Jill has very clear rules about food. She'll eat something for supper, she'll take the leftover for lunch the next day, and then it becomes poisonous. No ambivalence. No shilly-shallying. Straightforward, no need for judgment calls or decision making. Moving right along. For me, it's not so simple.
It might be because of our half-generation gap. It shows up now and again, highlighting the ten year difference in our ages. I was raised by actual Great Depression parents, the kind that don't throw anything away if there's still some use left in it. The kind who used to say, "But you just got a new coat two years ago. Why do you want another one?" In that household, throwing away food was a sin just short of grand larceny.
For ten years now, Jill and I have had these related discussions:
me - "What happened to those mashed potatoes from the other day?"
her - "I threw them away."
me - "But I was going to make potato patties tonight!"
(She smiles with secret satisfaction, knowing she just saved herself from eating poisonous potatoes.)
me - "Are we out of sweet pickles?"
her - "I threw them away."
me - "What? Pickles don't go bad. That's why they're pickles, to preserve them."
her (shrugging) - "They were past the date."
me - "Don't you know that's just a marketing ploy? Why, Aunty Ann made pickles and we used to get them from the basement for years."
(Same smirk.)
or this one:
her - "Is this milk still good? The date is ok, but...."
me - "Of course it is. That's the sell-by date, not the expiration date."
her - "But it smells funny."
me - (taking a swig) "Nah, it's fine."
(She wrinkles her nose and puts it back in the fridge, never to touch it again.)
Just like everything else we've encountered, this took awhile to iron out, and I think what we have today is an uneasy truce. I still have covered dishes of leftover dabs of things I think I might eat for lunch while she's not home, and she ignores them. I've come to accept that she will ALWAYS open the new jug of milk or juice, even if the other one is still not empty, and she will use the new one while I use up the old one. It's not perfect, but it works well enough.
I've been thinking about this, among other things, because I read an opinion piece online this morning about nostalgia as a political issue. It was this pundit's opinion that each of the major parties is suffering from Nostalgia ---- wanting to go back to the Good Ol' Days ----- but each focused on different parts of those ephemeral days. Now, I don't know if it's a function of age, or simply part of the human psyche, but I can relate to some of that pining for simpler times, even if I know that it's based on very selective memory.
Change is not an easy thing to embrace, a lot of the time. Of course, you don't hear anybody complaining about some changes. There might be a few, but the vast majority of people don't want to go back to having no electricity, no running water, no transportation except shoeleather or horses. (Keep in mind that there are still innumerable people for whom that is present-day life.)
So really, I think it's more the feelings than the actual reality that people long for. And that probably IS an indelible part of the human psyche. It is the warmth, security, and safety of early childhood that we long for. We don't want to be children again ---- Heaven Forbid! No autonomy, no adult beverages, no love life? Hell no! That's not what the advertisers and politicians are trading on when they evoke Mom and Pop businesses, families around the dinner table, Main Street, school and church, Little League and flag-waving. Oh, and don't forget apple pie. They're calling out our babyhood feelings, but placing them in grown-up situations. We'll get rid of the bad people, don't you worry. We'll make sure you're safe and secure and put a chicken in every (deserving) pot. Vote for us.
I suppose there are folks who long to recreate the world they think they remember, where you didn't lock your doors and everybody knew your name. But that was never a universal experience, and even for those who lived it, the entire facade was dependent on other people NOT being able to live that way. There were no openly gay couples raising children on Main Street. In that America, the grunt work was done by the socially, if not legally, segregated non-white people who were never going to live in the big houses on Main Street or own the banks on Wall Street.
I expect it was pretty sweet to be able to simply ignore the unpleasant realities that were right under your nose, if you were white and male and middle class and at least moderately educated. The world WAS safe and ordered and predictable. But there's not a lot to be nostalgic about if you weren't.
When she was a kid, my daughter used to refer to historic times as "back when men ruled the world". She grew up to be an historian.
These are the "good times" for kids being born in this decade. While the adults and all us old geezers are freaking out about how awful things are, they're just opening their eyes and discovering that the sun comes up and goes down every day, that seasons follow one another, that a hug is warm and sometimes things hurt, but the hurt stops after while. They won't all grow up feeling safe and secure --- that's never happened since the beginning of time ---- but enough of them will, that in 50 or 60 years, the Teens and Twenties will be soft-lens sweet, and folks will be saying "Wouldn't it be great if we could just go back to the Good Ol' Days?"
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Quarter of a Century
25 years ago, we trooped into Wake Forest on Labor Day, looking for hope and change. Two vehicles, loaded with everything we owned after the marathon yard sales in Illinois, it was my husband Skip pulling the U-Haul trailer, the two kids 12 and 4, and me at the ripe old age of 37. My father drove his broken down little pickup truck, loaded to the gills with our stuff. We looked like leftovers from a John Steinbeck novel.
I've lived within 20 miles of that first rented townhouse ever since. Twenty-five years.
You have to realize that until this time, I never lived anywhere very long. My first big move was from Cedar Falls, Iowa where I was born, to Evanston, Illinois at the age of six weeks. That set the stage for me to move 32 times in my first 30 years. I not only never put down roots, I barely broke the surface. So staying here in the Triangle and only changing domiciles 4 times in a quarter century is pretty amazing to me.
Yesterday, I accidentally took a trip down memory lane. It was not my intention. I had to be up that way to drop Mom off at Barb's house, and she suggested that there might be a new coffee shop on White Street in Wake Forest, so I swerved through town just to see. No coffee shop, but something about the gloomy day and the actual anniversary made me cruise through the streets looking for my old self. So much has changed. I left Wake Forest nearly ten years ago and it has been following valiantly in Cary's footsteps ever since. When we moved there in 1987, there were 4500 people, two places to eat (The Fountain and Shorty's), one take out pizza place (PTA) and plenty of churches. The churches have burgeoned, as have the eating establishments. It's a veritable emporium of big box stores and slick-looking shops these days, and thousands more people with cars.
The two houses where I lived are still there, though one, a sorry-looking shack on a main road, has a For Sale sign in front of it. I expected it to be torn down after I moved out, but he's squeezed another decade of low rent and no maintenance out of it.
Twenty-five years is a pretty long time, though it doesn't seem so as I look back over it. I moved there younger than my older child is now. That's a little startling.When Dad helped us load up and move, he was the age I am now. That's even weirder. The generations are collapsing.
