface.

White Picket Fence

Has it really been almost four years since I last entered a post? Amazing. I would have guessed maybe a year and a half had passed from the time of my most recent entry. That leaves two and a half years that have, seemingly, vanished. Poof. I have nothing to prove I even existed during that time span at all. Sure, I have pay vouchers and tax returns and cancelled checks and receipts that would offer a chronology of the minutiae of my life, but, I have nothing that can tell you what I was thinking and feeling. I must not let this lapse of writing occur again.
My New Year's resolution is to write a bit each day. It won't be grand or eloquent and, in fact, it may not even be all that interesting. I want to do this so that I will have some record of the journeys my mind makes. Sometimes it is so difficult to understand what is inside my head. It is such a tangled mess. I begin 2015 occupied in a search for my self. I don't know when I became such a stranger to me, but I can't really recognize myself anymore. Maybe writing will help me to sort things out.
Long ago I should have taken my mom's advice: "Get yourself a notebook and just put all your thoughts and feelings on paper." Somehow she knew that I needed to express something unspeakable--e.g., that I really didn't want to be a part of this world anymore. I mean, really, how can one say to one's mother "I want to die."?  But she sensed the poisonous sadness that shrivels my soul. So, here I am, finally doing  what I should have been doing all along: writing. And I'm not just writing, but I'm writing about how I feel, because for some reason, I cannot say the words. Truthfully, it is impossible for me to verbalize my emotions. I can't even imagine saying the words. I don't think my lips and tongue would cooperate. But, I can write.
This is very scary because I really have no idea what this process might dislodge. I have hidden away emotions and reactions and impressions that I just didn't know how to deal with when they originated. Right now I just feel sad. I don't know where this sadness is coming from--it just wells up and spills out of me, literally. I actually wake up at night and find that I have been crying in my sleep. How is that even possible? I've tried to trace the source of the tears the way an explorer might search for the headwaters of a stream, but I can never quite manage to find it. It feels as though I will never run out of tears--no matter how much I cry the tears just keep coming in an inexhaustible supply. I'm thinking that for each tear I shed, a tiny bit of space is opened up in my soul that allows "seeds" of sadness to develop and mature. Apparently I have been stockpiling sadness "seeds" for some time.

Antiques, Collectibles and Eclectic Things

I have always been a collector. I guess I was born to gather, group, rearrange and admire objects. When I was a little girl, acorns, feathers and pretty, sparkling rocks filled the pockets of my play romper. A fierce interest in stamps festered throughout my school-age years. As a young adult, I dragged home from auctions those things not worthy of the bidding price asked: lamps in need of rewiring, musty feather down pillows, scraggly quilts, etc.
While my contemporaries amassed LP record albums that sat squarely in milk crates, I took an interest in accumulating textiles. Laundering linens, yellow with age, stained by rust, and gray from detergent, gave me sublime pleasure. I would soak the intricate lace doilies in a solution of vinegar and water and coax them back to their snowy whiteness. Then, I would hang them on a clothesline to dry under a hot, hot, sanitizing sun and to soak up the impossible-to-capture scent of the outdoors. Finally, I would press them, poking the iron into tiny frills and ruffles to ease any rumples. I enjoyed every minute of this labor.
When I should have been purchasing sensible things to furnish my first apartment, a treasure trove of multiple strand necklaces lay glittering in the top drawer of an antique vanity. I didn't have bath towels, but I had the colors of the rainbow held captive within a bureau. Because necessity forces practicality at times, I scored,at a garage sale, a bed, a brass one with a small dent in one of the bars of the headboard. And so I could offer guests a place to sit, albeit not a particularly comfortable one, a wicker settee served as my sofa. It was purchased on clearance at a store closing sale.

Get Me Out of Here

A gray day surrounds us. The weary sky is the color of the rinse water one might find in an old-fashioned galvanized wash tub. Lacking conviction, an erratic breeze is causing the awnings that hang out over the sidewalk to ripple in tiny canvas waves. The air is cold, cold, cold and stings the nostrils and lungs upon entry. It is annoying to have to invite in such an annoying guest. I'd rather be anywhere but here right now.

