Buzz Bucket

Driving the 350 miles up to my hometown of Buffalo for my nephew’s high school graduation, revealed to me an “aha” moment: people handle driving the way they handle life. Lead, follow or get out of the way! Please.

The Open Road

As I was driving on an open stretch of route 15 in Pennsylvania, a silver Kia sedan sped up as it approached my rearview mirror. As it passed me, I noticed the twenty-something girl behind the wheel, who immediately slowed down once she pulled back into my lane in front of me. As I then pulled out to pass her, she immediately sped up, only to slow down again when I resumed my position behind her. She slowed down. I went to pass. She sped up. I’d pull back in. She’d slow down. This went on for a number of miles, when the “aha” moment hit me. She wanted to lead, but didn’t have the courage to be the leader.

Be-Bopping Along

Along the way, the highway was strewn with state troopers pulling people over as they sped by. The twenty-something girl flying by me wanted to be in the lead but didn’t have the courage to be the lead driver. She wouldn’t commit. She wasn’t willing to take the risk of being pulled over for speeding. But she wanted to BE the leader, forcing the other drivers to either drive her speed or pass her. It was an unsafe practice for those following. Speed up. Slow down. Speed up. Slow down. It was an accident waiting to happen. She was not lead driver material. She needed to be following at a safe speed. I’m confident her approach to driving was the same as her approach to life. A young girl be-bopping along, accelerating, de-accelerating, pulling in and passing, trying to find the rhythm of her life.

When it comes to driving and life, I’m a leader but have no problem following—IF I’m behind a confident leader who makes good decisions. If not, get out of the way, ’cause I’ll take over and pass. I don’t have a lot of patience for hesitant leaders or drivers. Commit. Make a decision or move over and let someone else lead.

Fearless

En route to Buffalo, I encountered fierce thunderstorms with pelting rain and winds. Hail storm like conditions, just shy of hailstones coming down. As a pretty fearless driver, severe winter storms don’t stop me, let alone a little rain. Yet people were driving 25 mph hour on an interstate with their flashers on. People, please. It’s a little rain. Well a lot of rain. Eventually most of the drivers pulled over. Ah, relief. An open road where I could go. I led the drivers, confidently, to salvation, er, sunshine. It just took someone willing to commit and lead. I have no problem stepping up if need be. That’s who I am as I driver and who I am in life.

Meandering

My partner has an interesting approach to driving and to life. He meanders in both. If there’s a straight line to get from point A to E, he’ll drive from A to D to K to N back to C over to J and eventually he’ll make it to E, his end destination. This is his approach to most things in life. In the meantime, he’s made a lot of stops, said hi to many people and eventually accomplished what he sets out to do. If I’m on a mission and need to get from A to E in record time, and I’m with him, I have to restrain myself from pushing down on his knee to accelerate to 65 mph. It drives me bonkers. But if I’m not on a mission, and willing to meander, it makes for a very pleasant journey. That’s why I think we make good partners—one forces the other to stay on task, the other forces the other to stop and smell the roses.

The Journey

Although I stay on task, I am an adventurer. I love the journey, the drive, the discovery, the ability to make choices. My brother has a GPS named Lucille. I hate her. No, I will not turn because you told me to. I’ll turn because I choose to. No wait, I WANTED to go to the Ben and Jerry’s. It’s an unscheduled stop, don’t recalculate. Shut up. Stop it. Let me drive. Let me choose. Let me discover their new Mission to Marzipan flavor. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. I don’t want to stay on task I want to stop and smell the roses. But she won’t let me, without giving me a huge headache. Big mouth Lucile shows no restraint. Recently, someone stole her. God Bless them.

World Peace

Did you know a study recently stated that people with lots of bumper stickers on their cars are aggressive drivers? I find that hilarious, because the cars that I usually see plastered with bumper stickers are Subarus touting world peace.

You’ll be happy to know that I don’t place bumper stickers on my vehicles. But if I were to sport a bumper sticker on my 4×4 F-150 it would simply be, “Visualize whirled peas.”

“When the going gets tough, the tough eat donuts”–Ziggy

I love Ziggy. Do you remember him—the fat little bald guy in the 70’s comic strip by Tom Wilson? Ziggy had a “woe is me” perspective on life but offered simple words of wisdom.

The cartoon quote from above was lovingly cut out of the paper by my dad and taped to my mirror when I was 18. I’m sure it’s now tucked away in an attic box piled on top of other boxes from far too many moves. Every time I think of Ziggy, I think of my dad who passed away at an early age of 59, fifteen years ago.

Striking a Chord

My dad didn’t cut that cartoon out to suggest I was getting fat. He simply cut it out because the humor struck a chord with him. When I was 18 I worked in the deli of a local grocery store. Oftentimes, at the end of the shift, I had to box up the fresh donuts from the bakery to be put out for the “day old” dollar sale the next day. So each night I’d box them up–and then buy ‘em. My particular favorites were the peanut donuts. Oh my, they were good. But, alas, they are not made anymore because of all the peanut allergen sufferers out there. Sigh. I loved a good peanut donut. The memory of biting into a fresh donut with falling nuts and crumbs waiting to be scooped up, filling my nose with the warm, nutty sensation, still makes my mouth water.