1987. Did the world feel as breathlessly precarious as it does today? Probably. Were the politics as venomous, the citizens so divided, the way so uncertain? When I sift back through the decades, even the tumultuous years of my youth at the height of the Viet Nam War and the Civil Rights Movement, those are not the things that spring immediately to mind. Andrew was born shortly after the long, hot summer when Nixon resigned, but what I remember was living in that trailer, being way too hot, building projects for one of my classes, spending time with our best friends Michael and Cristi.
I marched in the war protests, I met with my women's collective, I agitated for legalizing abortion. I worked on local and gubernatorial campaigns in the seventies. I was passionate about the rights of women, improving the lot of children and public education. But those are not the things I remember now when I look back from my perch so many years later.
When I look back it's family I remember: my children being born, being toddlers and school kids. I remember the excitement when my parents would fly in from Europe during the summer and we'd get to spend time together. Vivid are the trips to Albia to see my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I think about starting my business on a $100 loan from Mom, and then keeping it going for almost 15 years. I remember friends and love and tears and divorce and love again. I don't remember politics.
I'm glad I've lived here in the South for twenty-five years. It was like a foreign country when I first moved here; I couldn't even understand what people were saying in the AA meetings in Wake Forest and Youngsville. But it gradually became home and if I spend the next twenty-five years living here, in this town, in this house even, that will be ok with me. The public life rages on and on, and always will. I'll pay attention and I'll sometimes get involved. But my real life, my true north, lies here in the dogwood trees and gentle cadences of the south, with my home, my wife and my family.
I've lived within 20 miles of that first rented townhouse ever since. Twenty-five years.
You have to realize that until this time, I never lived anywhere very long. My first big move was from Cedar Falls, Iowa where I was born, to Evanston, Illinois at the age of six weeks. That set the stage for me to move 32 times in my first 30 years. I not only never put down roots, I barely broke the surface. So staying here in the Triangle and only changing domiciles 4 times in a quarter century is pretty amazing to me.
Yesterday, I accidentally took a trip down memory lane. It was not my intention. I had to be up that way to drop Mom off at Barb's house, and she suggested that there might be a new coffee shop on White Street in Wake Forest, so I swerved through town just to see. No coffee shop, but something about the gloomy day and the actual anniversary made me cruise through the streets looking for my old self. So much has changed. I left Wake Forest nearly ten years ago and it has been following valiantly in Cary's footsteps ever since. When we moved there in 1987, there were 4500 people, two places to eat (The Fountain and Shorty's), one take out pizza place (PTA) and plenty of churches. The churches have burgeoned, as have the eating establishments. It's a veritable emporium of big box stores and slick-looking shops these days, and thousands more people with cars.
The two houses where I lived are still there, though one, a sorry-looking shack on a main road, has a For Sale sign in front of it. I expected it to be torn down after I moved out, but he's squeezed another decade of low rent and no maintenance out of it.
Twenty-five years is a pretty long time, though it doesn't seem so as I look back over it. I moved there younger than my older child is now. That's a little startling.When Dad helped us load up and move, he was the age I am now. That's even weirder. The generations are collapsing.
1987. Did the world feel as breathlessly precarious as it does today? Probably. Were the politics as venomous, the citizens so divided, the way so uncertain? When I sift back through the decades, even the tumultuous years of my youth at the height of the Viet Nam War and the Civil Rights Movement, those are not the things that spring immediately to mind. Andrew was born shortly after the long, hot summer when Nixon resigned, but what I remember was living in that trailer, being way too hot, building projects for one of my classes, spending time with our best friends Michael and Cristi.
I marched in the war protests, I met with my women's collective, I agitated for legalizing abortion. I worked on local and gubernatorial campaigns in the seventies. I was passionate about the rights of women, improving the lot of children and public education. But those are not the things I remember now when I look back from my perch so many years later.
When I look back it's family I remember: my children being born, being toddlers and school kids. I remember the excitement when my parents would fly in from Europe during the summer and we'd get to spend time together. Vivid are the trips to Albia to see my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I think about starting my business on a $100 loan from Mom, and then keeping it going for almost 15 years. I remember friends and love and tears and divorce and love again. I don't remember politics.
I'm glad I've lived here in the South for twenty-five years. It was like a foreign country when I first moved here; I couldn't even understand what people were saying in the AA meetings in Wake Forest and Youngsville. But it gradually became home and if I spend the next twenty-five years living here, in this town, in this house even, that will be ok with me. The public life rages on and on, and always will. I'll pay attention and I'll sometimes get involved. But my real life, my true north, lies here in the dogwood trees and gentle cadences of the south, with my home, my wife and my family.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Powerless over ice cream
Last night I was feeling very stressed and self-critical because of a story I read on the interwebs machine, and especially the harsh comments afterwards. It's enough, that I already chastise myself constantly and feel physically debilitated because of putting on an excessive amount of weight in the past year and a half. To read the horrible comments that suggested everything short of suicide as an appropriate punishment for obesity, the scourge of all human conditions, the worst possible thing that a person can do to herself, put me in the frame of mind for great self-flagellation while trying to go to sleep. That was interspersed with repeated protestations from the tiny, squeaky voice rising from somewhere in the vicinity of my pancreas, saying "I'm not that bad, I'm not hopeless, I'll do better, really I will, just don't beat me anymore."
A modest breakfast of yogurt and fruit, with a cup of stout English tea, followed by a brisk walk through the woods, up and down hills with Buddy boy, gave me a great start to my 8,794th new life of moderation and good health. I can even look forward to the delivery of my farm-fresh produce box this afternoon.
Straightening up the front room, I pick up a magazine from several weeks ago that I hadn't read yet. It was early. I still had plenty of time to do laundry and get to the writing I'm going to do. I could flip through it while I had a mid-morning snack, maybe an apple. An hour later, I had read the magazine and eaten a good bit of ice cream and polished off Jill's uber-healthy, expensive whole food potato chips. Really? REALLY?
It's not that I didn't know what I was doing. It's that I didn't interrupt the impulse. And that ----- that is how addiction works.
One would assume, but one would be wrong, that having almost 32 years of recovery from alcohol and drug addiction would give a person every possible tool, desire, impetus and strategy for sloughing off other troublesome addictive behaviors. Alas.
