WHEN THE TRUTH HURTS
WHEN THE TRUTH HURTS
Yesterday I got a call from a life-long friend. I had asked her to read the first draft of a screenplay – the first screenplay I had ever written. I knew that she had lots of experience with this sort of thing, so I knew that her opinion would be valuable.
I didn’t know that it would be painful.
She started out by saying that this was only her opinion, so I knew I was in for trouble. She said it was a “good first draft”. Then she proceeded to point out every flaw, every faux pas, every area in which it lacked substance – and there were plenty of those. Apart from all that – well, she didn’t say she hated it. (That I figured out for myself).
I must admit that I was pretty devastated. I had promised myself not to be defensive, no matter what, so when she inferred that the dialog was stupid, that the overall effort was an insult to my audience, and that the entire movie would be overly simplistic, I swallowed hard and thanked her for her honesty. We said goodbye with me plastering a smile over my face, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on the lump in my throat. I considered going back into therapy.
The trouble for me is that somewhere deep down inside (or maybe not so deep) there is a little kid who longs for approval. So along with my innate love of words, I carry an equally compelling desire to have someone say, “What a clever little girl you are”! I hand over my homemade treasures to anyone who will take the time to read or listen to them and keep expecting that someone will recognize and honor my talent and hard work.
And how’s that working so far? About the way you would expect.
We must remember that Van Gogh never sold a painting during his lifetime – except to his own brother, if memory serves. I should needlepoint that on to a pillow.
So the dilemma is – What to do? I am blessed and cursed with a desire to write. I can’t seem to prevent myself from seeking an audience for all this output. And when you think of the odds for any kind of success, you might think I’m just bonkers.
At the same time, I wonder what they said to Van Gogh? Did they tell him to hang it up and get a real job? And what if he had done just that? Would the world be a little poorer for not having his paintings of potato eaters and sunflowers? Would he have avoided cutting off his ear? Or would he have done something even more drastic, having cut off his own drive to create?
Well, I’m much recovered today. My friend gave me a lot of good, constructive criticism (even if it was hard to hear). I will go back to the drawing board, so to speak. I’m not ready to cut off my ear or my writing career. Not today, anyway. I’ve got too much work to do.
© 2005, Robin Munson
THINGS THAT DON’T WORK
THINGS THAT DON’T WORK – EVEN THOUGH THEY SHOULD
Right now my whole house stinks of vinegar.
I am in the process of trying to save our cast iron skillet. You see, it was one of my favorite pans a couple of weeks ago. And I thought, well, maybe I should season it again. For those of you who are not familiar with cast iron skillets, you’re supposed to rub the inside with oil and bake them in the oven every now and then so that they maintain their “non-stick” quality. If you do it correctly, these pans will last forever and will cook like a dream with barely any clean-up at all.
Well, it had been a while since I had seasoned the skillet, and I wasn’t sure how much oil to use or what temperature to bake it in. I also was unsure about how long to bake it in the oven. So, being a twenty-first century kind of a girl, I consulted the Internet. I Googled “care of cast iron pans”, and a whole bunch of information appeared before me. I read several of the offerings, and finally hit upon one that seemed very sensible. They instructed me to first rub the pan with a “generous” amount of vegetable oil. They gave me a temperature and told me to leave the pan in for about two hours. Which I did. At the end of the seasoning, they said to “pour out the remaining oil”, and that’s where I did a double take. I remembered vaguely that the first time I had seasoned that pan I had just rubbed it with enough oil to cover it, and then when I took it out of the oven, most of that oil had seeped into the pan. But – (and this is my own particular downfall) I didn’t trust my memory, and I thought, “If it’s on the Internet, surely it must be right”. So I dutifully lathered vegetable oil on all three of my cast iron skillets and set them in the oven.
Lo and behold – When I removed them from the oven at the end of the prescribed two hours, each pan was covered with a brownish, greasy, sticky coating. I couldn’t pour out the excess oil because it was now solid. It appeared that the only way I was going to get the excess oil out of these pans was to scratch it out with my fingernails.
So this morning I finally got around to looking in my household tip books – I’ve got a little book called “Mary Ellen’s Best of Helpful Kitchen Hints”. My mother-in-law gave it to me early on in my marriage, since it was apparent to her that I was – shall we say – domestically challenged. I have to admit that at the time I felt a little bit miffed by the implication, but this morning I was overwhelmingly grateful.