Woe is Me

The humor that my dad found in the comic strip was that I was a love-sick teen who had just broken up with my first forever boyfriend, who brought home a box of donuts at the end of the night to eat away the pain. When the going got tough, I ate donuts. My dad was trying to get me to move through the “woe is me” attitude from the teen-age breakup with humor. I loved that about my dad—he moved through life with humor and I couldn’t help but be sucked into it.

An Iron Fist

That particular Ziggy cartoon was based on the quote from Joseph P. Kennedy, father of our 35th president John F. Kennedy, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” I’m sure the fiercely ambitious businessman and political figure, who thrived on competition and winning, gave that fatherly advice to his 9 children with a stern striking of his fist with emphasis on every word.

Not my dad. He cut out cartoons from the paper and taped them to my mirror. He peeled off Chiquita banana labels and pasted them somewhere in my school lunch box for me to discover with love. He’d sneak away early from work and show up unexpectedly for the last 15 minutes of my soccer game. He didn’t rule with an iron fist, rather with respect, love and humor.

It Makes All the Difference

The humor that he used to get me through my first forever boyfriend break-up still makes me smile to this day. He was letting me know that life goes on, it’s what you make of it, it’s how you choose to move through it that makes all the difference.

Too Much of a Good Thing

I had to stop eating donuts, not because they landed on my hips, but because I got sick of them. To this day I have a hard time eating donuts because I ate too much of a good thing way back when. As Marie Lloyd so simply states, ” A little of what you fancy does you good.” The lesson from Ziggy and my dad: taking it to the extreme is not necessarily a good thing. Although I have to admit when I see a “Hot Donuts Now” sign flashing at a Krispy Kreme, my car automatically pulls into the drive-thru. I’m just taking them home to the kids. Honest.

“A LITTLE of what you fancy does you good.” For sure.

Ziggy

Sock. Shoe. Sock. Shoe. No. Sock. Sock. Shoe. Shoe. I do sock, sock, shoe, shoe. How do you approach your morning routine?In the end does it really matter? In Ted Menton’s After Goodbye, he tells the story of two children in the throes of cancer arguing in the cancer ward about which is better. Sock. Shoe. Sock. Shoe. or Sock. Sock. Shoe. Shoe.

Worth Fighting About

In spite of the cancer scenario, I find it amusing that two children facing the fight of their lives still find their individual routine’s worth fighting about. Sock. Shoe. vs. Sock. Sock. I have never been a routine person. Not me. In fact, if you ever placed me into a box, I’d scrape and claw my way out of it.

All my life, I’ve been known for my spontaneous nature. Until my children died. Then, I took great comfort in my routine. It was what got me up in the morning. Linda, first put on your sock, then your shoe. Nope. Put on your sock. Now put on your other sock. Okay, put on your shoe. Now your other shoe. Now put one foot in front of the other. Now take a step. Okay. Move the other foot. Move forward. Step by step. Move through the pain. You can do it. Sock. Sock. Shoe. Shoe. Move. Move. And that’s how I’ve moved through the passing pain of losing two children.

Learning to Live Again

Most of you know Monday marked the five year anniversary of Sam’s passing. My 10 year old son. I have been in a routine for the past five years in learning how to live again through the loss. Sock. Sock. Shoe. Shoe. Move. Move. Don’t you take that routine away from me. Like the children on the cancer ward, I took great comfort in owning my routine. It was the only thing I had control over. God forbid I put on Sock. Shoe. Sock. Shoe. It didn’t feel right. Just like my life without my children. Come to think of it, before the passing of my children I think I did Sock. Shoe. Sock. Shoe. But I couldn’t go back to the same routine. It wasn’t right. I needed a new routine. It was new, but a routine, just the same. Just like living and breathing without half my family. I had to learn to do it all over again. The basics of living.

Cutting a Routine

Know how I celebrated Sam’s anniversary? The “non-celebration,” as it were, ended up in my mowing the lawn. Now my partner prides himself on the perfectly parallel lines in the lawn. I never got that. I don’t. To me a lawn is a lawn. And this just isn’t a lawn; it’s a field, a three acre field next to a stream. It deserves to be a field. But nope. He wants it to be a lawn. Not me. I want it to be a field with dancing grass blowing in the breeze, next to the stream. I want it mowed three times a season. He wants it mowed once a week. Now I love to mow, so I took on the chore. On Sunday, I started running the perfectly parallel lines of the routine. Sock. Sock. Shoe. Shoe. Up. Down. Up. Down. Forty-five inches over from whence I started. Now another 45 inch wide mowing deck over. Then a dragon fly landed on the dancing grass next to the stream in the field I was cutting into a routine.