Were the consequences so much greater all those years ago, that I was willing to go through the inevitable withdrawal and very steep learning curve, in order to stop drinking? I had tried many times before, but one day it worked and I never picked up again. Over the years I've been troubled by other self-destructive behaviors that I have since been able to put to rest. But this ---- I don't know what it will take.
Nobody ever got "better" about anything by being yelled at and beaten. When I had kids who had learning problems, I didn't stand over them telling them they were stupid and hopeless and would never learn anything. But I don't seem to be able to stop yelling at myself and launching into yet another cycle of seeking relief in the very thing that is most likely to kill me in the end.
Someday, unless the pols succeed in banishing science altogether, the brain scientists may get this all figured out and work hand in hand with the behavioral scientists to develop effective treatments for such stubbornly resistant subjects as I. I hope they do, and I wish I'd still be around to reap the benefits. In the meantime, though, it is not helpful or effective for me or anyone else to view this as anything but the vicious addictive cycle that it is.
I've got will power. I've got knowledge. I've got desire. What I don't have, is any defense against that first mouthful.
No wisdom here today. No humor, either.
A modest breakfast of yogurt and fruit, with a cup of stout English tea, followed by a brisk walk through the woods, up and down hills with Buddy boy, gave me a great start to my 8,794th new life of moderation and good health. I can even look forward to the delivery of my farm-fresh produce box this afternoon.
Straightening up the front room, I pick up a magazine from several weeks ago that I hadn't read yet. It was early. I still had plenty of time to do laundry and get to the writing I'm going to do. I could flip through it while I had a mid-morning snack, maybe an apple. An hour later, I had read the magazine and eaten a good bit of ice cream and polished off Jill's uber-healthy, expensive whole food potato chips. Really? REALLY?
It's not that I didn't know what I was doing. It's that I didn't interrupt the impulse. And that ----- that is how addiction works.
One would assume, but one would be wrong, that having almost 32 years of recovery from alcohol and drug addiction would give a person every possible tool, desire, impetus and strategy for sloughing off other troublesome addictive behaviors. Alas.
Were the consequences so much greater all those years ago, that I was willing to go through the inevitable withdrawal and very steep learning curve, in order to stop drinking? I had tried many times before, but one day it worked and I never picked up again. Over the years I've been troubled by other self-destructive behaviors that I have since been able to put to rest. But this ---- I don't know what it will take.
Nobody ever got "better" about anything by being yelled at and beaten. When I had kids who had learning problems, I didn't stand over them telling them they were stupid and hopeless and would never learn anything. But I don't seem to be able to stop yelling at myself and launching into yet another cycle of seeking relief in the very thing that is most likely to kill me in the end.
Someday, unless the pols succeed in banishing science altogether, the brain scientists may get this all figured out and work hand in hand with the behavioral scientists to develop effective treatments for such stubbornly resistant subjects as I. I hope they do, and I wish I'd still be around to reap the benefits. In the meantime, though, it is not helpful or effective for me or anyone else to view this as anything but the vicious addictive cycle that it is.
I've got will power. I've got knowledge. I've got desire. What I don't have, is any defense against that first mouthful.
No wisdom here today. No humor, either.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Garden of Solitude
I had a friend who used to say that he had moved from the "desert of loneliness to the garden of solitude". While he has since moved on to the garden beyond, I hold those words very close in my heart. That description was a lasting gift from Julian to me.
It's been a week of being busy outside of the house for me, and today I am steadfast in my resolve to spend time alone. I took Mama to daycare early so that it would be cool enough for a walk in the woods with Buddy. We've been missing our walks for the past six days.
For me, there is always the danger of becoming unmotivated to do the things that are best for me, if I go on hiatus for awhile. I don't know what that is ---- some internal bent toward self-destruction, or just plain laziness and sloth ---- but going six days without walking was right on the borderline of saying what the hell, and giving it up entirely.
By 8:10 Buddy and I were parking on North Hills Drive to try another link of the Ironwood Trail that we hadn't walked before. I knew where it would end up, but we were starting from another point. Buddy has missed his walks terribly and was positively jubilant when we got on the trail. He didn't know what to sniff first, and couldn't stop prancing back and forth across the path. To my surprise, I felt much the same way. We were no sooner out of sight of the road than I felt like I could breathe deeply for the first time in days. There was a ferocious wind and rain storm last night, so the trees were dripping in the early morning sun, the usually quiescent stream was out of its banks and careening toward Crabtree Creek. The damp earth and clean air combined to give the forest the sense of having been freshly scrubbed, ready for whatever adventures the new day would bring. And that is how I felt as well.
The first three decades of my life, I spent a fair amount of time outdoors. My mother was of the old-school in believing that children needed to play outside whenever possible. Since there were no toys outside, we devised our own games and star-studded theatricals. We could take a few things out with us --- toy dishes, tricycles, dolls. But for the most part we used what we found ---- sticks make admirable guns and swords for pirates, cowboys, cops and robbers. Jumpropes were good for everything from defining boundaries to tying up bad guys. And there's really no way to cook up a three course dinner without plenty of flowers, grass, seeds, and mud. If the sky hadn't provided water lately, there was always the yard pump or the garden hose.
Somehow, playing outside, even though I was scared of bugs and spiders from an early age, was the memory that has survived the longest. Perhaps that's because it was so sensory laden. Perhaps it was the level of attention I gave it; I was absorbed completely in whatever I was doing.
The need to be outside in order to feel whole carried over into adulthood, to some extent, though it started to be extinguished during my twenties. I still went for long, solitary walks by riverbanks and through parks. Whenever I was overcome with feelings that needed to spill, I sought the out of doors. More than once, I literally hugged trees. There were also escapades aplenty as I grew older, the ones that necessitated secrecy and subterfuge. Where better than a lonely beach or abandoned farmhouse, neglected walled garden or secluded forest to indulge in activities that were off limits? Skinny dipping in the river, smoking pot in the old barn, and let's not forget parking in the corn fields. I didn't get sober till I was thirty, so there was plenty of opportunity for scrapes and scrambles with illicit company in the great out-of-doors. Did I mention cemeteries? Nighttime on the golf course?