As best I can determine, the best I can do now is to boil a little vinegar and salt in the pans. This is supposed to lift off the burnt-in food. (Well, in this case, burnt-in oil). That’s why my whole house stinks of vinegar. The jury is still out as to whether this will actually work.
I seem to have a knack for following directions that don’t work. I don’t know why. I mean, I’m very obedient by nature. When I was in grade school I always got As in citizenship and the comment, “follows directions”, was always checked off.
But there is such a thing as “too much of a good thing”. I am forever undercooking or overcooking our dinner because the directions on the package aren’t calibrated for our oven, which is always a little hotter or a little cooler than what it’s set for. When Art asks me whether I “stuck my finger in it” to see if it’s done, I am appalled. I don’t want anyone sticking their fingers in my food. I protest, “But the directions said. . .” and he cuts me off by pointing out, “You can’t go by the directions!” This flies in the face of all I have ever believed in. I have always believed in my heart of hearts that if it’s written in black and white, it must be so. (Where on earth did I get that)?!
Same thing with recipes. I am scrupulous about following the recipe when I cook. If the recipe says to add an eighth teaspoon of salt, I will use a quarter teaspoon and fill it exactly half way. Of course, none of this guarantees anything. I had a recipe for applesauce cake, for example. I would follow the recipe religiously time after time, believing that it was somehow my fault that it came out spongey and undercooked. It took our son, Tobias – himself a very talented chef – to point out to me that the recipe was flawed. He took one look at the directions, halved the amount of applesauce, added some flour, changed the time in the oven, and finally, I had a real applesauce cake. Toby made me chant with him over and over, “What don’t we follow? The recipe!”.
And while we’re on the subject of things that should work but don’t – I have this problem with the computer. Time after time I will be working on the computer and will try to execute a simple command, like “save” or “print” or “close”, and the computer will suddenly freeze on me. I have no idea why. After a half hour of pressing the little button over and over again in a desperate but futile attempt to save face, I am forced to call on Art. Most of the time (there are exceptions) he will calmly walk over, press the same button that I did, and voila. It works. I am long past the point of getting angry over this. I simply accept it as part of my “magic touch”. But it is embarrassing.
I don’t know what the lesson is in all of this. Some things work. Some things don’t. And some things are inconsistent – They work sometimes. They don’t work other times. And some things work for some people and not others. Sometimes you should follow directions. Sometimes you shouldn’t. But it’s anyone’s guess as to when and to what extent. (Sigh). Just one more mystery to the Universe.
© 2005, Robin Munson
THE RAVELED SLEEVE OF CARE
THE RAVELED SLEEVE OF CARE
It was one of those nights. First, I fell asleep on the sofa watching TV at 8:00 p.m. At 9:00 p.m. Art woke me up and gently guided me toward the bedroom. Like a sleepy child, I just managed brush my teeth and then gratefully slid under the covers. I slept peacefully while Art watched the ten o’clock news. Then the TV went off. It was now about 10:30. I had a hot flash.
Ladies – If you have reached a certain age, you know what I’m talking about. For the uninitiated, I’ll try to give you a brief description. Imagine that you are being roasted from the inside out. That’s a hot flash.
So at about 10:30 I woke up. Completely. Now I had to go through my little mantra, counting backwards from 100, which sometimes seems to help. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety. . .GOD I’M SO HOT”!!! (Toss, turn, nightgown off, covers off). “Ninety-one, no, ninety . . .Maybe I should open a window – But it’s so noisy out there! . . .Ninety-seven. . . I know! I’ll take a pill! Maybe that’ll help. Just knock myself out. But which pill? Pain pill P.M.? No, I’m not in pain. Allergy pill? Yeah, but sometimes it makes my heart race – and besides, they’re habit-forming. . . Just try counting backwards again. One hundred. . .”
And so it went for, I don’t know, maybe an hour? At some point, I fell asleep.
