It’s winter time, which means I have plenty of dark days to ponder such somber thoughts as what kind of legacy I will leave behind when my time comes to become stardust in the universe. As I collect past writings and journal entries into a collective published piece, I am reminded of the Latin phrase Verba volant, scripta manent, which translates to “spoken words fly away, written words remain.” I live and die by the pen, so this resonates particularly strongly with me.
Between Facebook and my blog, I am pretty much an open book. This has enabled me to nurture and develop relationships with people from all walks of my life all over the world, and with some whom I have never met. Just this week, I have been messaged by three different people of varying degrees of familiarity who said they thought of me because of something I had written.
My friend, Nick, from my study abroad year in England, messaged that something came across his feed about people who can make jokes about grammar are the cleverest of the lot and he thought of me. My bff’s mom, Linda, texted that she thought of me because she got an entire bag of “foldy” chips with her dinner and she knew that bag should’ve been mine. And then my own daughter, J, has texted me at the exact same time numerous times, indicating that we are never far from each other’s minds.
Just the idea that I crossed these friends’ minds and made them smile for a moment fills my love bucket to the brim. I am not one for long conversations, always a better listener than I am contributor, but I can collect my thoughts into an essay with relative ease. I think this has allowed me to be precisely in the moment soaking it all in, and then write about it later. While I hope to make an impact on people in real life connections, the reality of our virtual world is we have so many of those interactions online. We are who we are because of our words, and our written words are even more pertinent and meaningful today.
It brings me joy and a sense of fulfillment that I can elicit a smile through my actions, but especially my words. My writings are an expression of my love for this journey we are on together, and that Love will remain in others whom I have touched after I am ashes. Hopefully I have plenty of years left to continue to make an impression in others who enter my sphere. At the very least, I will have left a library for my children and future grandchildren so that they will always know I love them. After all, scripta manent, amor manet.
I am a procrastinator at my very basic core. My friends can attest that I spent my college years doing everything last minute. I even wrote the speech I gave at graduation 2 hours before I was to deliver it, nearly giving my roommate, Karri, a coronary in the meantime. Somehow I never had any natural consequences because it always amazingly got done.
This habit followed me into adulthood, through my marriage, divorce, raising kids, and finally meeting The Mayor. My procrastination techniques did not sit well with him, as The Mayor lives by a “future you will thank you” philosophy. He is the first to get the worst chores out of the way, rarely putting off til tomorrow what can be done this instant.
Now, although we had vastly different philosophies, he never lectured me to be more responsible. Instead he led by example. It started benignly with Christmas shopping. I grew up shopping and wrapping up until the 24th. The Mayor’s family celebrates on Christmas Eve, so we had to start earlier. Over the years, I have morphed into the one buying gifts months in advance and socking them away. This allows me to spread out the damage and shop the sales. Plus the kids always end up getting more on Christmas morning in the long run. I also never have to worry about stores running out of what I want and can enjoy the holiday season relatively stress free.
The Mayor has infected me with this philosophy in other areas of my life as well. Putting off a phone call? He’ll mute the Spotify and say “get it over with then it won’t be hanging over your head.” And he is always right. The temporary pain is minor compared to the stress of dragging something out.
Yesterday when Ez got into the car, they told me how they wished they weren’t such a procrastinator, as they stayed up past 10 the previous night to finish a presentation. I told them they come by it naturally, but they also have no natural repercussions, because they aced their presentation and the only downside to doing it so late was they were tired and grumpy during school. A boba tea and lunch at Bibibop after school straightened that attitude right up, and I gave them an example of how The Mayor’s philosophy has helped me and might help them.
I told them that earlier that day I was feeling puny and I didn’t feel like working out even though I haven’t worked out since last week. Instead of thinking of excuses I picked up my weights and told myself I was only going to do my bicep curls and then I would be done. Once I finished my reps, I thought “since I have my weights out, I might as well do my shoulder press …” which led to a couple of sets of triceps and finally abs and obliques. What started as me making deals with myself to stop sooner ended up with me saying just one more and a full workout.
Oftentimes what I say as their mother goes in one ear and out the other, but maybe, just maybe, they will put more credence in The Mayor as the voice of reason. It’s a hard habit to break, and there is something to be said for brilliance under pressure, but I have learned that just getting started is half the battle. Once you write the first few words, make the first few presentation slides, do the first rep, you gain traction and momentum that carries through to a superior result.
I still fight myself to not put off what should be done now, but I have trained my brain to override those foreboding thoughts by repeating, “Future you will thank you.” I know Ez has to learn that lesson themselves, but I hope as they make their way through the deadlines and projects of life, they will remember our conversation and relieve some stress by starting a bit earlier. Even if it’s one slide at a time. Future Ez will thank them, and that is one of the best presents I could give.