From thirty to sixty I was busy, too busy for all that messing around in the mud. Even taking children to the park seemed like an imposition on my very busy life. It's amazing that they got outdoors at all. I haven't ever talked to them about their memories of indoor/outdoor life ---- that will be an interesting conversation or two. I do know that both of them enjoy plenty of outdoor activities now, as adults. Making a living and raising kids, trying to run a business, stay sober, tend to everyday family life, kept me indoors and on the run for most of my middle decades. There were exceptions: some camping here and there, visits to state parks and lakes, trips to the beach. But somehow, when my life already felt so chaotic, nature did not feel restorative, it felt untamed, unpredictable, dangerous. There might be enormous, scary bugs in the woods, or murderers and rapists on the greenways. And anyway, I just didn't have time.
So now, once again, I'm back full circle. I haven't made any mud pies, but I've certainly been floating sticks and leaves in the creeks and running along the bank to watch them float through the rapids. I don't stay out playing in the long grass till I'm covered with sunburn and mosquito bites, but I smell the trees and flowers and listen for birdsongs, watch the fledgling cardinals in the backyard and hold very still to see the doe and her fawns cross the stream close by. Maybe one of these days I'll fling myself down in the grass to watch the clouds, or roll down a velvety hill to make myself giggle. I've been known to make a snow angel, winter before last.
What I hope is that the child of wonder who still resides within and the natural world that never stopped rocking along without, will continue to converge. For me, that's the best of all worlds.
It's been a week of being busy outside of the house for me, and today I am steadfast in my resolve to spend time alone. I took Mama to daycare early so that it would be cool enough for a walk in the woods with Buddy. We've been missing our walks for the past six days.
For me, there is always the danger of becoming unmotivated to do the things that are best for me, if I go on hiatus for awhile. I don't know what that is ---- some internal bent toward self-destruction, or just plain laziness and sloth ---- but going six days without walking was right on the borderline of saying what the hell, and giving it up entirely.
By 8:10 Buddy and I were parking on North Hills Drive to try another link of the Ironwood Trail that we hadn't walked before. I knew where it would end up, but we were starting from another point. Buddy has missed his walks terribly and was positively jubilant when we got on the trail. He didn't know what to sniff first, and couldn't stop prancing back and forth across the path. To my surprise, I felt much the same way. We were no sooner out of sight of the road than I felt like I could breathe deeply for the first time in days. There was a ferocious wind and rain storm last night, so the trees were dripping in the early morning sun, the usually quiescent stream was out of its banks and careening toward Crabtree Creek. The damp earth and clean air combined to give the forest the sense of having been freshly scrubbed, ready for whatever adventures the new day would bring. And that is how I felt as well.
The first three decades of my life, I spent a fair amount of time outdoors. My mother was of the old-school in believing that children needed to play outside whenever possible. Since there were no toys outside, we devised our own games and star-studded theatricals. We could take a few things out with us --- toy dishes, tricycles, dolls. But for the most part we used what we found ---- sticks make admirable guns and swords for pirates, cowboys, cops and robbers. Jumpropes were good for everything from defining boundaries to tying up bad guys. And there's really no way to cook up a three course dinner without plenty of flowers, grass, seeds, and mud. If the sky hadn't provided water lately, there was always the yard pump or the garden hose.
Somehow, playing outside, even though I was scared of bugs and spiders from an early age, was the memory that has survived the longest. Perhaps that's because it was so sensory laden. Perhaps it was the level of attention I gave it; I was absorbed completely in whatever I was doing.
The need to be outside in order to feel whole carried over into adulthood, to some extent, though it started to be extinguished during my twenties. I still went for long, solitary walks by riverbanks and through parks. Whenever I was overcome with feelings that needed to spill, I sought the out of doors. More than once, I literally hugged trees. There were also escapades aplenty as I grew older, the ones that necessitated secrecy and subterfuge. Where better than a lonely beach or abandoned farmhouse, neglected walled garden or secluded forest to indulge in activities that were off limits? Skinny dipping in the river, smoking pot in the old barn, and let's not forget parking in the corn fields. I didn't get sober till I was thirty, so there was plenty of opportunity for scrapes and scrambles with illicit company in the great out-of-doors. Did I mention cemeteries? Nighttime on the golf course?
From thirty to sixty I was busy, too busy for all that messing around in the mud. Even taking children to the park seemed like an imposition on my very busy life. It's amazing that they got outdoors at all. I haven't ever talked to them about their memories of indoor/outdoor life ---- that will be an interesting conversation or two. I do know that both of them enjoy plenty of outdoor activities now, as adults. Making a living and raising kids, trying to run a business, stay sober, tend to everyday family life, kept me indoors and on the run for most of my middle decades. There were exceptions: some camping here and there, visits to state parks and lakes, trips to the beach. But somehow, when my life already felt so chaotic, nature did not feel restorative, it felt untamed, unpredictable, dangerous. There might be enormous, scary bugs in the woods, or murderers and rapists on the greenways. And anyway, I just didn't have time.
So now, once again, I'm back full circle. I haven't made any mud pies, but I've certainly been floating sticks and leaves in the creeks and running along the bank to watch them float through the rapids. I don't stay out playing in the long grass till I'm covered with sunburn and mosquito bites, but I smell the trees and flowers and listen for birdsongs, watch the fledgling cardinals in the backyard and hold very still to see the doe and her fawns cross the stream close by. Maybe one of these days I'll fling myself down in the grass to watch the clouds, or roll down a velvety hill to make myself giggle. I've been known to make a snow angel, winter before last.
What I hope is that the child of wonder who still resides within and the natural world that never stopped rocking along without, will continue to converge. For me, that's the best of all worlds.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Clarion Call!
First of all, Greenland is melting. Yes, really melting in a big way in just the past few weeks. It astounds me that nobody is talking about that very much. It seems like some of the biggest news out there, and I'm not being an alarmist. All of a sudden something like 97% of the ice has melted. What in the world??
All I can say about that is, it's a good thing the North Carolina legislature decided that a rise in ocean level is not a problem we need to plan for. Pretty soon, I'll have beach front property without even having to move. We can rent out our Raleigh beach house and make a lot of money and buy a place in the mountains!
Ah, the Mountains. Jill and I just spent 3 nights in a 100 year old fishing cabin above the New River. It was great! When you walk in the door, it smells like 100 years worth of fires in the huge stone fireplace. The cabin's logs were hand hewn. Of course it was updated, a kitchen and bath added (very tiny) and it even had internet. And there was the hot tub out back in a little covered gazebo. I don't believe that was original to the property.
