Erasmo and Mia

I haven’t written anything lately about Erasmo, the kid I tutor. He’s finally reading on a first grade level. When I started working with him two years ago he didn’t even know the sounds of all the letters of the alphabet. This year he’s mastered silent e. He can even decipher compound words like “snowball.” And thanks to my bribing him with art and puzzles; he always comes in, sits right down, and reads for half an hour, sometimes more if it’s a Clifford book.

This year he pitched a small fit when he found out I’d also be tutoring a girl named Mia. “I don’t want you to read with her. She’s mean to me; picks on me all the time.” He told me to scream and yell at Mia and spank her.
I said, “I'm not that kind of person.”
Okay,” he said, “but don’t you do any art with her. And no puzzles either.”

When I met Mia I could see what he was talking about. Erasmo is the sweet, insecure kind of boy that other kids love to pick on—much like I was at his age. Mia is pretty and popular, just the type that made my life miserable in school. (Though in a way I almost can’t believe it. She’s so sweet with me, always giving hugs and small gifts.)

For two weeks Erasmo constantly reminds me how much Mia hates him, and that I should be mean to her. “What books are you giving her? I don’t want you giving her any Clifford books.”

The third week, I arrive at Mayfair School and guess who run up together, arm in arm? They both sport gold plastic rings in their noses. “Look,” Erasmo tells me, “Mia gave me a nose ring.”

They show me they’ve been trading books. “Ooh, Mia,”says Erasmo, “You’ve got Wall-E? I loved that movie.”
“Here you can have the book.” She passes it to him, then I stand waiting while they give each other big hugs.
"See you later, Erasmo," Mia says, eyes sparkling.

When she and I are alone, Mia confides, “Erasmo gave me a Clifford book.” She says it like it was diamonds he gave her. I can only laugh.

That Is Not News!

It probably was twenty-five years ago. Mom and Dad were eating dinner on TV trays while watching the local news. A story came on about a little lost dog. My dad, three sheets to the wind, suddenly growled, “THAT! IS! NOT! NEWS!” and hurled a jar of garlic powder at the TV.

KER-BOOOM! The whole tube blew up.

Mom just sat there, thinking, “Well! Now I’ve seen everything!”

To her credit, she let the TV sit there, the jar of garlic powder stuck in it, till finally my dad called the repair shop. (But Dad conveniently made sure he wasn’t home when they arrived.) The repair man told my mom, “You wouldn’t believe how often we get called to fix these kinds of things.” He did ask if he could keep the screen “to display in our shop window.”

That story has become famous, one of the great mythic tales of our family. We mostly tell it in the context of "how impossibly difficult Dad was."

But this year I find myself relating that story more and more. I was telling my daughter, “You know, lately I understand where Grandpa was coming from.”

I mean, did we really need non-stop coverage of Balloon Boy or Michael Jackson or Tiger Woods?

All I can say is, ”Somebody get me some garlic powder!”

Just a Follow Up On a Previous Post

Those of you who remember my posting of November 15 might like to Google "Ask Amy Nov 30"
Then scroll down to the 3rd letter.

Tis the Season to Be Frantic

(My favorite cartoon from New Yorker Magazine, Sept 28, 2009)

In my twenties, I learned that stress is very bad for you. My solution: avoid anything that might possibly stress me. With age and wisdom, I tell you: DO NOT DO THIS. EVER.

Because now I've reached the age where everything stresses me out anyway. Especially Happy Holiday Time.


What keeps me from totally turning into Mr. Munch?
Take note:

Focus on this one day at a time and if necessary, one minute at a time.

Breathe in “let go,” breathe out “let God.”

Write on a piece of paper “I will get everything done; I always do.”

When tempted to lie awake nights worrying, speak to myself in very bossy tones: “This is not worrying time; it’s sleeping time.“
(Note: All thoughts that occur between the hours of 11 PM and 6 AM are insane anyway.)

Drop everything that’s absolutely unnecessary. In my case this means no Christmas letter. Plus, Christmas cards may not arrive till after Valentines Day, but doesn’t that sound like fun?

In short, take care of Poe.

A Tale of Uncle Al and Two Dolls

Imagine you’re five, walking with your family around a city park. All of a sudden your Uncle Al climbs a tree. What in the world…?
When he climbs down, he’s holding a carved wooden doll. “Somebody stuck it on one of the branches. Would you like it?” he asks.

“Yes!” I squealed. I loved the doll and I loved Uncle Al, so strong and handsome, even though he had gray hair. He was ten years older than all the rest of our grownups, but we kids didn’t know that.

Uncle Al was great for playing airplane. He’d pick us up by one arm and one leg and swing us around and around. We begged “Do it again! Do it again!”
All too quickly he’d beg off. “I’m tired,” he gasp. How could anyone get tired when we were still having so much fun?

But he redeemed himself the time I found a big hole in a quilt and crawled inside. It was all quite exciting till I tried to crawl out and got lost in the maze of cotton batting. I began to scream. Immediately Uncle Al’s strong arms were there, carefully pulling me out. How I adored him after that.

As the years went by, he lost a lot of his eminence as he succumbed to age and infirmity.
But he died before I could realize "my rock" wouldn't live forever.

I still have the doll he gave me, which sits in a mug by my writing desk.

Not long ago one of our wooden spoons broke in half. Since I can never throw anything out, I made the spoon into a doll, gluing on yarn hair and tissue paper features and sewing her a green dress from fabric scraps. Remembering Uncle Al, the next time I went to the school where I tutor, I set the doll on a bench. When I came back a few hours later, my heart kvelled to see her gone.

Curious note that just now occurred to me:
That day in the park, I named my wooden doll after Al’s daughter Nona.
I left the new doll at Mayfair Elementary, where Nona went to school.

Unhappy, Unhappy

“Unhappy, Unhappy, you have no complaint
You are what you are and you ain’t what you ain’t…”

Had to go early to set up my monthly women’s spirituality group. I wished I’d stayed home and worked on my art project instead. (Probably didn’t help that they were already set up when I arrived.)

I decided I’d sit at an empty table in the back of the room so I could hide out and ink my drawings during the meeting. Got breakfast and hoped nobody would come to my table.