Two-thirty p.m. Time to tinkle. My eyes open reluctantly. “Oh God. I really don’t want to get up now. I know that once I’m vertical, it will take another hour to fall back to sleep. But what to do? If I don’t get up I’ll burst.” So to the bathroom. Then back to bed. Now semi-awake. Another hot flash. “ Great. I can’t take a pill now because if I do I won’t be awake until noon. Just count backwards, Robin. Try putting your hand in the ‘mudra’ the yoga teacher taught the other day. That’s it. Thumbs gently but firmly touching. That connects the two sides of the brain. There you go. No, it’s not working. Crap. Ninety-eight, ninety-seven . . . Namaste! Crap . . .” I look at the digital clock with the glow-in-the-dark numbers. Three forty-seven. (Toss, turn, wiggle, covers off, covers on). I look at the clock. Four 0-six.
“Alright. Just relax. Just lie here and rest. That’s almost as good as sleep. Eighty-nine, eighty-eight . . . Maybe I should get up and start my day. But if I don’t get some sleep I’m going to be bleary-eyed tomorrow. I’ve got to drive across town twice tomorrow. I don’t want to be on the road feeling that way! Eighty-seven . . . Eighty-seven . . . Eighty-seven . . .”
The clock says 5:30 a.m. Now I must get up and start my day. I lie there for one luxurious moment. A famous line from Macbeth comes to me: “Sleep, which knits the raveled sleeve of care”. I imagine my own raveled sleeve, gray, tattered, shop-worn, and then imagine a disembodied pair of needles (about a size 7), and this beautiful grayish-purplish hand-dyed wool, and the beautiful wooden needles slowly and methodically knitting all this mess together into a gorgeous whole. “Shakespeare”! I marvel. Then I am asleep.
© 2005, Robin Munson
SUNDAY AT THE BIG BOX STORE
SUNDAY AT THE BIG BOX STORE
I played hooky yesterday from just about everything. I forced myself to do a couple of loads of laundry just so I wouldn’t sit up all night chastising myself for general sloth.
Among other wild goose chases yesterday, Art and I went to a “big box” home improvement store. We didn’t find most of what we wanted. Isn’t that always the way)? But we had a couple of very small items. Rather than wait in the line that went out the door and around the block for the (human) cashier, we decided to try the automated cashier.
Have you ever done this? Perhaps this is an innovation that has not hit your hometown yet. Just wait.
You still stand in line, of course, but the line is shorter. We found out why.
A disembodied voice that seems to emanate from the heavens welcomes you. In our case, it welcomed us in Spanish. We looked at the computer screen, and sure enough, all the written instructions were in Spanish. Now, I speak a little Spanish, so I probably could have struggled my way through it – but Art doesn’t speak Spanish, and besides, even if we could have figured it all out, there were about five people waiting behind us, and we were very afraid of their reaction if they were kept waiting in line for half an hour while we tried to translate.
Art called over to the young woman who was seated in a kind of catbird perch about ten feet away. She was kind of the overseer for the whole operation. He asked her if she would please change the machine to English, since no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to knock it out of Spanish mode. She said she couldn’t do that, so Art struggled with the thing for another two or three minutes while the people behind us rolled their eyes, tapped their toes, hummed, and swore under their breath. Art called out to the young woman again, and this time she said, “Okay”. A few seconds later, the machine greeted us in English so that we could start all over again.
It asked us to scan our item. Art scanned the item. Then it said, “Place the item in the bagging area”, and Art had already started to scan the next item, but the machine refused to scan the next item until the first item was in the bag. Somehow, in the confusion of the moment, Art mistakenly scanned the first item twice. He had to call out to the young overseer again, and she started the whole process over.
Finally, Art was able to successfully scan the first item, drop it in the bag, and scan the second item, then drop it in the bag. (I can’t figure out how the darn thing knows whether or not you have bagged your item). Finally, we were able to walk out of the store, receipt in hand. Of course, we had to stop at the door for a security check. Then we were on our way.
Looking back to the first line which we had eschewed for the automated line, I noticed that we would have been long gone already, had we opted to go that way.
I don’t know about you, but for Art and me, I think we’ll stick with the old fashioned kind of cashier. And maybe next time we’ll skip the “big box” concept altogether and go to our local hardware store. At least there we don’t have to dodge the forklifts.
© 2005, Robin Munson
SOMETHING TO PONDER
I’ve heard that work expands to fill the time available (or something like that – Remind me to get a Bartlett’s Book of Quotations so that I don’t mangle these axioms and I can tell you who said it).
