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The beat goes on…

April 25, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

No, not a reference to Sonny and Cher but rather keeping my own personal drummer alive.  This hollow feeling inside…this lack of a calling…did I stop marching to my own drummer?  Hubby and I truly want to support our sons in marching to their own drummers, but I wonder if I stopped listening to my own beat.

I think again of Salieri when he wondered why he had the passion for music, the ability to recognize unique talent, but didn’t have the ability to create that kind of music himself.  Salieri speaks of mediocrity, “I speak for all mediocrities in the world.  I am their champion.  I am their patron saint.”  Amadeus is a play and film that has always stayed in my head.  It’s a haunting examination of Mozart’s life, music, and Salieri’s envy.

I love when Mozart is asked where the score is and he replies, “Here. It’s all right here in my noodle. The rest is just scribbling. Scribbling and bibbling, bibbling and scribbling.”  Fiction loosely based on fact, inspired by true events, I love those plays and movies.  What I love about Mozart in Shaffer’s play is the pure love he demonstrates for music.  Perhaps that is what I am missing, perhaps that is creating the hollow feeling.  What is it that I purely love?

Perhaps also my wonder about callings relates to looking back from this point in my life and seeing the hills and valleys and the roads not taken.  I can’t imagine not taking the same journey because would I have my husband, my sons?  I cannot imagine my life without them.  Am I simply being whiny?

I should hum the Stones tune to myself, make it my little mantra.  “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.”

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Tarry here a while

April 23, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

Good Friday service was good.  I was charged to tarry in the darkness for a while, not rush to the beauty of Easter too quickly.  I can tarry for a bit.

I’ve been struggling with the idea of a calling.  Now a calling does not have to be to working in a church as a leader, though there I feel I understood my humble calling to work with the children of my church.  I’m not the most organized Sunday School superintendent, but I do love finding ways for the students to make connections to their own faith journey.  I really enjoy VBS and get excited and renewed by the process every year.

I feel a calling to be a good wife and mother.  I think I understand how the balance goes back and forth now as the boys are younger and need me more on a day-to-day basis than my husband does.  It is a challenge every day to be a good wife and mother.  I fail some days in removing the egocentric aspects of human existence and fail to focus on the true priorities.  But each day is another day to focus on the priorities and to fill my soul with grace and patience for myself and others.

The calling I am struggling with is that idea of a big grand purpose.  I realize there may not be one for me.  It may be that I contribute to this world through my relationships with God and my family.  But long ago I thought I could hear my calling so much more clearly.  Perhaps as my life travels have gotten longer and more varied, the calling changed to small tributaries on my path.  A little bit here, a little bit there.  I don’t know.  What I do know is I feel a little bit hollow or empty in some aspect of my life.  I can’t readily identify the aspect although I know what it isn’t.  I know I feel happy and fulfilled in my relationships with God and my family. I know I love being a wife and mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend.  Perhaps I am at a plateau and this hollow feeling is actually a feeling of calm.  A calmness I am simply not used to experiencing.

I do not have the answer.  But I don’t mind tarrying here for a while. Reflecting on this season and the gift of yesterday and the beauty of tomorrow.

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When did I become “the man?”

March 30, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

Today I had the sad epiphany that I am “the man.” When this happened I do not know, but somehow I am the establishment. I am an administrator at a small, private university and work with students. Today, I asked to meet with a student because of a problem. The student was very defiant and defensive from the get-go. Every question I asked and each suggestion I offered were struck down. This student knew everything and had all the answers. The student left after about eight minutes, with the only resolution being that the student had gotten the last word.

I can’t say it was too difficult to get the last word because around six minutes into the exchange, I saw the look on the student’s face and realized…to this person, I am “the man!” I am the establishment trying to hold a student down because the department has policies and procedures that have to be followed. The job we were discussing “was not fun” and a “waste of time.” I’m “the man!”

When I began this job two and a half years ago, I had no idea that one of the unintended consequences would be this. I try to be a person the students can come to and seek advice, or to chat, or to hang. I try to create an atmosphere similar to the one in my student-worker job back in college. The atmosphere is there with some of the students I work with-I know it, I feel it, and they explicitly tell me. But with others, I am and will always be the establishment. How dreadful!