Then nobody did. I ate my whole breakfast and no one joined me. It began to bother me. A lot. I watched friends, even my cousin, walk right by to sit at other tables, tables that already had lots of people at them. This pissed me off. I thought, “If one of them was sitting by herself, I’d sit with her.” Tables filled up and mine was the only empty table. That’s I went to “Nobody likes me; I don’t belong on planet earth. “

I recognized this place; I used to live there. I was sliding down into a hole that is very hard to get out of.

So my Al-Anon kicked in and I prayed, “God show me how you want me to be.”

Here are some of the thoughts that then came into my mind:
*Maybe I’m subconsciously conveying “stay away.”
*People aren’t sitting down with me, not because I’m a loser, but because they don’t feel safe with me.
*People are my mirrors. If I’m feeling good about myself, they will be attracted to me; If I’m rejecting myself they’ll stay away.

I tried feeling good about myself (See previous Blog entries); still nobody came over.

Then I got up to get more hot water and saw Janet, a woman I know to be extremely friendly and nurturing. I gave her a hug and asked, “Would you sit at my table?”
I went back to my seat. And before Janet could get there, Saundra, Mary Claire,and Deborah sat down. “Oh what wonderful drawings,” they said.
.

“…So listen up, Buster, and listen up good
Stop wishin’ for bad luck and knockin’on wood.”
John Prine

Poe Writes in Response to Dear Amy

Here's the original letter (not written by me):

DEAR AMY: I have been enjoying a group of friends for the past 10 years. During the past year I have had a real problem over their pontificating about their political point of view. I am the only person in the group with a different political view. The past four times I've seen them, I've come home feeling very upset about their bashing of the new president.I did not act like that when the previous administration was in office. We have had some angry, awkward moments and it makes me want to stay home and avoid the whole thing. I have tried to tell them I feel bullied, but they always say we all should be able to express our opinions and I shouldn't take it personally. What would you suggest that I do?
--Linda

DEAR LINDA: I recently heard Glenn Beck refer to the president as a socialist and call filmmaker Michael Moore a "fatty-fatty fatso."
Is this the sort of civilized intellectual discourse our foremothers and - fathers had in mind when building this great nation? Probably not.
But while you may have been sheltered from this sort of passion during the Bush years, I remember many heated, shocking and extremely disrespectful bashing sessions coming from the left - both through the media and privately.
Yelling is the unfortunate reaction of people trying to mitigate their powerlessness.
We live in fascinating times, and you might benefit from understanding the passion of the other side. Don't let your friends bait or bully you, and don't feel you must defend practices or policies they find indefensible.
If you don't want to participate, you can do your best to change the subject, but if you can't and still want to spend time in their presence, listen passively or (my trick) offer to wash the dishes.

(My letter, which I sent Ask Amy day before yesterday):
Dear Amy:
I certainly related to LINDA’s problem with friends pontificating about their political point of view*. When my friends start spouting off, I like to ask the following questions:

*What life experiences led you to your political point of view?
*In what areas do you and I agree?
*Is there anything ___________ (whoever they’re pontificating against) said or done that you approve of?
*Has anyone ever told you that you converted them to your point of view?
*Have you ever changed your mind due to something someone said?

Most folks have never thought about these things and it invariably leads to fascinating conversation and a lot of bridge building.


We'll see if she prints it.

*Actually mostly my husband's relatives

Stupidity As a Healing Force

Growing up in an alcoholic home, I learned to constantly beat myself up over everything.
I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop.

After I joined Al-Anon, I heard "If I want to make a change, I have to actively do the opposite."

So...
Once a day I thought up five good things about me. It would take forever to come up with that many, but I stuck with it.

Now I do over a hundred several times a day. Takes about a minute.

Recent examples:
I send my cousin a birthday card and a gift bag of candy
I made myself a big salad for lunch—very healthy and delicious
I gave the cats their flea medicine.
I did some beautiful drawings for my book project.
I paid the Visa bill on time.

Every morning and frequently during the day I take a minute to look on myself the way I'd look on a small adorable baby. (When I look at, say, my 10-month old great-nephew I don’t compare him to other babies or think, Hmpf! He didn’t pick up that toy correctly. I just groove on the wonderful, lovable boy he is.)

Loving and praising myself feels really stupid. But it's proved more powerful and healing than anything has before.

I'm not saying I'm all well--I still think negative thoughts. They've just gotten less and less frequent, with shorter and shorter durations.

Examples:
You may remember our cat died last week. My first thought: “If,two years ago, I'd taken her to the vet sooner, maybe she'd be alive today.”
I thought that for only about 30 seconds. Then “Oh Poe, that’s just self-hatred; give it up.” And I did.

After we buried her, I thought, “Gee I really didn’t check one last time to make absolutely certain she was dead. What if she wakes up down there?”
Had that one for about twenty seconds. Then: “Poe, she was stiff as a board. Let it go.”

You see, I couldn’t stop self-hating thoughts before because I was standing on a base of “Poe is bad, can’t do anything right, never good enough.” Now I am building a base of Poe is good, kind, lovable, and competent.

Too Sad to Write Today

Garrison Keilor says it all:

When we got home, it was almost dark.
Our neighbor waited on the walk.
“I’m sorry, I have bad news,” he said.
“Your cat, the grey-black one, is dead.
I found him by the garage an hour ago.”
“Thank you,” I said, “for letting us know.”



We dug a hole in the flower bed,
The lilac bushes overhead,
Where this cat loved to lie in spring
And roll in the dirt and eat the green
Delicious first spring buds,
And laid him down and covered him up,
Wrapped in a piece of tablecloth,
Our good old cat laid in the earth.

We quickly turned and went inside
The empty house and sat and cried
Softly in the dark some tears
For that familiar voice, that fur,
That soft weight missing from our laps,
That we had loved too well perhaps
And mourned from weakness of the heart;
A childish weakness, to regard
An animal whose life is brief
With such affection and such grief.
If this is foolish, so it be.
He was good company.
And we miss his gift
Of cat affection while he lived.
The sweet nature
Of that shy creature
Who gave the pleasure of himself:
The memory of our cat…

Prodigal
March 27, 1996-October 31, 2009

One Last Vacation Story

My mother has a gift for saying stupid things.