Whoopsi-Doodles

Sam followed me across the country on my horse trip. Thousands of dragon flies followed me. They had my back. As Sam did. I wear a dragon fly bracelet as a remembrance of Sam. So I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t cut the field in parallel lines. I couldn’t cut the field so the dragon fly had no where to land. I couldn’t cut the field by way of routine. So in honor of Sam, I cut whoopsi-doodles. No rhyme or reason. Just by happen-chance, I have a field full of perfectly un-parallel lines. Perfect whoopsi-doodles where dragon flies can land on the missed grass of the 45 inch mowing deck. In the outskirts of the circles where 45 inches didn’t meet the other 45 inches. Where shoes come before socks. Where dragon flies land before parallel lines are cut. Where routines are lost and spirits soar. Where perhaps even socks are worn without shoes. For in the end, it just doesn’t matter.

“Wow, Linda, you look fabulous and fit!” was the statement I heard Tuesday night at my Toastmaster’s meeting. Little did that person know I have, over the past 4 months, unintentionally dropped 1/5 of my weight.  Now, I’ve never had a problem with weight. I had four children and managed to stay relatively thin chasing after them through the years. But I found it truly ironic that I’m the thinnest I’ve ever been—even before my high school years—and was being rewarded with a “Wow, you look fit and fabulous.”  I didn’t feel it.

The Big C

Yesterday I nearly collapsed at work, drove to a 24/7 healthcare center, to be told I’m severely anemic. This coupled with the five other symptoms that have crept up on me over the past four months and the doctor scared me with the big C.

My dad died of cancer and it wasn’t something I was prepared to hear. Now lots more tests need to be done, so don’t get all melodramatic on me. I have lots of years left to live, I know that, and feel that, with every fiber of my being. The point to all of this is that you just don’t know what the day may bring. Are you living the life you were born to lead?

The Pig-Tailed Girl from Kansas

“Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else.”
–Judy Garland

This from a woman who played somebody else for 45 of her 47 years. This from a woman who attempted suicide numerous times throughout her tragic life. This from a woman who struggled with insecurities and addictions. This from a woman who was told by her producers that she was unattractive and overweight. This from a woman who died at 47, the same age I’m about to turn in three weeks. Was Judy Garland ever a first-rate version of herself?

Judy Garland will always be remembered as Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, with her ruby red slippers, clicked three times, as she closed her eyes and chanted,  “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” Ironically, Judy Garland never felt at home anywhere. I can only imagine why she never revealed her true self, always hiding it away—for fear that her adoring fans would cast aside the real Judy. They always wanted Dorothy. The cute little, pig-tailed girl from Kansas.

Living the Life You Were Born to Lead

I also imagine that Judy Garland did live the life she was born to lead. She was a wonderful actress and a beautiful singer with her deep contralto voice. No one does honor to Somewhere Over the Rainbow the way Judy performed it half a century ago. But she never believed she deserved to be Judy Garland and all that she achieved. She was just Frances Ethel Gumm from Grand Rapids, MN. When she was pushed into acting, Frances’ confidence was sucked out of her and for years she was only able to portray a second-rate version of somebody else.

When the big C is thrown at you, your life hits replay over and over again in your mind. “Have you lived the life you wanted? Have you achieved what you set out to achieve? What more do you have left to do?”  It begs the question, “What is your legacy?”

Leaving a Legacy

So what is your legacy? If you were to die tomorrow, did you live the life you were born to lead? Will you leave behind something to remember? Did you live a first-rate version of yourself?

I hope I have.

I know my youngest son Sammy did. On Monday, he’ll be gone 5 years. On June 22. But I still remember his great grin. His aqua blue eyes. His mischevious sense of humor. And his terrific hugs. In his short 10 years, Sammy was a first-rate version of himself. There will never be another.  In the end, all you have are memories, and the ones spent with family and friends are the ones you treasure most.

So as I remember Sammy and Frances Ethel Gumm, who co-incidentally also died on June 22, as I head into the doctors for a follow-up visit to the big C scare, I hope to see a rainbow smiling down on me.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow (click, for a beautiful version by 6 year-old Connie Talbot on YouTube)

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high,
There’s a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby.

If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can’t I? 1

I hope we all live the life we were born to lead—the way Sammy did, so beautifully and innocently with a verve for life and love. Love and miss you tons, my little Sammer Dam.

Sam Losey, 3/29/94 - 6/22/2004

1 Somewhere Over the Rainbow, music by Harold Arlen and lyrics by E.Y. Harburg

Many moons ago, when my mother was the age I am now, and I was but a girl of 16, my father came home one memorable day and announced to us that we were moving. To a farm. Although I was a tomboy with three older brothers, I was a city girl through and through. It’s all I had known.

As a family, we would be moving to a 10 acre farm, next to 3000 acres of state land, to a public school with a graduating class of 32.  Yep, I was downsizing as president of my class of 400, to 32 classmates, and upsizing from an 1/8 of an acre lot in the city, to thousands of acres in my backyard.