I am fully aware that I am the same age as their parents and so by default I can’t be cool. My references to films, television, and music are horribly outdated. One time, my class made a list of films I should watch so I could be a wee bit more hip. I couldn’t sit through most of them because the movies were rip-offs of the films of my teen years. Why watch a knock-off when I can watch the real thing? Some films, however, are standards-most students today know John  Hughes, they know Disney, they know horror films. But…

A student was telling me about the movies he saw over spring break. I asked if one was similar to Independence Day. He stared blankly at me. He was four when ID4 was released.

Only a few know about Queen. Sadly Freddie was dead before the current sophomores and freshmen were born. They know a few of the songs, mostly through sporting events and commercials. A handful know Neil Diamond because he was in some movie. But Carole King, James Taylor, and the British invasion of the 80’s are a mystery to them.

They watch shows I can’t wrap my brain around. They think the same things about my shows that I thought about the old CBS line-up, Murder, She Wrote, and Matlock (both of which I watch now if I catch them on tv). We do all share Betty White though, don’t we?

I will continue to try to be someone the students can turn to, if they choose. I will embrace what one of my students told me once in class. She said, “You’re not old. You’re cultured.” Cultured like a pearl with bits of wisdom, if anyone wants to listen.

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My Lunch with Monk

March 28, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

Here’s the thing, I would like to have lunch with a fictional television obsessive compulsive detective. We would have so much to talk about and we could share wipes and antibacterial hand-soap.  The ideal day for this lunch would have been on October 10 last year, so that’s when this would have taken place.

I adored that show and I still do. I can catch any episode that is on and I will sit and laugh myself silly, or weep depending on the story. Obviously this lunch would be with Tony Shaloub and first I would ask how his wife is (I adore her too!). I want to ask him how he made Monk so wonderfully real and then maintained the character for eight years without making him a stereotype. There’s an episode where Monk finally takes medication and we learn why he doesn’t choose to use medication-because he would be putting a drug into his body. A chemical that would alter his mind and that rocks his world too much to wrap his brain around. Plus, once he is on the medicine, he isn’t as good at solving crimes.

I have walked that road. When I was on the meds, I was never quite me. I was more of a zombie version of myself. I could function, but I wasn’t living. I use a different therapy now, and it works great, but it is way more work and it’s harder to maintain. I still struggle with the resentment that I need anything at all to live like a “normal” person. There have been times when I have chosen no treatment because I can do more when I’m not being treated. I don’t need as much sleep or food and I can get more done. The days are literally longer because I can stay up longer. Granted, this is not as healthy for me, but sometimes I think to myself I only have this one life. I want to do as much with it as I can.

The biggest worry with the whole thing at this point is whether or not either of my sons will inherit this lovely part of me. One has gotten my vision and wears glasses and the other has gotten my blood sugar issues and is hypoglycemic. I pray neither gets this part of me. I can see aspects within each that remind me of it, but they are both still so young it’s probably nothing. My youngest is a bit OCD and is rather fond of wipes, actually saying “no, there are germs!” It makes me just a bit proud, a little smile dancing on my lips when he asks for a wipe.

Monk always treated the OCD as a blessing and a curse. He’s so right. There are benefits to what I have-heightened senses for one and they come in handy (sometimes in very weird ways and sometimes in unfortunate ways…amazing sense of smell, need I say more?). A lot of foods have too much texture for me, but it’s easy enough to live without them. It’s the big things in life that I’ve not done that bother me.

In one episode, Monk doesn’t catch the bad guy because of his OCD (the one when he finally takes the meds and calls himself “The Monk”). There are so many things I haven’t done because of it without having a valid reason, only excuses. Then there have been things I have done because of it, without valid reasons, only excuses. Like Monk says, it’s a blessing and a curse.

In the end, my life is so overwhelmingly blessed that I can’t complain. I’ve come to a point where I really don’t focus on it. For eight years I got to enjoy watching Monk, empathizing with his daily tasks, challenges and celebrations. The whole show was a hoot.