Just one example: on our recent trip to Michigan, she kept telling total strangers that she was 86 years old and her doctor, a lovely Sikh man, had suggested that she have knee replacement surgery; however she thought she was too old to go through with it but now maybe she would have that surgery. (After a while I wondered if she was hoping for her own reality show--"86 year old Woman Deciding Whether to Get Knee Replacement Surgery.")

There was a time when I would feel it was my duty to point out to Mom that she was stupid. But in Al-Anon we have two slogans: How Important Is It? and THINK (Is what I’m about to say True? Honest? Intelligent? Necessary? Kind? If not, don’t say anything. )

In this case I happily kept my big intelligent mouth shut.

Amazing how much better Mom and I got along on this trip.

I used to think we could only get along if she changed.

Funny thing that.

A Few Entries from My Travel Journal

(Last week I travelled to Michigan to visit my brother and his wife.)

Oct 7
Flying into Lansing, I thought about all the people down below, affected by the noise of our plane. Maybe some wouldn’t notice. Maybe some would be annoyed: “I have to stop talking because I can't be heard over the noise of that plane.” Little kids might look up and think, “Crash, crash.” or folks like me might pray for our safe landing. Thus I felt a connection with all these people I'd never know and who'd never know me.

Oct 8
At the Lansing Days Inn the elevator had a handmade sign posted inside: “If the door doesn’t open, push Door Open (Bottom Button).”

Oct 9
At Village Market, they put our groceries in an orange plastic bag decorated with pumpkins and bats and this message: “Use this Bag for your Halloween Treats”
On the other side of the bag, sideways, in the tiniest of print: “To avoid danger of suffocation, keep this plastic bag away from children.”

Oct 12
Driving with my sister-in-law, we passed a cemetery. Robin said, “The people who live around here can’t be buried in this cemetery and do you know why?”
“No, why?”
“Because they’re not dead.”

Oct 13
Sign outside a store--TAKE OUT CHICKEN ICE CREAM CONES.

Oct 14
Back at the Lansing Day’s Inn, they offered a free breakfast. JR went down to get some, but came back disgusted.
JR: The coffee sucked and when I tried to get juice, only water came out. They had plenty of cereal, though, provided you like Raisin Bran.

Later I went to check out, and the lobby was empty except for a woman wearing plastic gloves and a man in a suit (the manager?) I heard him complaining to her that the juice dispenser didn’t work.
She got all mad: “Well I put juice in there! This is what happens when Irene doesn’t show up.”
(She saw me and asked what I wanted.)
Me: I’m ready to check out.
Lady:(pleasantly) Oh I can do that for you. (As she processes the papers) How was your stay?
Me: Fine, except my husband tried to get juice out of the dispenser this morning and he only got water.
Lady: (mad all over again) “Well, I put plenty of juice in there!”

Adventures, Travelling with My Mom.

FYI: When you agree to catch a 5 AM flight, it means your mother calls to wake you at 2:30 AM.

We rushed like crazy to get to the airport by 3:45 and found...the check-in clerks hadn’t come to work yet. A very long line of tired-looked passengers stood in the dim light. Nothing was open, not an employee in sight. I worried. Would the airline clerks ever show up? Had anyone notified Someone In Charge that all us customers were waiting to check in for our flights? But I did nothing, just stood waiting stupidly like all the other Zombies.

My only comfort was watching a longer line of people forming behind us.These were the folks who slept in till 3 or 3:30: A red-headed couple shivering in Hawaiian shirts. A huge Cambodian family. A plump young woman applying mascara.

Just before 4, a harried-looking man rushed in and set up the system. (I imagined him getting up at 2:30 every morning of his life, rushing down in the dark to deal with several hundred people who hadn’t had their morning coffee.)

The long line inched forward. When we were about ten people away from check-in, Mom asked me to help her get her driver’s license out of her wallet. I said, “You don’t need it yet.”
She kept fumbling with her wallet. “They’ll want us to take these out.”
Finally I said, “Here give it to me; my fingers are younger than yours.”

At that point a clerk said something. I couldn’t take the license out and listen at the same time.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Everyone who didn’t check in online needs to move to this other line.”

Before I could budge, everybody—shivering Hawaiian shirts, Cambodian family, Mascara Girl-- rushed into the other line. We, who’d almost been at the front, were now at the back of the line!

I wanted to scream at Mom,” If you hadn’t been so stubborn about getting your stupid license out, I would have heard the clerk and we wouldn’t have lost our place.” She stood clutching her license like it was a life jacket.

Mascara Girl was now right in front of us, chatting with her girlfriend, obviously glad they were ahead of us losers. I thought, a decent person would notice me and say, “Oh you were in front of us, why don’t you go ahead?” But she didn’t, which made me want to yell at Mom all the more.

At some point I realized the real problem: every time I go on vacation, I get scared because I'm leaving my safe home and going off into the unknown. (Mustn’t make a mistake or we are doomed.) When Mom gets anxious it reminds me of my own anxiety. Damn.
(As always, once I connected with my stupidity, I felt a peace and calm undreamed of in normal life.)

Well, the good news is we finally got to check in, we made it onboard on time. Now I sit peacefully in our quiet little cabin in the Michigan woods. Life, Life, you silly old thing.

Poe Gets Inspired and How

When I become Queen of the World, the Ken Burns National Parks series will be required viewing for everyone. And not just because I’m a smug, controlling busybody. Because…

My first visit to the Tetons.
The summer I was fifteen, my mom and her sister decided we’d all meet in Grand Teton National Park .

So we four cousins, aged 15-20 got hauled to this place where there was nothing to do. The grownups spent the week exclaiming over the scenery. Bo-ring. Where were the movies? The hip nightclubs? The amusment arcades?*


In short, where were places to meet boys?**

We kids lounged around in supreme restlessness. It was too cold for swimming. The nearest stores were an hour’s drive away. We were the only young people there.


Of course, it wasn’t all bad. We went horseback riding every day. At night Mom and Aunt Bernadine played accordion and guitar and we sang folk songs.
But beyond that I felt it was a week that could have been better spent.

Now, as a famous radio announcer used to say, “Here’s the rest of the story:”

Years later my husband suggested we vacation in the Tetons and I jumped at the chance. You see, somehow amidst that teen boredom a connection had been made; I felt like the Tetons were MINE.
Upon arrival, I noticed the park had changed. Hmmm. How to describe it? “Majestic?” (Nah, too tame a word.) “Magical?” (Not right either.) Ah, I've got it:

I looked around this immense valley where the mountains touch the meadows and realized I was looking at the face of God.

