There's nothing like a good cry...

Sometimes we spend a lot of energy and effort trying to keep a stiff upper lip (actually that is a rather strange description when you think about it. Does that mean our upper lip is rigid and our bottom lip is quivering, flacid and drooping down, perhaps drooling?) when all we want to do is let our emotions spill over and get rid of those pent-up feelings?

The whole idea that we should never let go, allow our real sensitivies to be revealed to others in our circle of family and friends is one of the big lies we buy. I don't know who first dictated that someone who allows his or her feelings to come to the surface is weak or somehow defective, but I'll bet he or she is either emotionally locked in an iron box or is a secret cryer. Now I'm not saying that we should all go around blubbering all the time about the petty inconveniences or silly comments made by the socially insensitive people in our lives or whining about whatever doesn't go our way--I'd be voting for the stiff upper lip for these situations or at least duct tape over the mouth. I'm talking about allowing ourselves some latitude, some liberty when it comes to reverting to our core emotions and crying covers a lot of emotional territory. We cry when we're sad. We cry when we suffer loss or great disappointment. We cry when we feel vulnerable and afraid. We cry when we're happy or are touched by something sentimental, sweet, or sacred. We cry when someone we love is experiencing any of these feelings. Tears are cathartic. They are a release. They can clear our vision when we are done shedding them. And sometimes they are the only way we can convey how deeply we feel about something or someone. Sometimes they are the way we say, "This is important. I feel strongly about this. You need to know just how important and how deeply I feel. My tears are emotional punctuation marks, exclamation points that tell you more than what my words can say." Whether we cry alone or cry in someone else's company, we all need to believe that it is an acceptable activity if not taken to the extreme. Alone, we cry on God's shoulder. For all other occasions we are blessed if we can find the shoulder of a compassionate friend, family member or warm and fuzzy pet.

The next time we're inclined to use the phrase, "For crying out loud!" as a demeaning comment about someone's behavior, we might want to reconsider doing so. Babies cry to pretty much express everything they feel--"I'm wet." "I'm hungry." "I'm tired." "My blankie is missing." "My binkie fell out of my mouth." We are taught "Use your words" at an early age, but sometimes words aren't enough and when verbiage fails, tears, for crying out loud, will prevail.

the fountain of yute

In approximately one month and one day, my high school reunion will take place and a group of 60 somethings will get together to reminisce (it now takes several of us to come up with one singular memory or a name from the past), dance, sing karaoke, sing our alma mater, stare at name tags when we don't recognize one another, and hopefully feel 16 again.

The time machine is a reality and it works every five years when we get together with our classmates and think back to the "good old days" (and not when dinosaurs walked the earth as my children are so fond of saying) when life was simpler, less expensive, less demanding, and more circumscribed--something I am beginning to think wasn't all that bad. Our hair may be thinning (or gone), our figures may not be so svelte or may be proving that gravity exists, our teeth may or may not be our own, our memories may be fading in and out like a bad connection on a cell phone, our eyes may squint even with reading glasses intact, but we're glad to be in each other's company thinking "back in the day" but catching up with the present.

Much of what was important during our teen-age years is no longer so and we have become more forgiving, more tolerant, less judgmental. Most of us are no longer running for prom queen, trying to capture fame with a touchdown, or feel academically superior. Mostly we've mellowed and realize that good friends are important in achieving the good life. I for one will be glad to be in the company of so many friends. We went through a lot together--growing pains, being pains, experiencing pains--as we went slip-sliding through our teens and high school. We were there for each other then and we'll be here for each other on October 27th. Some things never change and isn't that great!

Random thoughts I had today...

First...well no not that. Second...not that either. Third...repeat of one and two. Guess my random thoughts were minimal. Now for my purposeful thoughts: first...why do men who do comb overs think anyone believes they have hair on top of their heads? Second, why do women who turn their eyelashes into mascara tarantulas think that look is attractive--only if you're into arachnidian things? Third, why do whining voices make your hair stand up on end and prompt thoughts about holding an AK-16, full loaded?

Everyone who reads this must write a 1,000 word essay answering each of the three purposeful-thought questions. No cheating and no plagiarizing someone else's work or you'll be forced to read my blog each and every day!

Tuesday night at 6:18...

and I'm still at work. Some people are very jealous of my exciting lifestyle. I don't know who those people are, but I think they need to rethink their view of the world. First I go to work. Then I stay at work a really, really, really long time. Then I go home and do some more work on my new little business. Wow! Is this fun stuff or what!! Then I relax a little, eat some dinner, and fall over in a heap on the couch. I miss the middles and sometimes the endings of just about every program or movie I start to watch if it's after 8:30PM. Yep. I'm turning into a very old person, who has no life worth mentioning. Say. Did I mention I was still at work and it's now 6:20? See ya. Bye!

Sunday night and nothin' to do

Yep. That's it.

The Weak End

Okay. It's Friday and it's officially the weekend. In my case, I'm so tired by the time Friday rolls around (who made up that phrase? and do days roll anywhere?) that I consider it the weak end because I'm feeling weak from the week. I'm not sure where all those 24/7s go, but mine seem to be running sprints and I'm too old and don't have any running shoes (nor should I be wearing that Nike spandex kind of running clothing), so the days are sprinting, but I'm doing more of a semi-speedy sloth imitation.