In order to get me to go without kicking and screaming, my father bribed me with a horse. He was a smart man.

Most of you know that horses are a huge part of my life and I have no problem getting down and dirty with ‘em. And others know me as a gussied up artist, author, and speaker. As Kippling writes, “Never the twain shall meet.” My wardrobe is determined by the activity of the day, yet whatever I’m wearing on the outside, doesn’t change the me I am on the inside. The old idiom, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” is, well, cliché-like, but, it’s still relevant today.

Country Life

A month after we moved to the farm, on a blazingly hot summer day, my father ordered manure from our neighbor’s farm to fertilize the small garden he was tilling. I remember the moment the manure arrived. The fresh droppings reeked and steamed. But that’s not what I remember the most. Our neighbor’s ten year old daughter was sitting plop on top of the manure pile, with a wide grin, happy as a pig in….well you know.

My mother, father and I grabbed our shovels to start pushing the manure off the wagon into the garden. The little girl with the huge smile sitting in the stewing cow chips, looked at my mother incredulously. “What are you afraid to get them rings dirty?” she asked as she pushed the shit off with her bare feet. My mother stared back in horror.

Now my mother is not an outdoor person per se, but she did a great job of humoring her five children and outdoor-loving husband through countless camping trips, homeless animals, moves to the country, etc. But I don’t think I could ever picture her shoveling dung with her feet. On the other-hand I don’t think that grinning girl on top of that manure mountain would ever sit still in a theater either. But I don’t know, I lost track of her. Who am I to judge that she couldn’t or wouldn’t?

Wilderness Camping

On my solo cross-country journey by horseback, I did a lot of wilderness camping and would go days without eating or showering. Yep, I reeked, I’m sure, like the compost on that hot summer day, but there was something about the solace of the wilderness that helped to heal me on that long journey.

One stop in particular reminded me of that long-ago judgment day with my neighbor’s little girl. Camping for two days in a park outside of a penitentiary in rural Indiana, I was sitting under a tree journaling when a truck hauling a two-horse trailer arrived. I paid them no mind and continued writing. After tacking and mounting up, the owners made their way to me. They were retirees out for a late-summer ride and had never before encountered in their horse park a wild-haired, dirty, lone woman parked under a tree writing with two horses grazing beside her. Was she an escapee from the penitentiary—or worse yet, waiting to help a convict escape on her other horse? Still I paid them no attention as they inched in closer with their mounts—until the wife leaned over and whispered, “Is that a boy or a girl?” I looked up with a smile and said, “I’m a girl with a Master’s and perfectly good hearing.” But I sure didn’t look it.

Real Purdy

Last night, as I was mounting up for a high profile event with my horse, I had to pee. With no facilities around, I sheepishly entered my horse trailer, closed the door, and had to make do sitting plop on top of a manure bucket with freshly steaming dung, just like that little girl from my childhood. Who knew that would be me someday?

This morning after getting all-gussied up for work, I had to stop by my partner’s office to drop something off. He introduced me to the office cleaning lady, a nice enough woman, who totally misread me. She leaned over and said to him, “She’s very pretty, but it looks like she’s afraid to get those nails dirty.” He laughed, “Of anybody I know Linda has no problem getting down and dirty, but she cleans up real ‘purdy!’”

Carefully Weigh What’s In There

Although the idiom, “Don’t judge a book by its cover” came about in the journal, American Speech in 1944, the idea has been around for centuries. Heed these wise words written by François Rabelais in La vie de Gargantua et de Pantagruel, “But it’s wrong to be so superficial when you’re weighing men’s work in the balance. Wouldn’t you yourself say that the monk’s robes hardly determine who the monk is? Or that there are some wearing monks’ robes who, on the inside, couldn’t be less monkish? Or that there are people wearing Spanish capes who, when it comes to courage, couldn’t have less of the fearless Spanish in them? And that’s why you have to actually open a book and carefully weigh what’s written there.”1

You have to actually open a book and carefully weigh what’s written there… Relevant words an incredible five centuries later. God, I love words! Down and dirty, but real “purdy!”

1 Wikipedia

Joyous simplicities are hidden throughout life. Stumbling upon one is a wondrous moment—even more so when you discover one with your teen. A time to treasure, or so I’m told.

Teens. They have a way of spoiling things. It’s their mission in life.

Mishap #1

Saturday evening into Sunday was hellacious, and the week hasn’t stopped since. I went camping over the weekend with four girlfriends and four horses. We had a terrific time. Until Saturday night. My mid-sixties girlfriend looked dreamingly at her horse and sighed, “Someday I’d love to ride him bareback.” This she says to the beautiful white Spanish Andalusian with the big soft eyes. But, we call him Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. My daring girlfriend stood on top of the picnic table, plopped onto his bare back as he bolted out from under her. Thankfully she’s a trooper and came through with a bruised arm, a bruised butt and a slightly bruised ego.