The moral: Do not be afraid of boring folks by exposing them to holy things. In ten years they’ll have bragging rights.






















*Nowadays this is not a problem.

**Or girls as the case may be.

On the Road Again.

Off to the coast where JR will participate in a century bike tour.

While riding in the car, I read about developing a sense of awe in life, to see heaven in a wild flower and infinity in an hour.* I decided to look for the Divine in everything.

About that time we got in a traffic jam. You know how normally cars just rush by impersonally. Now I took the opportunity to look inside our fellow “stuck” cars. I noticed almost everyone had something hanging from their rear view mirror: A graduation tassel, a Mickey Mouse doll, rosary beads, a Jesus fish, a brightly colored card.

My Mistake.
I mentioned my observation to JR.
He came right back with, “I had something hanging from my rear view mirror yesterday.”
We’re not hang-stuff-from-our-mirrors types so I said, “Oh yeah, what?”
“A used condom.”

(His idea of a joke.) Now normally I would have been hurt and quickly fallen into shame: Oh I am unworthy, the Superior Male knows my topic of conversation was without value, I shouldn't have opened my piddly soul to him.
But this time I thought, “How insecure and anxious he must be. ” I reached out and lovingly rubbed his back a while. He looked most surprised. But I could feel him soften.

The end result, he felt better and I felt lots better, the direct result of following my...
...I was going to say “Spiritual Path,” but it’s more like a Spiritual Maze-Discontinuous Pavement- Under Construction-With Lots of Traffic Jams. And with lots of interesting cars to look inside.

“Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”
I too many and many a time crossed the river, the sun half an hour high;
I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls—I saw them high in the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow,
I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging towards the south.

Walt Whitman


*Everyday Holiness by Alan Morinis

A Fool of Myself

Terrible time this week. Took me two days to draw a stupid door; just couldn’t get it right.


Then I looked at the cover of the SCBWI* magazine and thought, “A real artist would do something like this, what’s wrong with me?”











Every time I open that magazine I feel like I’m back at Interlochen Arts Academy where everyone could write and illustrate circles around me.


I tell my friend Nance this.
Nance:If you didn’t routinely give yourself these negative messages, what would happen?”
Me: (Pause.) Good question. Oh! I know! I might go out and make a fool of myself.

You see, in my family you could murder a dozen people, blow up the Sherman Minton Bridge, cheat elderly widows, and it still would not compare with someone thinking you’re a fool.

My dad also had this notion that we kids were artistic geniuses, so he sent me and brother Steve to The Interlochen Arts Academy high school. Now Steve was a musical prodigy and did well there. Within two seconds of my arriving I could see my piddly cartoons that delighted folks at home were trash can fodder here. It was like trying to swim the English Channel, surrounded by four hundred kids in motor boats laughing all the way to Calais.

After that, I learned to hide my light under a great big fat bushel.

Then one day I said, “You know, Poe, you’ve always had a dream of writing a comic book. If you don’t do it now, you probably never will.”

Do you see the danger? I can feel Incompetent Fool forming already.

But even as I write that, I remember an incident from when I was seventeen, acting in my first play:

An older actor (Age 19; I thought he knew everything) told me, “If you’re going to act, you’ve got to be willing to make a fool of yourself.” (You can imagine my horror.)
But over time I learned that is the trick—If you’re gonna make a fool of yourself anyway, better do it on purpose.

(I wrote this on Friday; after which I had the following dream:)
I’m reading a comic book in which I’m once again attending Interlochen Arts Academy. But this time I’m older. I make friends effortlessly, even among the very kids who formerly wouldn’t give me the time of day. Reading the comic, I accidentally skip ahead and find that terrorists will show up in a few pages. But I quickly turn back to where I’m having a great time riding a double decker bus and roasting hot dogs over a campfire with all my creative genius friends.

*Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators

Triumph! Triumph! Read All About It!

Last Monday:
My husband JR and I are driving home from a party. He’s had too much to drink and it seems to trigger his internal critic. (In fact, you’d think I’d said, “Honey, over the next 45 minutes see how many faults you can find in me.”) He doesn’t approve of the food I brought to the potluck or my plans for tomorrow. I’m driving too fast, I’m driving too slow, I should pass this car, I shouldn’t pass.

Our whole married life he’s been like this and I've always absorbed his every word, thinking, “I can't do anything right.”

But something is different this time. You see, I’ve been doing the "Good Enough" exercise I described in my previous entry.

I drive along, watching JR with calm detachment as if he’s portraying a mean teacher in a play. Nothing he says even touches my self-esteem because I know I'm a good, competent, industrious, careful, beautiful human being.

He continues to harangue me. I think, “This has absolutely nothing to do with me. And he really should get offstage."

Good Enough

My friend Nance is the Queen of Wisdom. This week we were talking about why people never think they’re good enough.

The Cause:
Innocent and vulnerable children get picked on by insecure big people.

In my case, I thought my folks really knew the score when they told me I was:

1. Stupid
2. Bad
3. Crazy
4. Lazy
5. Ugly
6. Immature
7. Careless
8. Boring

Even today I still believe these things. No wonder I'm whacked.

The solution, Nance suggested, is to examine each one logically and ask, Is this really true?

My Findings:
1. Stupid? I graduated from college. Stupid people can’t do that.

2. Bad? My hobby is doing random acts of kindness.

3. Crazy? I freely admit I am nutty. Truly crazy people don’t do that.

4. Lazy? When I’m not paralyzed by fear of failure, I am very industrious.

5. Ugly? What does an ugly person look like? I have no idea. (Anyway I think I’m kinda cute.)

6. Immature? "You're grown up when you can have a good laugh at yourself." I do that all the time. Every day, in fact.

7. Careless? When not distracted by fear of not being good enough, I am very careful.

8. Boring? “A bore is someone who talks on and on about their surgery when you want to talk about your surgery.” Not me.

The Plan:
Every time I feel worthless I will go over the list. By doing so my self-image will hopefully change.

Someday I may even become like Nance:

She was having trouble with her computer. Instead of calling herself stupid, etc. she said,
1.“I know I am a smart person."
2. "I’m not getting this."
3. "Therefore I need to get someone to help me.”