We went to the mountains for "respite" ----- that's a big word in the caregiving business. I've been learning a whole new vocabulary since taking Mom in to live with us nine months ago. We definitely were in need of some respite. It's one of those situations where you don't know how much you need it until you do it. Though Mom had spent a couple of weekends with my sister Barb, we had not been away by ourselves for the whole nine months. When we're at home, even if she's asleep, there's never a sense of being alone. She's always popping up and when she does, she requires constant, though subtle, supervision. It's a tricky dance we do, keeping a watchful eye while letting her feel like she's independent. You never know what she's going to do next.
People with little kids are thinking, yeah, yeah, whatever. Try a three-year-old, a five-year-old, and an infant. And that's certainly true. I've raised kids and I remember how relentless and tiring that is. They're every bit as likely to hurt themselves and be unpredictable as a demented old person. The difference is, that they learn (hopefully) from experience. Mom can't even remember what she did or said 5 minutes ago. There is no learning taking place, there are no memories being created. Every moment is in the now and when it's gone, it's gone. She can't explain what she was thinking or how she's feeling.
The past few days at daycare, she's thrown hissy fits over nothing that anyone can figure out. She's been destructive and mean, cussing at the staff, trying to break things, trying to escape. It's entirely out of character for her. I've had to pick her up early and she has no memory of what happened. She says, sorrowfully and sincerely, "I don't want to do that. I'm sorry." and I know that's true. The mother who raised me, who taught me right from wrong and how to behave, would be mortified if she could see herself now. It is truly heartbreaking to watch.
While we were "respiting" in the mountains, I left it all behind --- the stress, sadness, exasperation, confusion, anger and fear over my mother's condition. I was able to be in the moment with Jill, to reconnect with my wife, the woman I love to love, and felt immeasurably grateful for everything from the beauty of the countryside to the luxury of a king-sized bed. I left the worry behind, but not the awareness. I found myself haunted, as I am so often, with thoughts of how immediate and precious all of life is to me now. Will I be my mother in 10 or 15 years? Will Jill have to do for me what I do for Mom every day?
It's not a worry so much as a call to attention. This day is well and truly mine. How do I want to spend it? Will I work myself up into a lather over Chik-fil-A and electoral politics? Even Greenland, that really and truly feels like a canary, no, more like Big Bird with a megaphone, in the coal mine for our planet --- even that is not something I will allow myself to lose serenity over.
I can't control what happens in the big world, but I can keep tabs on my inner universe. And my choice today is to be here now and breathe.
All I can say about that is, it's a good thing the North Carolina legislature decided that a rise in ocean level is not a problem we need to plan for. Pretty soon, I'll have beach front property without even having to move. We can rent out our Raleigh beach house and make a lot of money and buy a place in the mountains!
Ah, the Mountains. Jill and I just spent 3 nights in a 100 year old fishing cabin above the New River. It was great! When you walk in the door, it smells like 100 years worth of fires in the huge stone fireplace. The cabin's logs were hand hewn. Of course it was updated, a kitchen and bath added (very tiny) and it even had internet. And there was the hot tub out back in a little covered gazebo. I don't believe that was original to the property.
We went to the mountains for "respite" ----- that's a big word in the caregiving business. I've been learning a whole new vocabulary since taking Mom in to live with us nine months ago. We definitely were in need of some respite. It's one of those situations where you don't know how much you need it until you do it. Though Mom had spent a couple of weekends with my sister Barb, we had not been away by ourselves for the whole nine months. When we're at home, even if she's asleep, there's never a sense of being alone. She's always popping up and when she does, she requires constant, though subtle, supervision. It's a tricky dance we do, keeping a watchful eye while letting her feel like she's independent. You never know what she's going to do next.
People with little kids are thinking, yeah, yeah, whatever. Try a three-year-old, a five-year-old, and an infant. And that's certainly true. I've raised kids and I remember how relentless and tiring that is. They're every bit as likely to hurt themselves and be unpredictable as a demented old person. The difference is, that they learn (hopefully) from experience. Mom can't even remember what she did or said 5 minutes ago. There is no learning taking place, there are no memories being created. Every moment is in the now and when it's gone, it's gone. She can't explain what she was thinking or how she's feeling.
The past few days at daycare, she's thrown hissy fits over nothing that anyone can figure out. She's been destructive and mean, cussing at the staff, trying to break things, trying to escape. It's entirely out of character for her. I've had to pick her up early and she has no memory of what happened. She says, sorrowfully and sincerely, "I don't want to do that. I'm sorry." and I know that's true. The mother who raised me, who taught me right from wrong and how to behave, would be mortified if she could see herself now. It is truly heartbreaking to watch.
While we were "respiting" in the mountains, I left it all behind --- the stress, sadness, exasperation, confusion, anger and fear over my mother's condition. I was able to be in the moment with Jill, to reconnect with my wife, the woman I love to love, and felt immeasurably grateful for everything from the beauty of the countryside to the luxury of a king-sized bed. I left the worry behind, but not the awareness. I found myself haunted, as I am so often, with thoughts of how immediate and precious all of life is to me now. Will I be my mother in 10 or 15 years? Will Jill have to do for me what I do for Mom every day?
It's not a worry so much as a call to attention. This day is well and truly mine. How do I want to spend it? Will I work myself up into a lather over Chik-fil-A and electoral politics? Even Greenland, that really and truly feels like a canary, no, more like Big Bird with a megaphone, in the coal mine for our planet --- even that is not something I will allow myself to lose serenity over.
I can't control what happens in the big world, but I can keep tabs on my inner universe. And my choice today is to be here now and breathe.
Monday, July 23, 2012
You believe what?
At our Unitarian Universalist fellowship yesterday, we had the first of two messages about belief. It's been rattling around in my head ever since. This week was a defense of the notion of belief and the part it plays in the life of an individual and a liberal religious denomination. Next week will be a message entitled "Beyond Belief". I won't be there to hear it, but I hope I'll be able to read the transcript.
Years ago, there was that series on radio called "This I believe". It's been revived in various formats from time to time, most recently that I'm aware of, on NPR a couple of years ago. It's an exercise in defining core beliefs, and I always find it interesting to listen to other people's thoughtful declarations. I have never yet attempted to write one of my own, and I'm not going to start now ---- so don't worry.
At this moment, I'm more interested in the construct of belief than the content. To that end, a definition is in order: (from dictionary.com)
1. a conviction or opinion
2. confidence in the truth or existence of something not immediately susceptible to rigorous proof
3.confidence; faith; trust
4.a religious tenet or tenets; religious creed or faith
The underlying principle that ties those together is the invisibility of the thing believed in. And that, my dears, is what catches my attention.