There are so many moments that were acted so beautifully. The one I can see in my mind’s eye is in the episode with the garbage strike. Stottlemeyer pulls some strings and gets Monk into a clean room at some facility-a super clean room. He says to Monk something along the lines of “there are no germs here at all.” Monk gets this smile on his face that is pure happiness. The smile shot is in the opening credits in the later seasons-he’s wearing a white bio-hazard type suit and that smile of pure contentment.

And the cast was fantastic. It took me a few episodes to realize that Stottlemeyer wanted us to “put the lotion in the basket.” I think they handled the Sharona/Natalie switch beautifully. They respectfully treated the sad passing of the actor who played Dr. Kroger. Hector Elizondo was a great addition-love him! Ambrose was the perfect sibling and Dan Hedaya as their father was brilliant. The casting and writing was superb.

I still have not found a new show to watch now that this one is only in syndication. Plus, my fabulous hubby has been getting the series on dvd so I still watch it regularly. Slowly but surely I am running out of shows to watch. So, Tony & company, you left it that Monk was still doing his thing in San Fran. Feel free to bring him back. I always thought the series should have been on for ten years…it’s a nice number.

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The ghost in the office

March 19, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

I heard the office front door again tonight. This is happening more frequently and truly gives me the creeps. I’m not sure who the ghost is but it seems s/he/they don’t mean any harm.

I know there is a craze right now with the paranormal. I’ve been hooked since I was about eight or nine after relatives took a picture of my uncle’s grave and there was an unexplainable orb next to the headstone. Plus, my grandmother’s house always had a creepy vibe.

I’ve felt uncomfortable in certain places. My dorm in college is a good example. The dorms are in the building that was the Pennsylvania Institute for the Deaf and Dumb (1826-93), now called Hamilton Hall at the University of the Arts. If one knows anything about institutions during that time period, you know that they were usually over-crowded, understaffed and full of unfortunate cruel experiences. Sections of that building gave me chills whenever I went through them.

I’ve visited a few historical places in my time and felt uncomfortable in certain spots, later finding out those rooms or hallways were the location of murders or crimes. Now I am not professing to be anything but perhaps more easily creeped out by places with energies or maybe I just like the macabre. But I do know I would prefer it not to be in my home.

I wonder if it is my late mother-in-law. Just dropping by to say hello or to tell us to organize the office. We’re working on it, Mom. What (or who) ever it is, I hope it doesn’t happen again tonight.

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Leprechauns

March 16, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

My sons have been busy creating leprechaun traps for the past few days. They are quite serious about this and felt they had to set them this evening in order to catch a leprechaun. The trap designs all resemble something Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius, would construct to catch a certain bird, but their enthusiasm makes up for any lack of originality.

I asked what they would do with the leprechaun they might catch and the answer always revolved around getting the pot of gold from the end of the rainbow. My oldest said if the leprechaun won’t give it to him, he would flush the little man down the toilet. Pretty tough, if you ask me.

I’m not quite sure why they are so fixated on leprechauns this year. They have some Irish in them, but not much. I didn’t think they were obsessed with gold, but then again they love those commercials. “Do you know what that sound is? That’s the sound of security…that’s the sound of GOLD!” They also love Yukon Cornelius from Rudolph…they scratch the snow, taste it for gold and mutter “nothin’!” Perhaps even my little wee ones are worried about the economy and want the leprechaun’s gold to cash in for some cold, hard cash. Legos don’t come cheap, you know, and they need more Power Miners. They have a very long birthday and Christmas wish-list which they start creating about four days after New Year’s Day. The money has to come from somewhere for these toys.

I have voice-mails  from my cell phone that I saved because they are too funny. One is from my five-year old and starts like this, “um, hi, Mom, um, I want Lego Atlantis for my birthday. Okay? Will you write that down?” (from the background you can hear my husband ask “Is that it?”) “Yes, okay, ‘bye Mom.” He told his father he really needed to talk to me and that was the message. He left this particular one in October. His birthday is in July.

We never intended to spoil them. It happened gradually. We have to un-spoil them now. That takes even longer. Then again, maybe they will catch a leprechaun tonight and force him to give them his gold. All we’d have to do then is teach our boys to budget wisely.