Missed Opportunity

I’ve always sensed my sister-in-law doesn’t like me. She never wants to chat. She never invites me to do things. When I drop something off at her house, she usually doesn’t even open her door all the way.

This morning she called to say she was coming by to pick up something. I went out and started sweeping my yard. I found myself hoping she’d arrive in time to see me. Maybe she’d think, “Why, look--I’ve misjudged Poe; she's industrious. I want to make her my best friend and queen of the world.” (I'm telling the truth--this is the way my mind works.)

By the time sister-in-law rang the doorbell, I had long finished sweeping. Opening the front door, I realized I'd never cleaned the doorstep, which was absolutely filthy with leaves and debris.

Big sigh.

Oh well...

“These Seats Are Saved," Part Two

November 1997: One of my favorite Al-Anon speakers, Father Tom W, is doing a Twelve-Step workshop in San Jose, a town I’ve never visited. Eager to hear him again, I do a most brave thing—drive up there by myself. I follow the map, everything goes fine.

Until I enter the church where the workshop is. I find myself in a huge room filled with dozens of large round tables. Several hundred strangers are taking their seats. I stare around the room. Panic. Junior High. How will I find a seat when I don’t know a soul?

But I have been in Program for seven years. So I pray, “God, show me where to sit.” Immediately I feel a Powerful Nudge toward one table. Only two people are sitting there, lots of empty seats. I go up and say, “Okay if I sit here?”

They respond, “NO! WE’RE SAVING THESE SEATS.” (In every organization there are always a few people who don’t “get it.”)

But I feel like I’d been slapped. I respond with a cheery “Oh, okay!” like getting shut out at an Al-Anon event is everybody’s favorite experience. I stumble to an empty table and drop into a chair, shaking with shame and humiliation. But mostly with anger. (“Hey, God, I thought you were my friend. Did I not ask you for a safe place to sit? Why did you direct me to that snake pit?)

People come up to my table. Of course I let anyone sit there who wants to. The whole time I am still thinking,: “Why Why Why? Does this just confirm what I’ve always known-- nobody likes me? Born human by mistake?”

Then I notice a late-comer, a young woman with a very familiar deer-in-the-headlights expression. She obviously doesn’t know a soul either. But by now all the tables are filled.

I call out, “Would you like to sit at our table? We’ll make room for you.” Relief lights up her face. We find an extra chair, everyone scoots over, and waitstaff brings another place setting. Suddenly I am not in a room full of strangers; the young woman and I become instant friends. (Now THAT’S the Al-Anon way)

Clever Reader, do you get my meaning: God is in how I respond—Will I succumb to shame and resentment or will I let Badness motivate me to do the opposite?

“If in the course of a day you run into somebody who doesn't like you, that happens sometimes. If in the course of the day you run into three or more people who don't like you, you’re the one who doesn't like you.”
Father Tom W, paraphrased

Shyness and Bathrooms

Most folks have no idea how shy I am. Last Saturday, someone said I “light up a room.” She’d never guess at that moment I was fighting the urge to run and hide in the bathroom.

A Recent Event:
In the grocery store parking lot, I spot a neighbor, a very nice woman-- friendly and pleasant; my daughter used to feed her cats when they went on vacation. But I am so afraid of engaging that woman in conversation, I turn so she can’t see me. Later I ask myself what I was so scared of. I have no idea; I guess I always expect that if people get to know me, they will reject me.

It all started in seventh grade. For the whole year, I was persona non grata. Nobody wanted to be my friend. Imagine the pain of going every day to the lunchroom, knowing you’d have to sit all alone. Sometimes I couldn’t even do that: “You can’t sit here; All these seats are saved.”

Finally I just stopped going to lunch, and spent the whole lunch hour hiding out in the restroom. What did I do all that time? I’d walk around and around and around. Scrape paint off the radiator. Look in the mirror and comb my wretched curly hair. Worry that someone would come in and find me. Of course I got terribly hungry. Sometimes I sneaked out into the hall and bought a pecan pie from the vending machine.

By eighth grade I’d found a couple of other losers to eat lunch with. Then in high school I became a hippie. That way I could pretend it was me rejecting them, not the other way around. I found a whole crowd of like-minded kids to hang with.

But in college, the fears started all over again. I spent most of my time reading in my room, too scared to go out and risk rejection. It was terribly lonely. I’d discovered this new magazine, Ms, and ached for someone to discuss it with.

One day I saw a poster advertising a feminist retreat and signed up. I drove there on a Friday night, checked in, and took my suitcase to my room. Then I panicked. I couldn’t go out and face all those strangers; I just couldn’t. I would spend the weekend in the room. I saw no other option.

Then a funny thing happened. I thought, “That is just too stupid, even for me. I paid money to come to this retreat. Am I gonna let it go to waste?”

I felt like I was walking into the valley of death, but I went out into the dining room, sat at a table and forced myself to talk to people. Today I consider it one of the bravest and best moments of my life.

But I still have a long way to go.

News Bulletin 8-16-09

Ms. Poe is giving her favorite New York cousins a tour of Yosemite. Amazingly enough, her decisions have not caused grief; in fact, even Poe's husband seems to be having a good time.

(Tune in tomorrow for the usual tale of neurosis and trauma and drama.)

In Case No One Can Tell, I Am Neurotic. The Only Cure is For Me to Tell You About It.

Next week my cousin and her daughters are visiting from NY. They’ve never been to California before, so a trip to Yosemite is in order. I also thought about taking them for a steam train ride outside the park.

But then my husband hates the idea of the train ride. He’s not even keen to go to Yosemite. He insists we take them hiking in the High Sierras instead.

I panic.

In alcoholic homes we learn to discount our perceptions and tolerate abuse. All my life I’ve been told that I have no common sense, that I do everything wrong. It doesn’t help that I married the kind of guy tells me I put dishes away in the wrong order.

Despite my feminism, I still carry within me the resounding attitude of “Men Always Get It Right.” This was Accepted Truth for my first twenty years. Beliefs like that just don’t go away when society changes--they stick in you, crowding in at inopportune moments. Like when planning this trip. How do I tell who is right here--me or JR?