Anyway, this morning was a case in point. Because Thursdays are mostly taken up by my time with my mother, I wanted to get up extra early so that I could get my routine done before going to Mom’s. So I was up before dawn cooking breakfast and feeding the cat. By six thirty, breakfast was over and I was washing dishes. So far, so good. But then, it happened. I was wiping off the stove and the counters, and I noticed some grime. Not your everyday grime, mind you, but some serious, built-up, greasy grime, and it was all over the top of the stove.
Now, I’m not Martha Stewart or Betty Crocker, but there is a limit to just how much of this stuff I can stand. So I took apart the stove, piece by piece, and began scrubbing from the inside out. Suddenly, it was an hour later, and all my lovely extra time had evaporated.
My big philosophical question for the day is this: Was the stove scrubbing a serious and important task that is part of my larger effort to keep my home free of chaos and clutter? Or (and this is my own sneaking suspicion) was the stove scrubbing merely a distraction to keep me from completing my writing?
I guess the only possible answer is – It depends.
First question: Am I a serious writer? In order to know the answer to that question, you would have to define “serious writer”. If the answer is: “a writer who makes a serious amount of money as a writer”, then I would have to say, alas, no. If the answer is: “anyone who takes themselves seriously as a writer”, I’m afraid the answer would again have to be, no. If the answer is: “anyone who writes something of weight or import”, I would have to say that I’m not the one to judge that. But if the answer is, “Anyone who writes every day” – I qualify.
Second question: Does cleaning matter? In order to know the answer to that question, you would have to define “cleaning”. Is cleaning merely mindless routine that must be repeated every day in as little time as possible? (In which case, it matters very little, indeed). Or. Is cleaning a way to unclutter our surroundings in order to unclutter our minds and free us for more creative tasks? Or is the act of cleaning in and of itself therapeutic and necessary to our well-being? I have to say that I have been all over the map myself with these questions, and I don’t really know the answer. (Sigh).
Well, if nothing else, this morning’s exercise at the stove gave me something to ponder – and it gave you something to read. Let’s just leave it at that.
© Robin Munson, 2005
WHY I CAN NEVER REMEMBER ANYTHING
WHY I CAN NEVER REMEMBER ANYTHING
My husband and I take a walk through our neighborhood every day. That’s how we keep ourselves from falling apart.
Yesterday during our walk, I saw that a neighbor had some beautiful orange tulips in bloom. Immediately, my “inner D.J.” (as my sister refers to this mechanism) starting playing “When You Wore a Tulip”. I didn’t just hear one line of the song; I heard the entire song as sung by my mother and father in the car when we were on road trips. I remembered every single lyric, every harmony, and the vaudeville-type ending. Art and I are perfectly suited. You see, he has the same affliction. Carelessly, I began singing, “When you wore a tulip – A big yellow tulip – And I wore a big red rose. . .” Well, then Art was stuck with it.
Moving along, we happened to see someone’s classic 60s Mustang convertible parked on the side of the road. Immediately, the band started up, “Mustang Sally – Guess you better slow-ow-ow your Mustang down”. Once more, every lyric, every horn stab on the original record.
That is, until we walked past a house with a small dog yapping in the window as we walked by. You guessed it (if you’re old enough to remember) – the first song I ever learned as a little girl – Patty Paige’s “How Much Is That Doggy In The Window” (“the one with the wagg-e-ly ta-ai-ail? How much is that doggy in the window [arf-arf] – I do hope that doggy’s for sale!”).
It doesn’t seem to matter how good or even lucid the song is – I tend to record them indelibly in my brain forever and ever. The memory of songs spans decades, outlasts friendships and heartbreaks, and is undisturbed even by tragedies, catastrophes, and major illnesses. At 54, I can still remember songs I learned on my mother’s knee at the age of three. (“Three little fishies in the itty-bitty pool. . .”). If not in their entirety, certainly in essence. (“ . . .’Swim said the mama fishy, swim if you can’, and they swam, swam, swam all over the dam!”). See what I mean?