Mishap #2

Sunday morning began at 6 a.m. to the sound of spattering rain hitting the aluminum roof of the camper. There’s nothing like the sound of the repetitive tit, tat, tit, tat, hitting a roof during a rainstorm. Something was strange though. The sun woke us up. There was no rain. One of the girls ran out of bed, opened the bathroom door, and was greeted by Niagara Falls. Water came gushing through the bathroom door, soaking the camper’s carpet. Oops. Someone left the toilet’s rinse lever in the open position. This, on the morning we had to pack up and leave.

Mishap #3

Needing to be at a Cavalry mission by 1 p.m. to practice for the upcoming Fort McHenry Flag Day ceremony, I rushed around hoping to be on the road with my horses by 11:30. Didn’t happen—the two previous mishaps didn’t help. Add to that the destination turned out to be a lot longer than an hour and a half, and I was dreadfully late in arriving at the mission. Never good in the military. Although my commander knew that I might not make it on time, because of the camping weekend, I assured him I would make every effort to be there. Note to self: marks against you when you arrive late at a military operation.

My girlfriend dropped me off at 1:45 p.m. and headed on down the road with Val, my other horse, to drop her off at the farm and then continue on to pick up the other two horses and girls. I hastily saddled up Rocky and headed into the ring, only to be greeted by a kicking horse and another I’ll call The Beast.

We were on his farm, he was the leader of his herd and the other kicking horse in the ring was his herd mate. We didn’t have a chance. Rocky was the odd man out. The 17 hand stallion-like beast towered over Rocky, frothing at the mouth, sweat rolling off his rippling muscles and hooves flying every which way. Our mission was to stand still by The Beast’s side, 4 inches off his stirrup while the National Anthem played. We couldn’t get within 4 feet of The Beast , let alone 4 inches, and therefore failed at our mission and were booted. Crushed, we stood in the corner like sulking school children. Tears streamed down my face as the National Anthem blared for 3 ½ minutes over the loudspeaker strategically placed in the field for the practice mission. It was the longest 3 ½ minutes I ever heard.

3 p.m. and I was done. A failure. We had practiced so long and so hard only to meet up against unfortunate circumstances beyond our control. Neutral territory would have made all the difference in the world. But it wasn’t our lot that day.

Mishap #4

At 4 p.m. I was still in the field waiting with my tail between my legs for my girlfriend to return with my rig. The girls, waiting for my truck and trailer on the other end, called wondering where our girlfriend was and when she’d be returning. It didn’t look good if she wasn’t even back at the campground yet. Fortunately one of the officers took pity on me and offered me a ride home. Rocky, unfortunately, would have to stay with The Beast until I returned.

Arriving at the farm, I fed the other 8 horses in our co-op while I waited for the return of my rig. At 7 p.m. it rolled in. I drove the long drive back up to the field where the practice mission was held and retrieved my forlorn horse.

Exhausted, I fell into bed at 11 p.m, only to get up at 6 a.m. the next morning to feed the horses and start my work week.

Joyous Simplicities

Thank God work was without mishap and I was looking forward to spending the evening with my 18-year-old son, whom I hadn’t seen in four days. He was an endless chatterbox as we drove to our dinner destination. I smiled as he went on about his weekend and the relevant happenings in his life, as I told him about mine. After dinner he looked at me and said, “Come on Mom, you know what you need? An ice cream cone. My treat.” Be still my heart. My teen age son was growing up to be a sensitive man.

As I sat there on the bench licking my mint chocolate chip ice cream cone watching the sun descend in the sky as it cast it’s golden rays on our faces, I sighed and said, “This has been the best moment in my life in the past 72 hours. I think I’ll write about the joyous simplicity of this moment in my blog.”

His response, “If you even mention me and joyous simplicities in the same sentence I’ll launch a DOS—a denial of service—with all my friends shutting the blog down.”

“Why?” I asked. “I’m just going to talk about you and our time together.”

“If you do, you’re declaring war, and I’ll have to launch an intercontinental ballistic missile,” came the banter back.

“But I’m just going to say how much I enjoyed the time spent and how much I love you.” I smiled waiting for the inevitable response.

“Mom, now you’ve launched a nuclear attack.”

Teenagers. The mission: to spoil the joyous simplicity of the moment. At least he succeeded at his mission that night. But Peter, guess what, I still love you! There I said it, the dreaded “L” word to my teen. Ah, the joyous simplicities of life. I love ‘em.

Rocky and me at the Fort McHenry practice mission.

The Pinnacle

I’ve never understood striving for perfection. It’s unattainable. It’s the pinnacle I never want to reach. For if it’s attained, what more is there to achieve?