I ask the advice of two friends who tell me, “Do it your way.” Still I can’t move. What if I’m wrong and everybody has a bad time? What if JR gets mad?

Meanwhile I need to make arrangements quick because time is running out.

“You see?” says my brain, “You are a loser because you’re not taking care of this.” (This is the way folks talked to me as a kid. It never fixed anything, but I still carry on the tradition.)

I think, “This is JR's fault for always being so critical of me. Tomorrow I’m splitting with my half of Community Property.”

But first I need to decide about the cousins.

The Amazing Solution
Finally I sit down at kitchen table and imagine I am my own loving mother, the kind I needed as a kid. I tell myself, “Look at wonderful you, sitting at the kitchen table. I approve of you, I bless you. You don’t have to do it perfect."

Immediately I know just what to do: Take the train ride, see Yosemite, skip the High Sierras. I call, make reservations (scared to death it’ll be too late and the person on the phone will sneer at Stupid Me. But there's plenty of room.)

I call JR and say, “I know you wanted to do it your way, but I need to develop the confidence that comes from doing what I think is right.”

Bless him, he says the magic words: “If it makes you happy, I’ll be happy.”

Total Triumph!


Virgin mother bless me, so vagrantly insecure.
I need your assurance
No one is mad at me.
I can breathe.
Just guide and accompany me
My faery Queen, my loving support,
Mother Over All
Guide me, nourish me, bless me.

Three-Minute Memoir

The first time Dad came home from rehab, he was crazy—just mad, mad, mad all the time. He even laughed angry: “HA! HA! HA!” with eyebrows down. He blamed all his mistakes on the rest of us: “You made me take the wrong turn. You made me lose my temper. You made me break the TV.”
In those day, the man of the house was God. You did not question him. I knew I must be a very bad girl indeed.

Fast forward thirty years. It’s the morning of my daughter’s 5th birthday party. We’ve gone out to buy party favors. But when we leave the store, our car won’t start. Rats. The party’s three hours away.

Fortunately my parents live just a few miles away. Mom says she’ll send dad right over, so my daughter and I sit down on the curb and wait. And wait. And wait.

Nervously I remember all the years when he’d get drunk and forget to pick me up at school or the park and I had to walk home. But he’s been sober eighteen months now. What could have happened? An accident?

Forty-five minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot. Sheepishly he says, “Sorry. I got lost.”

Instantly I go into a blind rage. As my daughter and I get in, it’s all I can do to keep from screaming at him, hitting him.

Meanwhile dad is chauffeuring us all over town so we can get everything else we need for the party.

I know I'm nuts, but I can’t stop.

I try self-analysis: Am I feeling angry because even in recovery he’s still not the father I always wanted? Is anger bubbling up from years I was the weak, powerless child, terrorized by an all-powerful, violent Dad?

If anything, my rage increases.

I tell myself, Dad is sober now. He made his amends to you months ago.(Actually he felt so bad he made them twice.)
This has no effect.

Finally, at wit's end, I try praying, “God,I turn my life and my will over to you. Show me how you want me to be.”

Suddenly my hand reaches over and pats dad on the knee. I find myself saying, “You know, you’re the best dad in the whole world.” I’m not putting on, it’s exactly how I feel. With no effort or thought on my part, all my rage has simply evaporated.

Dad looks surprised. He says, “Well, thank you. I think you’re the best daughter.” With this, he pulls into our driveway in plenty of time for what turns out to be the best party ever.

A Little "Acts of Kindness" in the Night

I'm feeling a little low today, so I will list ten good things I did this week.

1. I got exercise three times.

2. I had a disagreement with a friend, but listened to her side first, then repeated back what she’d said before giving my side. (I had never done this before and I highly recommend it.)

3. When dining away from home, I use my own bamboo silverware instead of plastic. (Available at REI.com under the name To-Go Ware)

4. I scraped somebody’s car in the parking lot, but I left a note with an apology and my phone number.

5. I worked really hard to not beat myself up for the above, mostly by telling myself that these things happen to everybody.

6. I finished the rough draft of my Easy Reader.

7. When I went grocery shopping, I bought an extra can of food to donate to the food bank.

8. I wanted to overeat but called my friend Nance instead.

9. I was subbing for my meeting’s secretary and remembered to get there on time.

10. I bought books from a small local bookstore instead of a chain.

You know, it's funny how hard it is to list positive things like that, but they always lift my mood.

Maybe some of my readers could send me a list of good things about themselves, either here or in an e-mail. How about it?

A Writer’s Day: Saturday, 7-11-09

Woke--Meditated, prayed, affirmed

Met a friend in order to give her confidence for a presentation she's doing next week.

Went to Al-Anon. Told how I hired someone to motivate me to write, then rebel against her, thinking, “She can’t tell me what to do.” Everyone laughed.

Took call from a friend who's feeling ashamed for going off her diet. Calmed and encouraged her.

Fed cats.

Lunch.

Stepped in cat barf.
Cleaned up cat barf.

Started writng an Easy Reader.

Felt anxious so made some 5-minute ice cream
(see Posting 3-9-09)

Did another chapter of Easy Reader

Felt anxious so went ouside and pulled weeds. Thought how Shakespeare's lines "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his lone hour on stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" match my life exactly.

Felt anxious re wasting time. Ate rice cakes

Turned on computer so I could write my blog. Instead looked at photos of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Karl Malden

Thought I heard kids vandalizing the school behind our house. Got a ladder to spy on them, but couldn’t see past the trees lining our fence so pulled more weeds.

Came inside and tried to think of something to blog about. Turned off computer.

Went outside and pulled weeds. Thought how I should be writing.

Called husband to see what time he’d be home.

Pulled weeds and thought, “If I was a successful writer, what would that look like?”

Fed cats. Put cat outside so she can step in her own barf.

Journalled, mostly about how I can’t take it any more.

Wrote blog.

Husband came home.

Posted blog.

Dinner.

Wondered if anyone will read blog and whether they will find it interesting or boring.

Bed. Prayed, affirmed. Obsessed over not returning a call from someone I sponsor. Finally dropped off to sleep.

More on Popeye

I got so homesick in college,I spent most of my first year hiding out in the library basement, eating bread, honey, and candy bars. By the end of Sophomore Year, I’d gained twenty pounds.