Big, Bad Mom

Breezy is angry because I would not commit to going to the gym and working out with her. It's snowy and cold and I do not feel like venturing out into the darkness. Besides, because exercise has not been part of my life for quite some time, I do not own the appropriate gear and accessories for weight training and using a treadmill. This makes me a horrible mother and also distinguishes me as the one responsible for ruining Breezy's weekend. It seems I cannot be true to myself without hurting someone else. I'm beginning to think I am a failure at interpersonal relationships. Why is being a parent such a constant struggle?

Mine, All Mine

Today as I was walking to work I realized something that will affect the way I approach writing my blog. Heretofore, (love that word--its pompousness renders it silly) I carefully edited my choice of topics and labored to get every word just right. I worried about who would read my writing and how they might judge me and my prose. I agonized that perhaps no one would read it at all. But, today it occurred to me that writing is something I do for myself. It's what I do to express myself. Some people talk. Some people draw. Some people dance. Some people perform. I communicate most easily by writing. So, I guess you could say that my writing is a sort of conversation I am having with myself. Others can read my written narrative if they so choose, but they cannot determine what I will commit to paper (or to the screen, as it were). What liberty and ease I feel! Unleashed and eager to launch forward!

A New Year, A New Me?

It happens every year right around this time. I take an assessment of the damages inflicted upon my physical appearance by too much holiday celebration. The toll this yule season has been extreme. I'm actually afraid to step on a scale. We're not talking about a weight gain of a couple of pounds here. I've packed on an extra 15 to 20 pounds that have settled on my hips, thighs and stomach. I feel wretched. I fear I have lost control. When I look in the mirror, a stranger gazes back at me. I must make a change.

I am addicted to Adam Lambert. There. I've admitted it. I've sort of been in denial as to the extent of my dependence on seeing or hearing anything related to him. I have been known to chase down the most fragmentary bit of gossip about him with great fervor. I spend hours surfing the web hoping to find just a crumb of some mention of him. I follow him on Twitter and positively delight in his often pithy and insightful tidbits of thought. I vote for his music videos on VH1 at the end of each day when I find I have nothing else I have to or wish to do.

Why should you care? Well, I write this as a sort of warning to those of you who have not yet succumbed to Adam's charm, wit and vocal ability to sing the bajeezus out of every song that flows from his vocal chords. But, I have managed to get ahead of myself. Perhaps, although this is an extremely remote possibility, you have no idea who Adam Lambert is. If this is the case, then I want to know what planet you have been on and whether or not there is intelligent life out there in space.

Adam Lambert is a singer. An extraordinary singer. A future legendary singer. An unforgettable singer. An energetic, talented, extreme, gorgeous, humble, intelligent, risk-taking singer. I could go on and on because his positive traits go on and on. But, above all, he is himself, without apology, and with great dignity and pride. And, that is the quality in him that I find so irresistible. He is unafraid to be a human being and he embraces life regardless of the imperfections it offers. I get the vibe that his tolerance and acceptance of diversity is sincere and heart-felt.

Anyway, if you haven't yet listened to him sing, you really should. There are many, many videos on YouTube that feature him. Just remember, all it takes is one small sample of the totally delicious Adam Lambert to develop an addiction.

What To Do? What To Do?

I have so much to do, I do not know where to begin. So, using what little wisdom I've managed to acquire over the years, I am going to avoid a confrontation with the disorder in my life. At least for now. I know I am supposed to prioritize, to do the most important things first, and to expect and to accept less than perfection. But, I am overwhelmed and find myself wishing that someone else would take over being me just for a little while.

Maybe you would like to trade places and live in my skin for awhile. It's not hard to be me, but it isn't exactly easy either. This is all you would have to do:

1. wake up at 7:00 a.m., 2. drink 3 cups of coffee with cream, 3.complain about how beastly hot it is, 4. go outside and admire my garden, 5. pet my dog and scratch the top of her head, 6. cuddle my cat, 7. make and drink a yogurt smoothie, 8. throw a load of laundry into the washing machine, 9.check Etsy listings and prepare outbound orders, 10. chain self to computer and edit existing Etsy listings or scan pictures and create new ones, 11. get ready for work (involves facing reality of reflection in mirror--never a surprise, always a disappointment) 12. go to work at a retail establishment, 13. lament to yourself how woefully underemployed you are, 14. deal with the public and all its types of people, and 15. do your best job without making your fellow employees look bad.

What do you think? Are you up for it? I am.