I’ve got countless other ones. Most of them vintage 50s and 60s songs that were burned into my psyche forever. To my horror, whenever the news anchors start talking about Arab-Israeli relations, my inner D.J. spins the very un-p.c., “Ahab the A-rab”. When I walk past an open ladder I hear, “James! James! Hold the ladder steady . . .” When it rains I hear, “I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin in the rain . . .” When the sun comes out I hear, “Here comes the sun (doo-ba-doo-ba) – Here comes the sun, and I say – It’s alright . . .” When I hear, “It’s alright”, I think, “Don’t think twice, it’s alright”. And so it goes until the needle gets stuck on one song and that can last for days on end!
So – Don’t ask me about the capitol of Montana. Don’t ask me the date of the Louisiana Purchase. Because, “ . . .Who knows where or when?”
© 2005, Robin Munson
HAIR TODAY
HAIR TODAY
If you want to truly embarrass a woman, make her witness a cavalcade of photographs of her hair styles going back to childhood and proceeding forward to present day. (That is, if you don’t care whether you ever see her again or not).
My sister and I were talking yesterday about this. We both had appointments for haircuts later in the day. Both of us had reached that critical juncture where we just had to have a change. Mind you, I’ve never been so happy with my hairdo in my life, but that has nothing to do with it. About once every six months or so, something goes haywire hormonally, and you just have to do something. Nine times out of ten, whatever you do makes you dreadfully unhappy, and if you don’t wind up crying at the hairdresser’s, you wind up crying at home. Men are completely dumbfounded by this behavior. “It’s just hair”, they reason, “It’ll grow back”!
When my sisters and I were very small, my mother used to cut our bangs. (I think she left the main haircutting up to a professional, but she felt that keeping our bangs out of our eyes was part of good grooming, in the same category as keeping our clothes clean and keeping our shoes polished). Well, she would take a white business-sized envelope and hold it with one hand across our eyebrows. With the other hand she would cut straight across the top of the envelope. The results are all too apparent in a family portrait taken when I was about four years old. All three of us had the same haircut. The only problem for me was that I had curly hair. No matter how hard they plastered down my bangs, you can see that they were rebelling, as was the rest of my hair. My sisters, thankfully, had straight, shiny dark hair that looked a little better that way. Not much, but a little.
As I got older, it became apparent to me that curly hair was a liability. Everyone in my seventh grade class was ironing their straight locks to make them straighter. Not only was my own hair extremely curly, but it was also frizzy, and there were mountains of it. I ironed my hair to make it, well, flat. So now it was flat, curly and frizzy. And of course, ruined by the heat of the iron. Very attractive.
I did what all curly-haired girls of my generation did. I set it on beer cans. I plastered it to my head with Dippity-Do (a pink, gooey gel that dries on contact). I sprayed it with Aqua Net. All of this was to no avail whatsoever when it rained. Just as Cinderella’s carriage reverted to its pumpkin state at midnight, so my hair reverted to its Medusa-like state in rain. And there was lots of rain in Pittsburgh. It was humiliating.
In high school I discovered straightening. After every hairdresser in the world had told me “The Big Lie” – that having curly hair was a blessing and most girls would kill for what I had – Elfie, God bless her, a lovely young German émigré who was my mother’s hairdresser, took pity on me. She explained to my mother that having curly hair is one thing. Having what I had was quite another. I begged to have my hair straightened, and my mother relented.
Finally, I had what passed for “normal” hair in 1960s America. I still have my tenth-grade class picture, somewhere. It shows a smiling young girl with hair that is only a little too stiff and poufy done in a perfect pageboy with the bangs swept over to the side.
Then I went to college. You must remember that I graduated high school in 1968. So when I went to Boston University, I wanted to be part of the new, enlightened generation. I abandoned my “straight” look (both metaphorically and literally) and let my “freak flag fly”. The curl, the frizz, the wild untamed look came back with a vengeance. I let my hair grow unfettered down my back. Mostly it grew wider and wider. I topped it off with a campaign hat, when I was in the mood. I wore sandals and Indian print skirts. You must remember that it was a total look. Seeing a head shot of me in my college days could not do justice. But that’s okay – I’ve destroyed all of them.
I didn’t straighten my hair again for a very long time. I wore it a little tamer after college, but essentially, it remained in its natural state. Sometimes it was long. Sometimes it was ultra-short (my “mod” look). When Art and I married it was long and curly, but I used the right kind of products on it to keep it from frizzing too much.