I'm home for the evening and having just a wonderful time watering my lawn. The timer I set goes off every half hour to remind me to change the location of my two front yard sprinklers. Matter-of-fact, this timmer goes "off" a little too long, and if it weren't for my laziness or my focus on something else, Mr. Timer would look like Salvador Dali's melting clock flung against the wall!

Alas, it's time to sprinkler another section of my lawn, so I'll have to depart the bloggernecessity to make sure each and every deserving little blade gets a good, long drink of water. When this fun activity is over, I think I'll alphabetize my spice cabinet and re-arrange all my silverware and plates by color from lightest to darkest, but then again, maybe I'll just kick back, throw caution to the wind and do my best imitation of an Idaho sofa sitter, a.k.a. a couch potato. Sounds like a plan to me. And I love planning.

It's September, should it be cooler...

Hmmmm. It's September. Children are back at school. We're starting the fall season (although the stores are already jumping into Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas all at once--a little jarring and bizarre with orange and black, brown, yellow and orange, and red, green all side by side) and yet Mr. Sun hasn't received the memo stating that the temps should be cooler and there should be a brisk breeze and the leaves should be preparing to turn lovely autumn colors. Instead, it's still in the high 90s and low 100s, the breeze is hot and makes you thirsty, and the leaves are turning brown, shriveling up, falling to the ground and crunching underfoot. I guess the Ice Age has cometh and is goeth-ing.

One of my kids is starting school, again, but at a much higher level (not requiring a pencil case with a protractor or compass) known as graduate school (requiring much more money per semester than an entire city of children could spend on their pencil cases, etc.). The youngest one is out of school for a few months and will be doing an internship in advertising--maybe he can influence the powers-that-be to stop rushing the holiday seasons, and the oldest one is back at work until the next national holiday, after enjoying a couple of weeks at the beach in Hilton Head, SC. I, on the other hand, will not be going to school, nor enjoying a fun internship, nor did I take a vacation this year, so I guess I'll be wearing the dunce's cap and sweating in the heat until I can figure out how to better live my so-called life...

It's September...shouldn't I be in school?

September is and always has been the official start of the year for me and so I'm a little confused tonight thinking about going back to school because I graduated and have no school to which I can return. I am, however, going to be at a 45th year reunion with many of my high school classmates next month and I'm pretty excited about it. I'm thinking brown and gold, Honkers (my school mascot--STOP LAUGHING!), Friday night football games, bad food in the cafeteria, dances after the football and basketball games. (Can anyone tell me why we never celebrated baseball the way we celebrated football and basketball? We didn't have the big "games" or the after-game dance or homecoming parades with tissue paper floats and queens and princesses waving as if their arms and hands were bobble dolls. Baseball was always the poor relation in the high school sporting family and yet it is called our national pastime. Haven't figured that one out...)

Back to my back-to-school dilemma--I should be at Staples buying notebooks, pencil cases, protractors, pens, binders and binder paper, but I'm not. Even my kids are pretty much past the point where I have to accompany them to the store to buy school supplies. With Bryn starting graduate school and Barrett finishing undergrad, I really don't want to go to a bookstore and buy their supplies. Textbooks cost a gazillion dollars each and, when it's time to re-sell them, the professor has opted to put out a new edition and the current textbook now has a value of less-than-zero on both the open and black markets. And, of course, in college, the proper student has to have the sweatshirt (costing $100), the sweatpants (costing $60 and worn not for sweating-in kinds of activities, but for casual, non-sweaty events). And then there are all the other college fun-must-have items--decals, car stickers, bobble-head mascots (not the float waving queen/princess kind), jewelry, hats, gloves, scarves, toppers for the car radio antenna, soap dishes, glasses and mugs, etc. By the time the back-to-college shopping spree is over, someone (usually the parent) is missing a few thousands dollars and has lost his or her sense of humor in the bargain.

When I went to school (yes, in the days when dinosaurs walked the earth), all we bought was a pencil case--that actually came with pencils, erasers and a small ruler,
a protractor and a compass (there must have been a lot of lost protractors and compasses in school because we bought these every year and they aren't the sort of implement that wears out or runs out of lead or ink), and some ruled paper. My elementary school furnished the pens for all student because they were ergonomically designed (back when the word ergonomic didn't exist) so we would hold the pen correctly and not get the writers bump on the first knuckle of the finger that had the death grip on our ergonomically correct pen. I have a bump or callous on that death grip finger despite my elementary school's best efforts. I guess my finger wasn't ergonomically compatible with the pen. I know it wasn't comptabile with the compass because I constantly poked myself with that frustrating little instrument. It was these blood-letting experiencs that helped me understand that I wouldn't get lockjaw or some other dreaded disease if I hadn't just received a tetanus shot--something I dreaded more than the stabby thing in my pencil case.

So, when millions of children are returning to the classroom this week, I won't be one of them. All I have to say is, "Nah, nah, na, nah, nah..." Ha!