Wednesday's Child is Full of Woe

Maybe you are familiar with an old traditional nursery rhyme that starts: Monday's child is fair of face..... The poem continues to assign characteristics for the children born on each of the various days. Well, I decided to end the in-utero experience mid-week on a Wednesday morning and, accordingly, I am "full of woe" if the little ditty is correct. (Some people who know me might agree that I am full of something, but they would say it was something other than woe.)
I try hard to be cheerful, but I must admit, I have a rather damp disposition. Even on a beautiful day such as it is today with sunshine spilling across the sidewalks and a boisterous breeze wrapping flags around their poles, I am more on the sullen side of life. Many acquaintances I've had over the years have expressed the opinion that I think too much. (I think that in the end a balance is struck--my seriousness and inclination to ponder cancel out those people in life who never think.)

Be It Ever So Humble.....

There's no place like home. Or, so some would say. My thoughts diverge from the maudlin notion of home being some sort of blessed refuge. This probably puts me smack dab in the midst of a very small and unpopular minority. But, I make no apologies. I can write only of that which I have experienced, and I've never known "home" to be a source of comfort.
I'm not even sure where my home is anymore. Is home where you live, or is it where you came from? Is it the space you occupy or is it the space that welcomes you?
I am most "at home" when I am in the forest. That's where I feel most confident and most alive. I lose all self-consciousness surrounded by the beauty of the trees. It's strange, but when I am in the woods I feel as though I am as ancient as the mossy earth and it seems that I have been alive forever. If I sit motionless in a shadowy glade I can practically decipher messages written by the wind. I can feel myself becoming one with nature, as though I have been absorbed into the humus beneath my feet. I feel as though I have found the place where I truly belong.

Happy Birthday, Robert

The day after tomorrow, April 28, is my oldest son's birthday. He will be 28. The approach of this day fills me with melancholy as it has for the past 12 years. You see, my son has informed me he wants no part of me in his life. It's a long story, but let me assure you that I am no monster and my only crime against Robert has been loving him unconditionally. I envy those among you who can bake a cake for your son or daughter and celebrate the anniversary of his or her birth. You don't know how lucky you are.

The Last Peep

Sitting in front of me, resting comfortably in the snug confines of a lightweight cardboard carton partially shaded by clear cellophane, within easy reach of my quick and agile fingers, glittering in all its green sugary goodness, awaiting its certain demise is a marshmallow in roughly the shape of a chick, the last of my Easter Peeps.

I do not recall paying this much attention to the other 9 Peeps that crowded this box. They found their way to my mouth without too much effort on my part and with no resistance on theirs. (I should hate to be as mindless and as lacking in self-direction as a Peep.) I'm quite sure I did, in fact, ingest these petite confectionery delights. No one else in the household has developed a taste for them; that is to say that their palates have not evolved to a point that allows them to appreciate the abundance of sweetness and gooiness that is the essence of a Peep.

Dear reader, please tell me what occasion would merit the ceremonious consumption of this, my final Peep? I cannot find it in my heart to put it out of existence in one greedy gulp just because it would taste so yummy. Give me a reason.

Writer's Block from Hades

Sometimes I think I really should do something to jazz up the appearance of this blog. I've been meandering through the blogosphere and have happened upon some very spiffy layouts and graphics. When I encounter such pages I feel somehow inferior because all I put out there into cyberspace are printed words. Dear reader, I hope you can be satisfied with just these black squiggles and sticks and loop-de-loops scattered across a field of plainer-than-plain white. I'd like to think that I don't need all the fancy graphics to keep your attention. I need to believe that my words are what compel you to read and, perhaps, to return to this blog.
I agonize over what I should write every time I want to create a new post. It is so difficult to write for an audience I do not know. The truth is that I love to write and it's always been an effortless activity for me. That's why I am so confounded now. I have the will and the ability to write and yet I sit and stare at this expansive white screen not knowing how the space should be filled. My thoughts are jumbled up like a log jam in my brain.