Got sick of it. Cut it short. Way short. Art (and this is another reason I had to marry him) loved it either way. But a couple of years ago my hairdresser introduced me to “Japanese” straightening. This process made my hair so straight, shiny, and bouncy that I look like a Pantene commercial! I can’t tell you how much I love it. For a girl who was plagued all her life by looking as if she had stuck her finger in a light socket, this is Nirvana. I was going to let it grow down to my waist.
But (sigh) like I said. We girls get restless. Yesterday I got it cut so that it’s just above shoulder length. Now it has a curious resemblance to my high school graduation picture. Don’t get me wrong – I love it. But don’t show me any pictures five years down the road, okay?
© Robin Munson, 2005
A JOURNEY TO THE LADIES ROOM
A JOURNEY TO THE LADIES ROOM
Have you been in a public restroom lately?
I have been fascinated for the past year or two by the changes in our public restrooms. Granted, I have only been in the women’s facilities, but I can only guess that the men’s rooms have been similarly updated.
The first thing you notice is that there are no flush handles on the toilets. I remember the first time I saw that. I was horrified! I walked out of the first stall thinking it must be broken and walked into another, then another – but they were all the same. I tried to imagine what could possess the owners of the movie theater to remove the flush handles from the toilets. I wondered if they thought that they would save money because kids wouldn’t be tempted to flush the toilet repeatedly just to see the water swirl down over and over. Maybe they had decided to just have a once a day flush in order to cut down on their water bill. Maybe they had a special key they used to flush all the toilets at once. Maybe you had to be management to flush. Then I had to shift my weight to get to the toilet paper, which, thankfully, was still in the right place. I got the surprise of my life, because as I shifted my weight, the tank flushed all by itself. And there I was with the toilet paper and wondering what I was supposed to do with that! Finally, having no choice, I dropped it in the toilet, and as I got up, the toilet flushed once again, all by itself.
I then remembered a conversation I had had years ago with another woman who worked in the office where I was a secretary. I don’t know how we got on to the subject, but she was shocked, shocked to hear that I actually flushed the toilet in public restrooms using my own bare hands.
“Well, what do you do?” I queried.
She looked at me like I was from mars. “I use my shoe, of course”, she explained.
“Do you take your shoe off and push the lever or do you. . .?”
She looked disgusted. “No, of course not! You just keep the shoe on your foot and flush the toilet that way!”
I was a little daunted. I mean, after all these years I come to find out that all the better people had been flushing with their shoes! Now I grant you that hands may not be altogether sanitary at such a time, but shoes are, well, filthy. The thought made my skin crawl. All those years of picking up germs from other people’s shoes because I was too ignorant to know better!
After that she stopped talking to me. I guess she thought I was contaminated.
Then, of course, after I discovered the handle-free toilets, I discovered the handle-free faucets. I stared at the sink for quite a while, that first time. I put my hands on the faucet thinking there was a trick. I was just about ready to give up, and then I just put my hands under the faucet and – Voila! – Warm water trickled down. I couldn’t believe it! I reached for the liquid soap and scrubbed my hands raw. Of course, the trickle of warm water stopped after two seconds, so I had to keep putting them back under the faucet to trip the sensor several times. I guess the plan was to save water and have a more hygienic audience at the movies. (I foiled them, of course on the water saving plan).
Then it came time to dry my perfectly sanitized hands. By now, I had already surmised that there would be no dirty linen towel revolving through a white metal box over and over. Even the ubiquitous brown paper towels were missing. On the opposite side of the room, I saw the answer. I walked over (dripping across the floor) to the only drying device. It was a chrome dryer at approximately my eye level, which apparently had a sensor on it like the toilet and the sink. I reached up and put my hands out under it and felt a warm-ish breeze. But I was missing the climax of the movie while my hands were being dried one molecule at a time.
So I did what any sensible person would do. I walked back into the stall and ripped off about three feet of toilet paper and hastily and very imperfectly dried my hands with that. (Naturally, as I left the stall the toilet flushed. They’re smart, but they’re not that smart.) I dropped the sodden toilet paper into the nearest receptacle, which happened to be just outside the concession stand. The girl behind the candy counter gave me the fish-eye when she saw that, but at this point, I was just hoping to see the ending of the movie.