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Futility and Mediocrity

March 8, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

The past few days have been filled with feelings of futility and mediocrity. In my previous job, several part-time gigs pieced together to create a full-time one,  each day ended and the job was over for the day. I had an easy way of checking my productivity. I could literally check my stats to see how many responses I had read that day. Very clear-cut and easy to see the purpose in the day’s work. My current job, not so easy. The specifics of either job do not truly matter. They are remotely related, but vastly different, to the point of making explaining them moot.

Yes, I still have stats to look at. I can still look at how many people had sessions in a day, the who, what, where, when and how…sometimes even the why. That is simply looking at numbers which is less the point of this job. The true point of my current job does not often seem to be appreciated by the higher-ups and the ones who attend the sessions typically don’t tell you explicitly how much it helped them.

Key differences in my life style with the changes in job are very easy to list (though I won’t list them all) and add to the feelings of futility and mediocrity. A lot less time at home. (Previous job was performed over the internet…yes, a thirteen step commute-truly missing that with the current price of gas.) I can truly say, without a hint of cliché, that my time at home is now more appreciated. It was always valuable-I just appreciate it more. I’m greedier with it now. The futility worsens on those days when I sit in my glorified cubicle seemingly making no difference whatsoever and wonder why I am not at home where I can certainly make a difference.

The sense of mediocrity is heightened by the sense that what I/we do in my department will never be enough nor will it ever be good enough. This judgement is passed down from higher-ups that don’t always fully understand what it is we do exactly. We try to explain, they parrot it back, but it’s off somehow. Like Brundle’s steak after going through the telepod, it’s their interpretation of what we do, but full comprehension is lacking.

One change in my life style that I cannot fix or find a balance for is the lack of time with my dog. He slept at my feet for seven or eight years while I would work. I can’t bring him to work-no “Bring Your Ancient Dog to Work Day” for him to enjoy. He has still not adjusted to Mommy’s new schedule. The cliché is true…you can’t teach an old dog a new daily schedule.  That’s one thing that I like about writing these musings. He has some time to simply sleep under the desk while I work.

Dogs don’t understand futility or mediocrity. He is always happy when I come home, when he gets a biscuit or when he goes for a walk. He’s content to have his belly rubbed. I need to figure out what it is about my work that is like a dog having his belly rubbed. The simple piece of the job that is always rewarding for me. I want my sons to witness a positive experience about work (or school). I suppose I need to pull myself up by the bootstraps and figure out the one thing that I can always connect with to have a positive day. Hmmm, wonder what that might be. It will be a fun mystery to solve. Perhaps that mystery alone will be enough.

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My lunch with Freddie Mercury

February 20, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

Ah, lunch with Freddie. Well, I suppose it would be filled with many decadent foods. Or perhaps no food, just the amazing opportunity to sing with him and his glorious set of pipes. Of course I would have my pre-pregnancy voice when I still had a break and could slip easily enough from head voice to chest voice. (Don’t ask how two pregnancies affected my voice. I’ll give you the short version-morning, noon and night sickness for about eight months each pregnancy equals way too many times getting the sicks (as my sons call it). It did damage and has gotten slightly better. Probably would get a lot better if I actually had the opportunity to sing like I used to.)

“Love of my Life,” “Seaside Rendezvouz,” and of course, “Somebody to Love” would be first up. I’ve sung these songs with him hundreds of times, but to hear his voice in person would be extraordinary. My cousin saw them in concert in the 70’s. I was a bit too young to have attended at the time, but she told me about it. She either gave Freddie a rose or he gave her a rose, but clearly they were in the spit zone. How cool would that be?

Eventually I would have to talk with Freddie about what made my connection to him so strong. Our teeth. It is said he was worried if he got them fixed it might impact his singing. I didn’t know about that as a girl. I just knew I hated being called Bugs Bunny. I happily let the orthodontist stick those silver clamps on my teeth. But you never let go of the feelings. Now I don’t sit each day crying about it, but the hurt remains still buried deep down inside. I dealt with my teen angst in a more creative way, perhaps because of my connection to Freddie. He was bold and audacious. He exuded confidence, regardless of what he may have been like on the inside. I adopted the same strategy. No, not as flamboyantly as he did but I was on a tighter budget.