Just Another Manic Monday

Whenever the sun fails to perform its prescribed duty of shining my psychological balance is tipped towards the gloomy. As the sun is hiding today, shirking its responsibility, I am fighting a feeling of what can only be described as "blah". I find myself contemplating ways to improve my mood. Writing always makes me feel better, therefore I am blogging.
I am at work right now. You might wonder how I have time to pen this while at my job. Well, the truth is, I am a clerk at a retail store that gets virtually no business. In my five-hour shift, I am lucky if I have a total of ten customers. It gets mighty boring. I'm not complaining. I know that there are plenty of people out there who would give anything to have a job to go to, boring or not. I usually bring my knitting or crocheting with me, but, today I couldn't place my hands upon it without having to search and I didn't want the frustration of trying to locate it in this black hole of a house I live in.
Things disappear in my house. Not just socks in the washing machine either. Big things. Clothes drying racks. Laundry hampers. Crock pots. Artificial Christmas trees. I have no explanation for these lost objects. I must be too good at finding novel storage spaces for them (a useless skill, by the way, if one can't remember where one has placed the items.)
I'm making progress on cleaning my house. I've decided that the first step HAS to be emptying it. With our roomy van jam-packed with donations gleaned from my home-sweet-mess, we made four trips to the local thrift store. I'm not sure how many bags and boxes of "STUFF" that we removed from the house, but it was a lot. I started with a new roll of garbage bags and now that same roll is feeling pathetically thin.
Well, it's time to wait on a customer. More later.....

The Search Continues.......

Something in my life is missing. Some quality or element-- I'm not sure what it is. That's to say, I don't know if it's something I once had, but lost, let's say optimism, or if it's something I have never known or experienced, i.e., cheerfulness. And it's really hard to look for something when you don't even know what it is you're looking for. I don't even have a general sense of what it is or could be. But something is definitely missing. I think it might be associated to matters of the heart.
Yes, I know. This is a lot of blather. Unabashed rot, to be brutally honest. And why would you even care that my soul has atrophied and continues to shrivel daily as its cravings go unfulfilled? My stories of personal angst mean but little to you and I am sure they convey at least a slight twinge of whining. So, I apologize for my sniveling neurotic musings as I question what it is I am trying to locate and secure.
Maybe you're perfectly content with your life. I hope that you are. I mean that with all sincerity. It's awful to spend every day searching for an undefined something that you think will make you feel more significant than the grayest of all gray clouds.

What I Need is A 12-Step Program for Hoarders

This is a continuation of my last post, the topic of which was my apparent lack of housekeeping skills. I know I am not alone in having a disordered home environment. My mom's house and my sisters' houses confirm this. I could probably make a case that I am genetically predisposed to having every surface covered with random papers, need-to-be-read magazines and mail, half-finished projects and such, but if my motivation and need was great enough, I would clean my house. Right?
Well, it isn't quite that simple. Take today. I cleaned my house. Or, I should say, I worked at cleaning my house. It's not a job that can be finished in one day. I managed to clean one of the three bathrooms. Yes. It is a big house. And big houses, unfortunately, have space for lots of things. What's more, I seem to have an obsession with "things".
I love acquiring the cast-offs of society, and have been known to dumpster dive should the treasure at the bottom be especially enticing. Auctions are my weakness and I drag home all sorts of stuff that is currently useless to me, but who knows, maybe someday I, or someone else, will need it. And things seem to find a way to my doorstep. No kidding. Some morning I will wake up and find a big box of goodies someone has charitably given to me.
Why am I telling you this. Well, I'm about to make a sort of admission that I think I need to make. I am a hoarding slob. Don't get me wrong. I am a really nice person. I am just impaired by this awful need to save, rescue and stockpile things. It's reached the point that the amount of stuff has exceeded my ability to manage it.
I am going to get this under control and I will keep you posted on my progress. I welcome any hints in slaying the monster that is responsible for my messy house.

I Am Not the Queen of Clean

I must confess: my house is a mess.
From bottom to top, the mess never stops.
I try very hard to be tidy and neat,
but, the dust bunnies tumble across my feet.
My clutter is controlled by baskets and bins,
so, I'm not quite sure where the chaos begins.
I admit: I have too many things--
knick-knacks, doo-dads, thing-a-ma-jigs,
things bought on impulse, things bought on sale,
things dragged home from curbside, things delivered by mail,
things that are tiny, things that are not.
How do I get myself out of this spot?

A Bad Case of Gardener's Itch

Frigid air, be gone. Snowbanks, get thee hence. Forecasts of icy precipitation, be now and forevermore disallowed. Just go away, winter, and take your slippery roads, high heating bills, and sidewalks to be shoveled with you. I have had enough of you.