Ah, the joys of the twenty-first century.
ONE OF THOSE DAYS
It’s going to be one of those days.
You know the kind of day where you just get up with all of the energy and get-up-and-go in the world and you think to yourself, “This is the day I’m really going to get a lot done. Today is the first day of the rest of my life!” And then you plan:
1) I will restrict my caloric intake to exactly one thousand calories.
2) I will do all of the laundry in my hamper, including the fine hand-washables which have been at the bottom of the hamper for three months – which I swore to myself I would only buy on the condition that I would wear them once, then soak them in Woolite and lay them flat to dry.
3) I will not watch TV.
4) I will not indulge my urge to curse in traffic.
5) I will exercise ten minutes longer and twenty percent faster.
6) I will clean behind the refrigerator.
7) I will scour the stovetop.
I will finish three more pages in my screenplay.
9) I will make Henry an appointment for his annual with the vet.
10) I will make me an appointment for my annual with the ob-gyn.
11) I will nag Art to make an appointment for his annual with the GP.
12) I will cook a real dinner, as opposed to nuking a frozen pizza.
13) I will set a proper table instead of eating in front of the tube.
14) I will write something meaningful in my blog, or at least –
15) I will write something mildly amusing in my blog.
16) I will not go to bed tonight sighing, “Well, tomorrow’s another day”.
Have you ever had a day like this? No, I don’t mean a day where you actually did all the things you planned to do. I mean a day where you planned all the things you planned to do, then got distracted. Because, after all, the phone rings, the cat throws up, the basement floods, the car stalls, and Mercury is in retrograde. So you do what you can. You eat what you must. You curse because you can’t help it. And you do go to bed and sigh, just like Scarlett O’Hara – After all, tomorrow is another day!
© 2004, Robin Munson
MODERN LIFE
Please forgive me. I’m not my sweet self today. I am going through voice mail hell this morning.
You see, back in September Art and I were on vacation in Connecticut. Among other reasons, we were there to cheer on my brother-in-law, who was undergoing surgery. While we were cheering him on just after the surgery, I suddenly fell ill. I vomited on my shoes and almost fainted – right there in the room. Very cheery.
So about twenty nurses and techs and candy stripers appeared out of nowhere and insisted on taking me to the E.R. To tell you the truth, if I’d been at home, I just would have figured I had a mild case of the flu and stayed in bed for the day. Nevertheless, they kept me there for about five hours, checking out my heart, my blood pressure, my temperature, and giving me saline solution. When they were satisfied that there was nothing wrong with me (or nothing that they could diagnose apart from a “pre-syncopal episode”, which means “You almost fainted”) they sent me home.
Now, a month and a half later, after having provided everyone with the necessary documents – which was no mean feat – I am receiving vague threats from the hospital, inferring that I am a deadbeat who deserves to have her credit dinged for failing to pay for services rendered.
Now, in the first place – This is the first time I’ve received a bill from this doctor. So how could I be in arrears? In the second place, when I logged on to the hospital web site, as suggested, it appeared that they did not have my insurance information. How could they not have it? My husband handed them my insurance card before they admitted me. Furthermore, I called my insurance company the next morning and straightened the whole thing out with them. Finally, this is the third bill for the same visit – my insurance company has already approved the other two for payment. Why do I get the feeling that I am in the Twilight Zone? Has this ever happened to any of you?
So now I’m trying to call the hospital so that I can – once more – give them my insurance information. Thank God my husband has a speakerphone so I don’t have to hold the receiver up to my ear for an hour waiting for someone to pick up the line. I’m not usually one for multi-tasking. I consider it an affront to my sense of civility. But I just can’t sit and twiddle my thumbs for an hour waiting for someone to pick up the phone. I consider that an affront to my sense of self-worth.
I don’t know. Maybe I’ll take a shower, take a walk, do some laundry, scrub the floor, have some lunch – and then, maybe, just maybe someone will pick up the phone. Of course, by then I will have forgotten who I called and why. I will apologize to a disembodied voice at the end of the line and hang up the phone, only realizing after I am disconnected that I have now set the wheels in motion for a dunning letter from a collection agency.
Such are the conveniences of modern life.
© 2004, Robin Munson
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