There are those among us who are die-hard realists. They want everything to be measurable and provable. If it's not, it's not real.
On the other hand, there seem to be many people for whom the so-called real world is more of a backdrop, the scenery before which the actual drama of life is played out. Life takes place in the realm of the unknown and unknowable, the ineffable, the spirit.
I suppose I fall somewhere in between. I really do like to know what I know that I know. I am usually ready to ask for references or some sort of documentation, and have a healthy skepticism about solemn declarations of fact that sound a little too pat or a lot too self-referential.
But I also harbor some fancy. Maybe it's the creative writer in me, the one who goes into plays and books with a willing suspension of disbelief in order to experience an emotional connection.
I will tell you flat out that I don't believe in ghosts, but I also believe in reincarnation. Not as something I would defend, but as something that helps me make sense of my life and the world. I wouldn't say I believe in magic, but I do think there are some things we don't yet understand how to explain, having to do with energy or magnetic fields or some property not yet named.
I won't limit myself to only objects and phenomena that are provable. And really, I don't think anybody does, at least on a conscious level. But what about those unseen influences that shape our thinking? You're having a conversation with someone you care deeply about (unseen - who measures the degree of feelings?) and you anticipate that it will be an upsetting conversation. You will read tiny, probably unconscious signals in voice, body language, or breath, to gauge how it's going, and then adjust what you say by what you perceive. Those are unseen and probably not conscious signals from the other person. You will come away from that situation with a number of beliefs about it ---- how she is feeling, whether she told the truth, what she'll do because of the conversation. Those beliefs will then influence your own behavior and be incorporated into the ongoing active file of memories and experience of the other.
If that micro level of belief, which occurs countless times every day, gives rise to evaluation, belief, and action, based on unseen and largely unmeasurable observation, how much more powerful could be the Beliefs that underlie religion, politics, nationality, ethnicity and the whole host of identifications we all carry around?
When I think of it that way, maybe 95% of life is belief-driven!
The things I believe about myself are the most powerful, and often predictable, motivators of my behavior. I don't have a degree in it, but I do believe I am a good listener and can help people find their way out of their own problems. I don't have anything but a little anecdotal evidence to back that up, no quantifiable data. I believe that I was/am an effective, good mother. Yeah, my kids are grown up and doing well, but that's not actual evidence to support that assertion or belief. Sometimes my beliefs run counter to my well-being. I can measure my body weight on the scales and get an objective number. I can read numerous articles with statistics that tell me the potential hazards of continuing to make that scale number go up. But I believe that it's a hopeless situation and I'm just stuck with that number no matter what I do or think to alter it. All the data would point me otherwise --- isn't there cause and effect involved in eating, exercise and weight? But my belief in the hopelessness and stuckness of it all seems to trump any kind of objective reality.
We have come to a time in which beliefs seem to trump everything else ---- logic, reason, facts, common sense, tradition, even rule of law. The voices of people with opposing viewpoints continue to get louder and more strident, drowning out most everything else. Facts have become irrelevant in the face of conviction--- confidence in the existence of something that cannot be rigorously proven. My belief in helping the poor regardless of how they came to be that way is dead wrong in the eyes of your belief in the righteousness of hard work and pulling oneself up by the bootstraps. Your faith in the inerrancy of the Christian Bible trumps my faith in the right of an individual to search for truth and meaning. Those folks believe it is murder to perform an abortion, while those other folks believe murderers should be shown mercy and spared the death penalty.
It is certainly the right of citizens in a "free" society to choose their own beliefs, and base them on whatever makes sense to them. Jesus, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the Zombie Apocalypse, or Transmigration of the Soul ---- they all have their adherents and that's fine. I celebrate the plethora of divergent views in the people around me, even though I don't necessarily understand or agree with them. But we are all on this little blue globe together, and it seems to me that it is far more fruitful to accept that others have different beliefs, than to try to annihilate them. Until the world is populated solely with clones, and probably not even then, there will be different, unprovable, unexplainable, invisible beliefs.
It doesn't hurt you a bit if I believe I have already been on this plane many times, learning lessons, and will continue that cycle until I'm through. See? You can read that sentence and nothing has been pinched, cut, stomped, pounded or assailed in your belief system. You might think differently about me, but YOU are still the you you've always been. So if my invisible life-helpers don't affect you, yours won't affect me, either. Unless either one of us is hellbent on converting the other. Whoa, Nelly!
You might tell me one of your beliefs, for instance, that girls shouldn't wear pants because it makes them too masculine. I might think you're wrong, stupid, archaic, impractical and out-of-your-ever-lovin' mind. But you having that belief doesn't affect me, and my belief that girls can wear whatever they find comfortable doesn't hurt you. Unless you use that belief to make a law that women must wear skirts at all times. THEN what you once "believed" was right has become coercive.
So that's the sticking point. When beliefs --- our convictions about things unseen and unknowable ----- become codified into law or public policy, then we're in a whole different ballgame.
Do me a favor. The next time you get all het up because somebody just stepped all over your pet belief, stop and take a breath. Ask yourself "How important is it?" Maybe give your own opposing belief (imaginary construct) a little hug, and walk on. We don't have to defend. We don't have to impose. And everybody doesn't have to believe in the same brand of unmeasurable reality.
To quote an old Unitarian, "We don't have to believe alike to love alike."
Years ago, there was that series on radio called "This I believe". It's been revived in various formats from time to time, most recently that I'm aware of, on NPR a couple of years ago. It's an exercise in defining core beliefs, and I always find it interesting to listen to other people's thoughtful declarations. I have never yet attempted to write one of my own, and I'm not going to start now ---- so don't worry.
At this moment, I'm more interested in the construct of belief than the content. To that end, a definition is in order: (from dictionary.com)
1. a conviction or opinion
2. confidence in the truth or existence of something not immediately susceptible to rigorous proof
3.confidence; faith; trust
4.a religious tenet or tenets; religious creed or faith
The underlying principle that ties those together is the invisibility of the thing believed in. And that, my dears, is what catches my attention.
There are those among us who are die-hard realists. They want everything to be measurable and provable. If it's not, it's not real.
On the other hand, there seem to be many people for whom the so-called real world is more of a backdrop, the scenery before which the actual drama of life is played out. Life takes place in the realm of the unknown and unknowable, the ineffable, the spirit.