Thus I made the biggest mistake of my life—dieting. It made me utterly nuts. Every day I walked down the supermarket aisles, thinking, “When this diet is over I’m eating Duncan Hines and Sara Lee and Little Debbie and...” Sure enough, once I got down to my goal weight, I ate everything in sight, including foods I’d never even liked before.

Through long, miserable years I’ve learned that going on diets is like going to war—each one only brings about the next.

Here is Poe’s Famous Non-Diet
I have to treat food like it’s something holy. Sitting down in front of the TV and scarfing down a gallon of ice cream only prostitutes that which is meant to nourish.

So

Before eating, I clear the table--off comes the mail, the half-finished art projects, dirty dishes, crumbs. No more standing up, eating out of the pot I cooked the food in. I only eat sitting down and make heavy use of pretty centerpieces and candles. Placemats are a necessity, as well as napkins and good china--even for a snack.

I imagine the food is communion, the Catholic kind where every bite is literally the body of the Christ. Chewing slowly, I imagine love radiating into me. I focus on the tastes and textures. No books, no newspaper, TV is off, the radio is off, computer is off.

Doing this, I’ve lost 11 pounds in as many weeks.*

But do you realize what a royal pain this is? I’ve spent my life opening the frig and gobbling whatever I see. Munching on dinner while I fix dinner. Leaving the table while still chewing the last mouthful. Eating before work, to calm me down (also during work and after, ditto.)

Chew slowly? Sit down at a pretty table? Good God! I want food to be fun. I want my freedom! Forget all this spiritual garbage.

Only Popeye saves me from myself.

Consider: How do you think he feels about carrying that damned spinach around all day? Try it some time. A can of spinach bangs into your chest, falls out at inappropriate times. Not to mention looking really silly.

But you don’t see Popeye dissolving into self-pity: “Why me? Normal people don’t have to keep a can of spinach in their shirt all the time.” **

Just like my hero, I must do my duty, because without it I am at the mercy of every bully I meet.
But with it, I too am strong to the finich.

* P.S. I also do the Weight Watchers thing and have three "body buddies" I report to every day via email.

**Equal time—My daughter reminds us all, “Cartoons are not real.”

A Bit of Art by Poe

As promised, our contest winner on his all-expense-paid vacation. (Confused? See previous blog entries "We've Got a Winner" and "Something For My Literary Friends.")

Is Poe Good or Just Obsessive-Compulsive? You Decide.

People who walk head-down tend to have depressive personalities.

But we also find things. As a kid I profited while walking home from school by picking up treasures: small rocks, bottle caps, a bit of broken mirror, the metal letter O that had fallen off a Ford , a rusty spring, half a comb. Once I found a $10 bill and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.

Since my hands could only carry so much, I stuck everything in my knee socks. Mom still laughs, saying I came home every day looking like I had big tumors on my legs.

Those who know me well are aware that I have never really grown up. In short, I am drawn to junk like a alcoholic is drawn to scotch.

An observation: When normal people go to the beach they pick up shells. I pick up trash.

Have you read about the mass of plastic (some say it's the size of the United States) floating in the Pacific Ocean? The plastic reacts to sunlight and salt water by leaching BPA into the ocean, poisoning the fish. Marine animals eat it and it clogs their guts and kills them

In keeping with Equal Time Laws: my daughter tells me, “There are only so many things you can freak out about in this world;” my brother Aurelius says environmentalists "just want [him] to put on a hair shirt."

When I walk on the beach, I take a bag and pick up trash, especially the plastic variety. It is way more fun than collecting shells, which always end up stuck in a drawer someplace; I don’t even remember where they came from.

That ocean pile may be the size of the U.S, but its growth has just been slowed a square inch.

But it’s not all sacrifice, folks. Yesterday I also found a golf ball and an unopened can of Dos Equis Beer.

In the olden days, when I took my godchildren camping, we’d see how much trash we could pick up. I’d tell them, “See? This is why Good is more powerful than Evil—one person with a plastic bag can undo the evil of hundreds of people.” And yes, some people would say, “And one person with a bag of trash can undo the good of hundreds of people.” To which I say, then more good people need to discover the joy of picking up trash. Join me, minions! Join me!

When I become Queen of the World, the aristocracy will be those who pick up trash. There will be no unemployment or bored teenagers--they'll all be cleaning up the beaches and parks. Best of all, you'll see beautiful billboards everywhere showing Queen Me saying, Liberty, Equality, Dos Equis.

"Make a Mental Picture"

Shortly after my grandpa turned seventeen, he got mad, socked his teacher, and took off out of town. For the next twenty years he lived the life of a hobo, riding the rods, taking odd jobs here and there, never staying in one place long. In 1918 he’d found good work as a machine operator for Standard Oil in California, but that had gotten dull. He and a friend decided to go to Alaska and pan for gold.

But in one of those bizarre quirks of fate, on his last workday a piece of heavy machinery fell on him. Severely injured, he had the misfortune to be born before Disability Payments or Worker’s Comp. The only solution was to send him back to Pennsylvania, to the family he hadn’t contacted for 18 years.

A tragedy, for sure. A man in the prime of his life, forced to return to the family he’d never gotten along with, reduced to their charity and care.

Over his year-long recovery, he took a closer look at a former school mate. Like him she was 35 and unmarried, though she had led the quietest of lives, going to church and caring for her elderly parents. When Grandpa had recovered, he asked her if she’d leave her comfortable world for marriage and a hard-scrabble life in California. She didn’t even think twice. Five years later my mother was born.


I remember Grandpa as a man who wore high-top shoes and long underwear year round. (He said it kept the cold out in winter and the heat out in summer.) He was given to strange pronouncement such as “Every tub has to stand on its own bottom” and “The masses will crucify you every time.” When he visited the redwoods he’d pat the trees and talk to them: “Hello, you magnificent old giant.” (Most embarassing to my mom as a kid. Now she does the same thing. So do I.)

He’d worked for Standard Oil for thirty years and retired with a tidy sum of money. But he was a notorious tightwad. He quit cigarettes (after his doctor told him he’d be dead in six months if he didn’t.) But first Grandpa finished the pack he’d already bought. He didn’t want to waste his money.

I was a little afraid of his eccentric ways. But I loved that he thought me the most beautiful of girls. I never got tired of hearing him exclaim over my olive skin and curly hair at a time when popular girls had straight hair and rosy complexions.