Choir of Praises

Most know that working and working to achieve perfection is a waste of time, but somewhere along the way striving for perfection was drilled into us. It’s at the very core of our existence. When we were young, we worked and worked at achieving something for the accolades we knew would be coming our way. If only we did it right. If only we worked more, we’d hit the mark and hear our praises sung. Our self-worth became dependent on the compliment or two thrown our way. But in doing so, we hung onto the words of others and worked our hands raw, because as children the mark kept moving higher. You could never, ever truly hit the mark. You just kept working and working toward perfection. As an adult I’m telling you, perfection is unattainable. The mark never stops moving.

Saintly

Striving for perfection is an addiction. Most perfection addicts falsely believe that achieving perfection indicates excellence. But perfection and excellence are two different things.

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary states perfection as a) freedom from fault or defect, flawlessness, b) the quality or state of being saintly, c) an unsurpassable degree of accuracy or excellence. Excellence on the other hand is a) very good of its kind, b) eminently good, c) first class. Two similar, but totally different degrees in terms.

Who wants to be saintly or flawless anyway? Not I. No siree. I like being a little devilish, a little flawed. Ok, depending on who you ask, quite flawed. Regardless, I don’t demand perfection, but I do demand excellence.

Eminently Good

The driving force of my excellence comes from within. I know I want to be eminently good. First-class. First rate in anything I do. But I could care less what other people demand of or expect from me. I don’t live for them. I live for me. I answer to my own higher conscience, and if it’s good enough for me, then by golly, I’ve hit my mark. If it’s not good enough for them. No worries, they can spend the time to work it and work it to get it perfect. No skin off my nose.

To the Best of My Abilities

As a member of Toastmasters International, a public speaking club, in both my leadership and speaking roles, I strive for excellence to the best of my abilities. And therein lies the difference between excellence and perfection. To the best of your ability.

I was terrified when I stood up to give my first speech. Just tell the audience a little bit about myself. If I had strived for perfection that first time up, I never would have gone back to Toastmasters. I would have run out the door with my tail between my legs, or my hand over my mouth, never to look back. In expecting perfection, I never would have become president of the club, nor gone onto win public speaking contests. But because there were goals outlined in the manual, for newbie speakers, I just wanted to hit the mark for those goals. And I did. I had attained excellence for what I was aiming to achieve that night. Looking back now, I’m sure there were countless ums and ahs, long pauses and stuttering in that first speech. But in the end, who cares? I wasn’t laughed off the stage. I hit my mark. I achieved excellence. But not perfection. And that’s ok. If I had walked off that stage as Little Miss Perfect, I would have missed out on so much in learning from others, in pushing my comfort zone, and in becoming a better speaker.

The Average Joe

A fellow Toastmaster gave his third speech this past Tuesday. Was it perfect? Hell no. But was it excellent? You betcha. Even the content of the speech was right on the mark. He said in this day and age, if you ask an audience how many members believe they give 100% at work, guess how many people raise their hands? One hundred percent raise their hands. Know what that means? The average Joe gives 100%. Everybody does. Or so we think. With those odds, in order to be noticed or to move forward, then you better be giving 110%. Do you need to be perfect? Nope. But do you need to demand excellence? Absolutely.

Excellence I can handle. But I don’t ever want to be perfect. No siree, not me. I rather like being Little Miss un-Perfect.

The Question

Would the world fall apart with out me in it? Perhaps not the whole world, but MY world surely would. Or would it? I found out last Friday. And guess what? The world continues on without me, and my world does not fall apart without me in it.

Mission Mode

Friday I had the day off from work at my real-time job as a graphic designer and copywriter, but I had a multitude of tasks to complete. The farrier was coming. A lunch date with a few girlfriends. And the deadline loomed for a client’s ad. And in the background of my mind the house needed tending to: the floors vacumed, the bathrooms cleaned, and the dishes washed. Oh and how could I forget, the cement pool needing to be recemented and painted before being opened? Always too many tasks and never enough time to complete them.

Here I had an entire day off and a whirlwind of activities to complete. In mission mode, I got up, set off and met the farrier. The girls and I, on our co-op farm where our horses are boarded, helped the farrier to shoe, trim and clean 12 horses—that’s 48 hooves being manicured. Three hours later we were done. Mission #1 accomplished by 11 am. Back home to shower, clean and remove the muck from my boots. On the road again to meet my friends for a quick hello and bite to eat.

My Downfall

The glitch in my fiercely planned day was setting up lunch on THE best outdoor deck on York Road with an all-day happy hour. The quick bite to eat in mid-afternoon extended well into the cool evening air. I held court as old friends left and new friends arrived at my deliciously decadent affair.

The Revelation

And you know what? It felt great. This sinfully sordid scene took place over 8 hours of my day. Eight hours of doing nothing but eating, laughing, drinking—for those of you who are keeping track of my imbibitions, I’m happy to say I paced myself with only three drinks over the 8 hours. None-the-less, it wasn’t about drinking woefully bad rail drinks. It was the decadence of doing nothing. Absolutely nothing, which if truth be told, is everything I wanted to do.