I suppose I fall somewhere in between. I really do like to know what I know that I know. I am usually ready to ask for references or some sort of documentation, and have a healthy skepticism about solemn declarations of fact that sound a little too pat or a lot too self-referential.
But I also harbor some fancy. Maybe it's the creative writer in me, the one who goes into plays and books with a willing suspension of disbelief in order to experience an emotional connection.
I will tell you flat out that I don't believe in ghosts, but I also believe in reincarnation. Not as something I would defend, but as something that helps me make sense of my life and the world. I wouldn't say I believe in magic, but I do think there are some things we don't yet understand how to explain, having to do with energy or magnetic fields or some property not yet named.
I won't limit myself to only objects and phenomena that are provable. And really, I don't think anybody does, at least on a conscious level. But what about those unseen influences that shape our thinking? You're having a conversation with someone you care deeply about (unseen - who measures the degree of feelings?) and you anticipate that it will be an upsetting conversation. You will read tiny, probably unconscious signals in voice, body language, or breath, to gauge how it's going, and then adjust what you say by what you perceive. Those are unseen and probably not conscious signals from the other person. You will come away from that situation with a number of beliefs about it ---- how she is feeling, whether she told the truth, what she'll do because of the conversation. Those beliefs will then influence your own behavior and be incorporated into the ongoing active file of memories and experience of the other.
If that micro level of belief, which occurs countless times every day, gives rise to evaluation, belief, and action, based on unseen and largely unmeasurable observation, how much more powerful could be the Beliefs that underlie religion, politics, nationality, ethnicity and the whole host of identifications we all carry around?
When I think of it that way, maybe 95% of life is belief-driven!
The things I believe about myself are the most powerful, and often predictable, motivators of my behavior. I don't have a degree in it, but I do believe I am a good listener and can help people find their way out of their own problems. I don't have anything but a little anecdotal evidence to back that up, no quantifiable data. I believe that I was/am an effective, good mother. Yeah, my kids are grown up and doing well, but that's not actual evidence to support that assertion or belief. Sometimes my beliefs run counter to my well-being. I can measure my body weight on the scales and get an objective number. I can read numerous articles with statistics that tell me the potential hazards of continuing to make that scale number go up. But I believe that it's a hopeless situation and I'm just stuck with that number no matter what I do or think to alter it. All the data would point me otherwise --- isn't there cause and effect involved in eating, exercise and weight? But my belief in the hopelessness and stuckness of it all seems to trump any kind of objective reality.
We have come to a time in which beliefs seem to trump everything else ---- logic, reason, facts, common sense, tradition, even rule of law. The voices of people with opposing viewpoints continue to get louder and more strident, drowning out most everything else. Facts have become irrelevant in the face of conviction--- confidence in the existence of something that cannot be rigorously proven. My belief in helping the poor regardless of how they came to be that way is dead wrong in the eyes of your belief in the righteousness of hard work and pulling oneself up by the bootstraps. Your faith in the inerrancy of the Christian Bible trumps my faith in the right of an individual to search for truth and meaning. Those folks believe it is murder to perform an abortion, while those other folks believe murderers should be shown mercy and spared the death penalty.
It is certainly the right of citizens in a "free" society to choose their own beliefs, and base them on whatever makes sense to them. Jesus, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the Zombie Apocalypse, or Transmigration of the Soul ---- they all have their adherents and that's fine. I celebrate the plethora of divergent views in the people around me, even though I don't necessarily understand or agree with them. But we are all on this little blue globe together, and it seems to me that it is far more fruitful to accept that others have different beliefs, than to try to annihilate them. Until the world is populated solely with clones, and probably not even then, there will be different, unprovable, unexplainable, invisible beliefs.
It doesn't hurt you a bit if I believe I have already been on this plane many times, learning lessons, and will continue that cycle until I'm through. See? You can read that sentence and nothing has been pinched, cut, stomped, pounded or assailed in your belief system. You might think differently about me, but YOU are still the you you've always been. So if my invisible life-helpers don't affect you, yours won't affect me, either. Unless either one of us is hellbent on converting the other. Whoa, Nelly!
You might tell me one of your beliefs, for instance, that girls shouldn't wear pants because it makes them too masculine. I might think you're wrong, stupid, archaic, impractical and out-of-your-ever-lovin' mind. But you having that belief doesn't affect me, and my belief that girls can wear whatever they find comfortable doesn't hurt you. Unless you use that belief to make a law that women must wear skirts at all times. THEN what you once "believed" was right has become coercive.
So that's the sticking point. When beliefs --- our convictions about things unseen and unknowable ----- become codified into law or public policy, then we're in a whole different ballgame.
Do me a favor. The next time you get all het up because somebody just stepped all over your pet belief, stop and take a breath. Ask yourself "How important is it?" Maybe give your own opposing belief (imaginary construct) a little hug, and walk on. We don't have to defend. We don't have to impose. And everybody doesn't have to believe in the same brand of unmeasurable reality.
To quote an old Unitarian, "We don't have to believe alike to love alike."
Thursday, July 5, 2012
We're all worm food
Jill and I had the great good fortune of being visited last week by one of my oldest friends, John, and his wife of 42 years, Anneli. It turned out that we were all compatible and had a great time laughing, talking and excursioning around the Triangle, visiting friends and touring gardens and looking at outsider art. I even introduced them to Eastern North Carolina BBQ. They may not have been as taken with it as I am; it's an acquired taste.
It helps to have visitors from far away in order to see my own home through new eyes. The internet helps, too. John had identified a few things he wanted to see, especially the whirlygigs by Wilson artist Vollis Simpson. Had I ever heard of him? Well, yes, in a way. That enormous whirlygig installation down at the NC Museum of Art is one of his. But I sure didn't know what we would find down in Wilson, and never anticipated the delightfully slow, friendly conversation with the 93-year-old artist in his hilariously cluttered and junky-looking workshop, way out in the piney woods.
John and Anneli live in Sweden; Anneli is Swedish and John is a Navy Brat, which is why we were in high school together in Rota, Spain back in the stone ages. He is one of the few friends I've really kept up with from high school.