As I began to find my way and feel more comfortable in my skin, I passively participated in the mocking and teasing of another. I have regretted it since the moment I did. I wasn’t like a “mean girl” or at least I tried not to be one. I fought peer pressure everyday and resisted being like everyone else because I didn’t see the fun in it. But on this one day, I passively participated because I did not stop it or even try to stop it. This poor kid had been treated like I had when I was younger, but for him it continued all the way through high school. He hadn’t toughened up his skin, he hadn’t made it so the game was played on his terms, and he still was getting teased, mocked, probably in more ways than I ever want to know.

Now being a mother I worry that my little ones could be in his situation one day. They march to their own drummers, again, not as flamboyantly as Freddie, but we’re still on a budget. My oldest feels more comfortable walking into school as a dinosaur and relates more comfortably with teens and adults than children his own age (his sense of humor is more dry, British and the other second graders tend not to get it). In his kindergarten picture, my macabre youngest looks like Jack Nicholson from The Shining and he has a deep passion for germs and creatures (as in from the Black Lagoon and “Frankenstein’s…”). My prayer is they do keep marching to their own drummer, but also learn how to play the game by their own rules of engagement so they don’t get hurt.

Freddie and Queen helped me through so much as I’m sure they did for many people. They helped me learn to “Play the Game” so we’d have to sing that one too. I think I would be in awe too much to sing “Bohemian” with him, but I’d definitely do the air guitar and head-banging. “I’m Going Slightly Mad” would be sung perhaps while sipping a drink. Then as dessert was placed on the table we could just scat a bit.

A confession would come out about how I helped that boy get mocked, teased, butchered by boys far less mature than him. An apology for going against an unspoken code of sticking together. I’ve tried to locate that guy. Contrary to popular belief you can keep yourself off the internet if you choose to because I can’t find a trace of him. Freddie would get the apology. For not being bold enough to say stop. For not being brave enough to go against the popular mob mentality. For forgetting my roots. The other way to apologize to someone I cannot find is how I am raising my sons. Many of the lessons I teach them have (and will) come from my mistakes. I know they will have to make their own mistakes to truly learn some of the lessons, but I’ll try to head some of them off at the pass.

“I Want to Break Free” of these sad, regretful emotions, but I don’t  want to lose the lessons they taught me. I’d like to not feel like a nine-year old girl with buck teeth, glasses and a cow-lick that makes all the “in” hair-styles impossible to achieve. I suppose we’re all walking around feeling like our nine-year-old selves. The world could be friendlier if we all remembered that feeling and that we’re all simply doing the best we can. That is a tall order. I stumble with it everyday.

After dessert Freddie and I would sing a rousing rendition of “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” and probably call it a day. When I got home from lunch, I’d give my two little guys great big hugs.

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Moses, Wham!, and Shawshank

February 14, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

Can anyone guess what these three things have in common? Moses, Wham! and Shawshank as in Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption. I’ll give you a moment to try to figure it out. While you are thinking, let me tell about a funny thing that happened in church Sunday morning.

Throughout the sermon I had the song “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” running through my head. Awfully difficult to keep a straight face with that tune streaming through the mind’s mp3 player. The sermon was about how to craft a meaningful and purposeful life. This is something I struggle with daily. I listen each day for the path I’m supposed to be on and overall I think I follow His guidance pretty well. The major mistakes in my life were always chosen by me and usually very clearly opposite the answer I received after thoughtful prayer. But oh how humans love to exercise free will. Although in many ways free will is how organized religion manages not to be cult-like so I suppose it is a good thing.

But I digress. A meaningful and purposeful life. What makes a life fulfill those two qualities? Is it career choice? Is it 15 minutes of fame? Is it healing others? Is it family? For me, that’s the answer. My family fills me with meaning and purpose each day. Even on the days when my young sons seem unable to hear me or understand the plain language I use when asking them to complete a chore, my family is my meaning…my purpose. My husband is my best friend and everything else I hoped for in a husband. Being a wife and mother are extraordinary experiences. For me, nothing else beats that. I have learned truly about patience, compassion and unconditional love.