Shameless

In this fast-paced life of instant connection to work, home, kids and partners we never indulge ourselves. Nope. There’s always something to hold our attention. Things have to get done. Mountains need to be moved. And we’re the ones who have to do it. Now I’m not suggesting you should be as self-indulgent as I was, that night, on a regular basis. Oh no. Then it wouldn’t be so shameless. Rather we just need to sit back and do nothing every blue moon. Take the time to breathe, heal, laugh, rejuvenate and reconnect with ourselves and old friends. There’s nothing like it.

Just Be

If you’re feeling out-of-balance, at odds with yourself, or simply overwhelmed, perhaps it’s time to be a little effete. Stop getting caught up in the doing and simply be.

In their article, Making Time for Yourself, Lifeorgainizers.com suggests, “Taking time for yourself is really about Self-Care and is an extremely important component to creating the life you want. It is about honoring yourself and connecting with yourself. Taking care of yourself is one of the first steps on the journey of discovering your truth and accessing your creativity. When you take time for yourself it allows you to stop doing for awhile and to just BE. It is in the Being where your power lies. You automatically raise your standards and capabilities and create potential and possibility in your life. When you honour and nurture yourself you can hear your inner voice much more clearly—you can hear your own truth and this connection enables you to live authentically.”

As I was living authentically watching the blue moon rise above the decadent deck on York Road last Friday evening, I smiled at the serendipity of my world. It still revolved without me and I’m all the more blessed because of it.

The New Dating Scene

Three weeks ago my girlfriend invited me out to our local pub for girl talk. She’s been stuck in a relationship for the past year and wasn’t able to see the forest for the trees. Of course I was more than happy to help her out over dinner, drinks and trash talking.

Delilah, at least that’s what I’ll call her for this story, is a beautiful grandmom in her late 50s. This woman has a smile that can light up any room, is vivacious, sexy and just an all around great gal. She lacks in the self-confidence arena though. You see, she was married for 35 or so years, raised two great kids, and, for the past 13 years, cared for a sick husband. She’s now a widow and is experiencing the new dating scene. When she tossed her hat into the ring a year ago, she met up with a decent enough guy. But is it enough?

The Man

I say not. Carl is a towering man in his late 60s with rich, shockingly white hair. He’s a lawyer and self-proclaimed workaholic. He treats Delilah to terrific meals. Takes her out to the symphony. Has bought her an occasional necklace, several massages and day spa trips. Sounds heavenly. But the flaw that this man has is he compartmentalizes Delilah to one area of his life. Saturday nights. And not even to four Saturday nights a month. Delilah is lucky if she gets two, sometimes three.

Carl is happy as a pig in shit when he sees Delilah on the occasional Saturday night. Delilah on the other hand mourns the relationship the other 28 days of the month. Now don’t get me wrong, Carl calls Delilah every day, with a hello in the morning and a goodnight in the evening. But when Delilah went in for surgery a few months ago, the night before her surgery, she was home alone, crying for comfort and a hand to hold. No Carl in sight–it wasn’t Saturday night.

New Years Eve Delilah spent with me and my gang, longing for auld lang syne with Carl. But December 31, 2008 was, yep, you guessed it, a Wednesday night.

What is Enough?

So I ask you, if you’re dating a decent enough guy, what is enough?

This is where the fun came in at that local pub three weeks ago. Delilah and I had a talk about peanuts and how the Universe works. Delilah knew that the relationship was never going to change. It is, as they say, well, what it is.

But just shy of 60, Delilah did not want to grow old alone. She was beginning to manifest her fear. I’d say—28 days out of the month of not seeing someone that you’re in a relationship with is pretty lonely. Delilah understood this, but all of her friends believed going on that date one or two days a month was better than no date at all. Besides, they all said, there’s not much out there. Well there’s not if you don’t manifest it.

Bigger Peanuts

That night at the bar, I stuck my hand into the bowl of peanuts, withdrew a few, and tossed them onto the bar. This, I told Delilah is what you have in your life, peanuts. Then I asked her to pour the rest of the peanuts into my hands; they overflowed onto the bar. I proceeded to form a figure, a large figure, out of the fistful of peanuts, “This is what you COULD have in your life, if you so choose to.”

“How so?” she asked.

The Bar Napkin

The best ideas are conceived on bar napkins, at least that’s my philosophy. “I want you to write down, everything, I mean everything, to the minutest detail of the man you want in your life, down to his toenails—leave no detail left to chance, the Universe has a pretty good sense of humor, so yep, describe all you want, inside and out, down to his toenails.”

Hesitantly Delilah started writing. “Oh come on,” I said, “You can do better than that.” Words started tumbling onto the napkin, then the backside. Delilah fumbled to open the napkin up wide, so all four squares were visible, and she wrote and wrote and laughed. “This is what I want; this is what I want,” she cried.

I began smashing the few peanuts that were tossed onto the bar. “And so you shall,” I said. Delilah’s fists pummeled the remaining peanuts with passion.