It was the day before my 10th birthday. Double digits this year. The stores were already decorating for Thanksgiving, with hints of Christmas peeking out of the aisles.
“We’re here just for necessities,” my mom said, leading me toward the cake mixes. I loved this tradition of picking out my cake flavor. Mom made my cake every year and she always used a Duncan Hines cake mix as a base, but then added her extra secret ingredients to make it taste better. And homemade frosting. Always homemade frosting. Because the cake mix itself didn’t matter so much, but the canned frosting didn’t hold a candle to her homemade icing. I looked over the options, mulling a carrot cake versus devil’s food cake. And, oh, there’s the German chocolate cake too, but that icing meant getting pecans and coconut as well, and mom made it clear that her paycheck was late so I tried to be mindful of the extra expense. Finally I settled on devil’s food cake and asked for chocolate chip buttercream icing. Mom added the red and yellow box to the basket and said, “we need more eggs, too. I only have one left at home.”
We made our way to the dairy, saying hello to the lobsters in the seafood case on the way. In front of the egg cooler, there was an end cap with individual butter sculptures carved like turkeys. Mom paused and gasped when she saw them. “Aren’t these just the most extravagant thing ever?” She ran her fingers over the box, as if she wanted to poke at the waddle of the butter turkey to see if it would gobble. She lingered a little longer, sighing that it was an unnecessary expense, but boy wouldn’t that be cool on the Thanksgiving table, before turning to the egg cooler and retrieving a dozen large. The way my mom said “extravagant” with a hint of longing, a smidgen of preposterousness, and a touch of regret made me want to experience that butter sculpture. I wondered if it would taste different, being carved up to look like a turkey. Surely it had to, if rich people were buying it. I determined right then and there that I would get one of those butter turkey sculptures on our Thanksgiving table somehow.
Mom made my birthday cake while I was at school the next day, and I opened my presents when I got home after I blew out my candles. I hadn’t stopped thinking about that butter sculpture we had seen, so when I opened my card from Papa and there was a crisp $20 bill with a note that said, “Buy yourself something extravagant…” I knew what I had to do.
That Saturday, I asked mom if I could walk down to Kroger by myself; now that I was 10 I felt I was old enough. She agreed, but insisted on following me down and back in the car. I felt so free and grown walking down the big hill and in through the double doors. I thought to myself, “ten is old enough to walk to the grocery store by myself. It’s also old enough to start contributing to the house.”
I quickly weaved my way to the back corner of the store, praying the whole way that nobody had bought all the turkeys, and was rewarded with a whole selection of butter sculptures in the dairy. I picked one up, purchased it, and went back outside to let mom know I had made it out okay. I handed her the bag with the butter turkey in it and said, “I bought this for Thanksgiving because I wanted you to have something special.” Mom immediately started crying when she looked in the bag and said I shouldn’t have, but that it would look perfect on our Thanksgiving table. She’s always good about being grateful for gifts, even if she thinks I wasted my money. I asked if she would drive me up the big hill so I didn’t have to walk it by myself and she said of course.
At Thanksgiving, I helped set the table and put the butter turkey on a little plate in the center of the table next to mom’s yeast rolls. We said grace and loaded our plates. It was just the two of us so when we went to butter our rolls, we looked at the turkey sculpture and then at each other. It seemed a shame to cut into something so beautiful, we didn’t even know where to start. Finally mom said, “aw hell, I’m just gonna go for it” and cut that butter turkey’s head clean off and smeared it in the roll’s crevice. I started laughing at the headless butter carcass that remained and said, “I’m going to go for its butt” and took the tail feathers right off. Mom giggled and watched me as I took a bite of the roll with the fancy butter. I felt the creaminess and saltiness of the butter on my tongue and lips and pressed the excess to the roof of my mouth. I wanted to taste the indulgence that wealthy people thought nothing of and let my whole body feel its richness. Mom smiled at me and said, “I’m so thankful for you, turkey butt. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, mama. Happy Thanksgiving” and we devoured our dinners with the headless, buttless butter turkey between us, both of us realizing that the ultimate extravagance was spending the holiday together with a home cooked meal.
I woke up today, my 48th birthday, at 7 a.m. on the dot, fully refreshed after a lovely night of sleep. There’s nothing super special about turning 48, other than the mere fact that I have made it around the sun for another year, but The Mayor immediately piled my presents on me before I could even have a sip of coffee as if it was a milestone birthday. I eagerly opened my favorite cheddar and caramel popcorn, some cool new scrunchies, and the cream on top, a brand new Kate Spade wallet/wristlet that The Mayor picked out specially. The man knows me so well, and has keyed into my love language of gifts with an enviable keenness.