So what does all of this have to do with Moses, Wham! and Shawshank? They all tell us to choose life.  In Deuteronomy 30: 15-20, Moses says “I call heaven and earth to witness against you today that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses.  Choose life….” Thousands of years later the words “Choose Life” are printed on fashionable (at the time) t-shirts in the “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” video. Shortly thereafter, Red tells us in Shawshank to “get busy living or get busy dying.” He chooses to get busy living. I choose to live life. The friendly message in today’s sermon reminded me that I can choose to live a whiny life or make the most out of everyday. I can choose to live compassionately. I can choose to live each day as a post-epiphany Scrooge. I choose life, not bah-humbug.

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My Lunch with Uncle Stevie

February 12, 2011 by pinkpigrulz

Picture the classic Jersey diner. Not one of the ones that tries to make an impression but one of the greasy spoon mom and pop joints. You know the menu-every breakfast item comes with hash browns. Lots of open-faced sandwiches smothered in gravy. Homemade soups.  Now imagine the corner booth with the duct tape covering the cracks in the vinyl. That’s where Uncle Stevie and I will be sitting while we discuss various observations from life. My hope is that we’ll start with comparing stories about our children. This will lead to why I can no longer read Pet Sematary. While all of his stories can give one the heebie-jeebies, what happens to the little boy could happen in real life (not being brought back to life in an Indian burial ground gone bad but being run over by an 18 wheeler) which makes it unreadable now that I am the mother of two small boys. Meanwhile, Cujo is fine. I’m not likely to be trapped by a rabid Saint Bernard at my mechanic’s place of business. He doesn’t even have a dog there. One of the mechanics we used to use always left me with an unsettled feeling. It wasn’t until recently that I realized why…it matched the setting in Cujo. They might have had a Saint Bernard.

After we catch up on the kids, I’d have to do the thank you. Thank you for It. “One for the Road.” Cell. The wonderful short stories. Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption.

The scariest book in my opinion is the novella Apt Pupil. This one haunts me and I can only read it every few years. Each time I read it there are new things to be afraid of. Why? The Reader, the Text and the Poem. I bring new life experiences to it and the world keeps adding new experiences of hate, evil incarnate, to bring to this terrifying tale of the all American boy.  Uncle Stevie is wonderfully talented at creating characters the reader cares about and becomes emotionally invested in. He weaves a story with detail that is real enough to see in the mind’s eye. He captures the creepy nature of the human experience so vividly that one can explore the dark underbelly of existence from a safe distance. Apt Pupil shines a bright light on that underbelly.

Most of his stories also contain hope. None so beautifully as Shawshank (“I hope…”) but readers hope things turn out all right for the characters because they grow to care about them.

I remember seeing Misery at a movie theater while living in Philly. After going through the metal detectors, I bought my goodies and found a seat toward the back in the middle section. I settled in, knowing I was safe enough because the security guard who checked my purse said I could keep my pepper spray, and watched in darkness as Kathy Bates worked her creepiness. As the movie was nearing the end, the audience had really become invested and we were all screaming for James Caan to beat her with the pig (sorry, Kathy, but you were just that good at being bad). You won’t shout at the screen unless you care about the characters.

There are two things about my relationship with Uncle Stevie that some folks think are odd. First, when I can’t sleep, I read from one of the short story collections and it calms me so I can fall asleep. People tell me that when they read Uncle Stevie they can’t fall asleep. I think his stories, particularly his short stories, help me to sleep because I have read them so many times they are like old friends. My copies of Night Shift and Skeleton Crew are well worn and bring me comfort, with the newer collections quickly becoming worn as well. “One for the Road,” “That Feeling, You Can Only Say What It Is in French,” “I Know What You Need,” “The Jaunt,”and “The Mangler” bring warmth to me, make me feel cozy all snuggled up in my bed. Clearly my life is going way better than the characters’ lives so I relax and fall asleep. The only thing that has surprised me is that “Quitters, Inc.” never made me quit. You would think that it would have worked…

The second thing some people don’t understand is why there are a select number of his books on the top of my Uncle Stevie shrine. These are the books I’ve banked. One day he will really retire. One day he won’t write another story. One day he won’t write another word for the public. The books on the top of the shelf are for that day. Then I’ll ration them so I will still have about ten years of discovering new stories and new friends. It could be a sickness…we’re not sure yet.

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