So what does all this have to do with worm food? Well, it goes like this. Anneli is a smoker. She's also a teeny, tiny, petite little person who a good wind would blow away. She apologized a couple of times for smoking out on the deck, even though neither of us has a problem with it ---- that's why there are ashtrays on the front and back porches. She even assured me that she was well aware that it's bad for one's health, but . . . (shrug of the shoulders). It made me think about the things most of us do that we KNOW are not good for us. I couldn't help but think about that, about me that is, because I felt like an elephant beside her and was acutely aware of my own indulgences that are bad for my health, but . . . (shrug of the shoulders).
Don't we all have them, almost everybody? It might be smoking or overeating, drinking, drugs, cheating on spouses or taxes. Could be uncontrollable anger or stress, inactivity, overspending, gossip, bad decision-making. There are so many colorful ways to self-sabotage and this is just the obvious stuff. What about reckless driving? risky sports? setting fires for fun and profit? Anything that momentarily takes attention out of the humdrum here and now and has even a minimal bit of risk or excitement to it, qualifies.
So if everybody has their own little (or big) ways of cheating death, does that mean it's simply a human trait and not something to be condemned or feel guilty over? After all, nobody is going to get out of this alive. Which brings us to the worm food.
After mentally slapping myself around for awhile, I shook myself off and came back to ground zero. This journey through life is plenty perilous without using myself as a punching bag. Yes, I have some self-sabotaging behaviors/obsessions/compulsions/habits. That puts me in line with 99% of the rest of humanity. I'll allow for the possibility of 1% sainthood. Could I do better? Probably. Should I do better? Probably. But when you get right down to it, just exactly how healthy do I want to be and what's the trade off?
My mother, who counted every calorie and never met a chocolate bar she didn't long for, did it almost all correctly. She did smoke lightly for many years, but she quit 30 years ago. She ate obsessively right, exercised regularly right up until she couldn't reliably stand up anymore, walked two miles a day rain or shine, drank moderately and really put a lot of effort into staying healthy. Now it's all paying off ----- her healthy body has far outlived her mind.
Given the choice, I would easily pick the major heart attack (number 1 killer of post-menopausal women) over spending the last 5-10 years of my life chugging along without my wits. I'm carrying more weight than I'm comfortable with, probably putting myself at risk for weight related health problems or a shortened lifespan. I may change my tune if the doc says look, you're fixin' to check out really soon. But for now, I settle myself with thoughts of probability.
These are the odds: The chances are 100% that I'm going to die. Just like everyone else. No matter how utterly fit you are, how completely you follow every rule of good health and sensible living, your odds and mine are exactly the same. It's just a matter of when and how. And as far as I know, getting hit by a bus or run over by a tornado is just as deadly for an Olympic athlete of 25 as it is for an ice cream lovin' 61-year-old couch potato. I walk my dog, I hang out the clothes, I take care of my family and I sit and read and write and savor the smooth, creamy caramel crunch. So sue me.
We're all worm food in the end.
It helps to have visitors from far away in order to see my own home through new eyes. The internet helps, too. John had identified a few things he wanted to see, especially the whirlygigs by Wilson artist Vollis Simpson. Had I ever heard of him? Well, yes, in a way. That enormous whirlygig installation down at the NC Museum of Art is one of his. But I sure didn't know what we would find down in Wilson, and never anticipated the delightfully slow, friendly conversation with the 93-year-old artist in his hilariously cluttered and junky-looking workshop, way out in the piney woods.
John and Anneli live in Sweden; Anneli is Swedish and John is a Navy Brat, which is why we were in high school together in Rota, Spain back in the stone ages. He is one of the few friends I've really kept up with from high school.
So what does all this have to do with worm food? Well, it goes like this. Anneli is a smoker. She's also a teeny, tiny, petite little person who a good wind would blow away. She apologized a couple of times for smoking out on the deck, even though neither of us has a problem with it ---- that's why there are ashtrays on the front and back porches. She even assured me that she was well aware that it's bad for one's health, but . . . (shrug of the shoulders). It made me think about the things most of us do that we KNOW are not good for us. I couldn't help but think about that, about me that is, because I felt like an elephant beside her and was acutely aware of my own indulgences that are bad for my health, but . . . (shrug of the shoulders).
Don't we all have them, almost everybody? It might be smoking or overeating, drinking, drugs, cheating on spouses or taxes. Could be uncontrollable anger or stress, inactivity, overspending, gossip, bad decision-making. There are so many colorful ways to self-sabotage and this is just the obvious stuff. What about reckless driving? risky sports? setting fires for fun and profit? Anything that momentarily takes attention out of the humdrum here and now and has even a minimal bit of risk or excitement to it, qualifies.
So if everybody has their own little (or big) ways of cheating death, does that mean it's simply a human trait and not something to be condemned or feel guilty over? After all, nobody is going to get out of this alive. Which brings us to the worm food.
After mentally slapping myself around for awhile, I shook myself off and came back to ground zero. This journey through life is plenty perilous without using myself as a punching bag. Yes, I have some self-sabotaging behaviors/obsessions/compulsions/habits. That puts me in line with 99% of the rest of humanity. I'll allow for the possibility of 1% sainthood. Could I do better? Probably. Should I do better? Probably. But when you get right down to it, just exactly how healthy do I want to be and what's the trade off?
My mother, who counted every calorie and never met a chocolate bar she didn't long for, did it almost all correctly. She did smoke lightly for many years, but she quit 30 years ago. She ate obsessively right, exercised regularly right up until she couldn't reliably stand up anymore, walked two miles a day rain or shine, drank moderately and really put a lot of effort into staying healthy. Now it's all paying off ----- her healthy body has far outlived her mind.
Given the choice, I would easily pick the major heart attack (number 1 killer of post-menopausal women) over spending the last 5-10 years of my life chugging along without my wits. I'm carrying more weight than I'm comfortable with, probably putting myself at risk for weight related health problems or a shortened lifespan. I may change my tune if the doc says look, you're fixin' to check out really soon. But for now, I settle myself with thoughts of probability.
These are the odds: The chances are 100% that I'm going to die. Just like everyone else. No matter how utterly fit you are, how completely you follow every rule of good health and sensible living, your odds and mine are exactly the same. It's just a matter of when and how. And as far as I know, getting hit by a bus or run over by a tornado is just as deadly for an Olympic athlete of 25 as it is for an ice cream lovin' 61-year-old couch potato. I walk my dog, I hang out the clothes, I take care of my family and I sit and read and write and savor the smooth, creamy caramel crunch. So sue me.
We're all worm food in the end.
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