The Universe at Work

“You need to let go of the small peanuts, and start visualizing bigger peanuts,” I told her. “Take the napkin home, look at it, live it, breathe it, everyday for as long as you can stand it. Then burn it or hide it and give it up to the Universe. Now the Universe will know what you want and will deliver it, because you deserve it.”

She smashed another peanut, “I’m going to call Carl tomorrow and tell him I’m moving onto bigger peanuts.” “Oh no,” I told her. “You can’t dictate to the Universe the who. Leave that up to them. Detach yourself from the how and just concentrate on attracting the outcome that you want—the man that you wrote on that napkin. Wouldn’t it be great if Carl turned into the man you wanted? Don’t eliminate that possibility. Open yourself up to all of the possibilities. Concentrate on the man you want to bring into your life. Leave the rest up to the Universe.”

“Will do,” she sighed as she tucked the napkin into her purse.

Falling Out of the Sky

Last week I sent Delilah an e-mail asking her if she’s visualizing bigger peanuts. Her response, “You bet your sweet— I am.”

I went out with Delilah last night for dinner, drinks and trash talking. She looked radiant. Last Friday night she had a talk with Carl, who told her he couldn’t change. He walked out the door. Sigh. Another lonely Saturday night. But wait, not so fast.

The phone rang on Saturday morning. A male friend of a male friend called Delilah. They went out to breakfast and had a lovely time. She drove home. The phone rang again. He asked her over for dinner. A home cooked meal, with wine, cheese and grapes by his pool—and laughter well into the night. Then Monday night Delilah’s upstair’s neighbor called to say that she had a friend who wanted to take Delilah out next Saturday night. And when I was sitting at dinner with Delilah last night, she retrieved a phone message from yet another one who wanted to take her out on Friday.

Delilah laughed with tears in her eyes, “They’re just falling out of the sky!”

Wide-Open

You bet your sweet—! Make your list. Live it, breathe it. Want it. Attract it. Open yourself up to all of the possibilities. The Universe will open wide when it’s clear on what you want, and guess what? If you visualize bigger peanuts, that’s what you’ll get.

Visualizing Bigger Peanuts

Motionless

“This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation, as a token of our appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your loved one.”

My loved one. My dear son Eric. Who, five months after being honorably discharged from the U. S. Marine Corps, lay motionless in a flag draped casket. The presentation of that flag, ceremoniously folded, was the most heart-wrenching moment of his funeral. Uncontrollable sobs wracked my body as the Officer-in-Charge presented Eric’s next of kin—me, his mother—with the folded flag that had covered his casket.

All my life, and to this day, three years after Eric’s painful suicide, I have walked up to and thanked members of our Armed Forces for serving our country. That is, by chance, how this mother, at 46 years of age, found herself dressed in full ACUs (Army Combat Uniform) on this Memorial Day Weekend.

Hooked

In January, as I walked the aisles of a horse-filled exhibition hall at our local state fairground, two uniformed men flanked a booth. With tears in my eyes, I extended a hand and thanked them, “But what branch of the military are you with—I don’t recognize the uniform?” The commander’s soft eyes smiled from under his draped black beret, “We’re with the Cavalry, Ma’am—Maryland Defense Force, Troop A, Cavalry.”

The Cavalry. I didn’t even know it still existed—but my curiousity was piqued and I was hooked. For the past three months I have been working toward completing my basic training: passing muster in front of dignitaries and generals, riding the trails of history in Gettysburg, learning Customs and Courtesies, obtaining my Red Cross certification and on Saturday, completing the Saber Qualification Course.

Irony or Purpose?

In preparation, as I was putting the emblems and insignias on my ACUs, I hesitated before placing “LOSEY” on my patrol cap. Tears streamed down my face as I ran out to Eric’s truck to retrieve his—the one he hung from his rear view mirror the day I picked him up from Camp Lejeune, NC three years earlier. I clutched both caps to my aching heart. Irony? No, purpose.

As I placed my cap on my head, I rehung Eric’s on the rear-view mirror of his F-150, hopped up onto the seat and hauled my horse, Rocky, down the highway to see if we would qualify as members of Troop A by completing the timed Saber Qualification Course. We succeeded. Rocky ran fast and hard as I jabbed a heavy m1913 Patton Replica Saber into 20 or so burlap sacks stuffed with hay, strategically positioned on a field with cross jumps, bales of hay, and tarps simulating water. At the day’s end, my commander asked Rocky and me to serve in a special unit to honor our fallen comrades. “Would we be interested in training to pull the caisson, which bears the body of the veteran, at military funerals? Only four horses and riders in Maryland are selected.”

With Honor in My Heart

Exhausted, sweaty and dirty, I drove home with honor in my heart to prepare for Sunday’s Memorial Day picnic and celebration with my family.

Most of us view the weekend as the unofficial beginning of summer, with picnics, barbecues, family gatherings, and sporting events, but please, let us also remember and bestow gratitude upon the men and women who serve our country during war and peace. I miss you Eric.

USMC Graduation, Parris Island—Eric and me