Ez’s birthday flowers and stuffed pumpkin
I did my DuoLingo lesson and made my way into the living room to watch ARC Cincinnati with Bob and Jen while I drank my morning coffee. My phone blew up with texts as my friends from all over checked in to wish me happy birthday as they woke up to the world. I heard from dear friends near and far, got a sweet text from my ex-husband, and a heartwarming text from my oldest daughter, J. I hopped on Facebook and, again, the well wishes continued to roll in. I was feeling the love.
On my way to pick Ez up for school, I said a silent prayer that they would be awake and I wouldn’t have to battle the dogs to go wake them up. When I rolled up to Spinnaker Drive, I saw a text from Ez that they were awake but running a little late. No big deal, I had built in plenty of time. And then The Mayor texted me and said I was featured on ARC with Bob and Jen with one of my answers to their question of the day and Jen called me out specifically. What a birthday treat!
No incidents to and from school, with a stop at Dunkin for Ez’s breakfast, and I returned home to more texts and Facebook wishes. My BFF and his parents sent me a Jungle Jim’s gift card for some exotic treats from the International Market, showing yet again that they get me. I got to work on my physics account, getting so immersed that I forgot to eat my morning Bobo, my stomach rumbling around 11 a.m. to warn me that I better get something in there pronto, lest my blood sugar plummet and I am stuck with a headache. I gathered my phone and my purse and headed out for our neighborhood specialty market to grab my favorite ham and brie sandwich on a french baguette and to say hello to The Mayor while he was at work.
When I got home, I got a message from my sister informing me that she and my two littlest brothers had all chipped in and got me an All Access subscription to Alan Alda’s Clear+Vivid podcast patreon, proceeds of which go to charity but with a member perk of having Alan record an outgoing voicemail message for members. I was floored, as I had mentioned in passing that I wanted to subscribe once I paid off my final loan next year and had set it as a savings goal. I couldn’t believe that they got it for me early! My name is going to come out of the mouth of Captain Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce and I am going to have that as my voicemail til the day I die! I may never get the opportunity to meet the man, but hearing him say my name counts as fulfilling a lifelong dream, and I could not be more grateful to my siblings.
At 3:30 I picked up Ez from school and they gifted me with flowers from their Flower Farming and Floristry class as well as a stuffed pumpkin from their sewing class. We stopped by Brooklyn Pizza and Pasta to pick up birthday dinner on our way home. Once home, we turned it on Game Show Network, per usual, and played along with the Master Minds until The Mayor got home from work, when I downed my stuffed shells and spinach salad. After dinner, Five Below’s blind bag selection beckoned, and Ez and I headed out the door. They played me the Birthday Sex song by Jeremih and then we played Young, Wild, and Free and sang along with all the naughty bits. Ez stocked up on their favorite blind bags and we headed back to their house to drop them off for the night. They got out of the car, thanked me for dinner and the ride, always respectful and courteous, and wished me happy birthday again.
On my way home from Ez’s, I was cruising down Columbia Road, zipping through the roundabouts, and Dobie Gray’s “Drift Away” came on. I turned it up and sang along, putting some extra sauce on the “Gimme the beat boys and free my soul…” because I was feeling good and sassy. When it got to the lines, “Thanks for the joy that you’ve given me…I want you to know I believe in your song. And rhythm and rhyme and harmony, you’ve helped me along. Makin’ me strong…” I started to tear up at all the people who have gifted me with joy over the years. My friends reaching out not just on my birthday, but throughout the good and bad times over the past three decades of being an adult. My family, my kids, my BFF, The Mayor, every one of them has a song that I believe in, and every one of them has contributed to making me strong. I will continue to believe in my own song and share it through my essays and Seven Sentences for Sundays. I thank every one of you for helping with the harmony, may we continue to make beautiful music for the next 48 years.
In honor of my baby brother’s 25th birthday today, I’m posting something that I wrote about him 17 years ago that I’m pretty sure he has never read. I was studying in England at the time and missed my little partner in crime terribly, so I penned some words about him. It’s amazing how far we both have come in 17 years…he a doting husband and graphic designer, I a writer/editor and mother of 3…Here’s to you, P.C. Happy 25th…I love you!
*Note: This is in its original form with no editing, so please excuse its roughness, as I had just turned 20 when I wrote it. Continue reading →
I was challenged by my sister over on our blog crossingthestreams.net to take a moment to list the top 5 things for which I am most ungrateful. Snarky? Perhaps. But I chose to see the humor in the situation and went for it full force. However, after unleashing such negativity into the Universe, I feel compelled to provide some checks and balances and take a positive spin on justdestiny.com.
It seems the holidays bring out our most altruistic selves. From those feeding the homeless to the PETA folks looking out for the turkeys and pigs destined to become dinner, everyone has a cause to champion. In no way am I trying to undermine the work of my activist counterparts. However, this holiday, I am going to be completely selfish and champion my own cause…for today I am going to meet The Mayor’s family for Thanksgiving dinner. Continue reading →
Destiny! Manifested 