At the end of my thirteenth summer, he and I stood Santa Fe depot as we waited for the train that would take me back to Kentucky. He faced me under one of the mission-style arches and said, “Now Pody, you never know; you might never see me again, so I want you to make a mental picture.”

I sighed. Another strange pronouncement. What did it mean?

Gently he said, “Look at me.”

I studied his whiskery old face, his suspenders, his long underwear shirt.

“Now close your eyes,” he said. “Can you see me in your mind?”

I nodded patiently.

“That’s good,” was all he said.

I still didn’t get it. But my train came and I hopped on. I never saw him again.

Forty years later, I live in the town where my grandpa lived and I travel from that same train station (now Amtrak) .Today, as always, I stopped a moment under the arches in his memory. Suddenly I was twelve years old, getting ready to go on an exciting train ride, saying good-bye to my strange but sweet grandpa who thought I was the most beautiful of girls.

All at once I got what he’d been talking about. My eyes filled with tears as I said, ”Grandpa, I made a mental picture.”

We've Got a Winner!

Congratulations, Steb I. of Egosuperego, ID for your winning entry in last week's "Name Those Books Contest."

Steb I, you win a free portrait of yourself, in beautiful contruction paper and Scotch tape,mailed to your home address and displayed on the Internet(Please allow 7-10 working days for delivery)

Again, congratulations, Steb I, on your superior knowledge of books and googling!

Here are the winning answers!

1. The Secret Garden
2. Wind in the Willows
3. The Grapes of Wrath
4. Alice in Wonderland
5. Watership Down
6. Little House in the Big Woods
7. The Great Gatsby
8. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
9. Great Expectations
10. Jane Eyre

Something for My Literary Friends

My daughter, an aspiring writer, and I were discussing what makes a good opening line for a novel. LPR says, “You’ve got to hook ‘em and make them want to read the next sentence.” I say it’s like the Supreme Court’s definition of pornography: "I know it when I see it.”

So, instead of writing something intelligent this week, I will list the opening lines to ten of my favorite books, all of them classics. You might want to see how many you know.(I'll post the answers next week)

But, more important, Do any of them make you want to read the next sentence? Also, which ones can you identify? All the people who respond will win a very special prize selected especially for them.

THE LINES:

1. “When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable–looking child ever seen.”

2. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.”

3. “To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.”

4. “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do; once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures of conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice ‘without pictures of conversations?’ “

5. “The primroses were over.”

6. “Once upon a time, many years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.”

7. “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”

8. “These two very old people are the father and mother of Mr. Bucket.”

9. ”My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip.”

10. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”

The Many Loves of Lyttie Poe, Episode Two

I was raised atheist; in fact we were fundamentalist atheists. (Our bumper sticker would have read: “There Is No God, Only Ignorant, Superstitious People Believe In Him, And That Settles It.”)

If I had any notion of a Higher Power, it was picked up from neighborhood kids who were always saying, “God’ll get you for that.”

I pictured God, if he existed, as a mean old man up in the sky watching me all the time with a very angry expression on his face: “Hmmm she lied to her mother.” “Hmm she didn’t brush her teeth.” If knew when I committed enough “sins”--Pow! Right straight to hell. Scared me to death. Who’d want to believe in something like that?

Years later when I got into Al-Anon, I could see that the people who were making positive changes believed in some kind of god, even if it was only the power of the group.

They said I could come up with any higher power I liked. So I started experimenting. The problem was I really had no concept beyond that SOB in the sky. Who was my higher power anyway?

Then I read about a lady whose higher power, a kindly old grandmother, came to her in a dream. I started telling myself, “Tonight I dream about my H.P.” over and over just before falling asleep. After three days, I was rewarded:

I dreamed I was walking through a vacant house. Suddenly I knew that my Higher Power was about to pass outside the window. Oh boy! I ran to look and who should pass by but….

Popeye the Sailor?!

Oh for heaven sakes! What kind of higher power is that?

But some days later I realized, Wait a minute. What does Popeye say?

“I yam what I yam.”

The more I considered it, the more I realized the profundity of it all.

At age five, I was in love with Popeye and wanted to marry him. Although terrible jealous of Olive Oyl, I was a lot like her--gawky and skinny and kinda dumb, always getting in some kind of trouble. I’d love to have been able to yell, “Help, Popeye, heeelp!” and have him eat his spinach, his muscles get huge like pyramids, and then POW! he socks the bad guy all around the earth and into a pig pen. I throw my arms around My Hero as he sings and goes poop poop on his pipe.

Now I won’t tell you I belong to some kind of Popeye-worshipping cult (though I do love spinach). That dream helped me develop a Higher Power who is, like Popeye, strong to the finich, ready to come to my rescue, and, if he is watching me, it’s only because he thinks gawky, stupid me is the most beautiful thing in the world.

From "The Many Loves of Lyttle Poe"

The story you are about to read is guaranteed 100% true. Only the names have been changed...

I thought turning sixteen meant I’d be like the teens on TV: happy, popular, riding around in cars with boys, having the time of my life. Instead, sixteen wasn’t much different from fifteen, or twelve for that matter. I desperately wanted a boyfriend, but nobody was remotely interested in me. The reason seemed clear: popular girls had straight hair, tiny noses, and soft southern drawls. I, on the other hand, was stuck with curly hair, a fat nose, and an obnoxious Yankee accent

I would gladly have dated any boy in town, but I especially dreamed about a boy named Malcolm. All us hippie wannabees loved him. His main qualifications were that he had long hair and had once been hospitalized for an overdose. I thought if I impressed him with my cleverness and wit, he’d ask me out. But like everyone else, he studiously avoided me.

Finally I decided to find my own boyfriend--someone so desperate he’d never reject me. I noticed one boy who always hung out on the school steps with about three other guys, hands in pockets. A quick check of the yearbook told me his name: Chris Rigsby.

Here were his excellent qualifications:
1) I never saw him with a girl, so that meant he didn’t already have a girlfriend. 2) He was a sophomore, a year younger than me, which gave me some power over him.
3) He was homely, with a huge overbite, so he probably wouldn’t be too choosey.
4) He had long hair. (After all, I did have some principles!)

Thus I set out on a campaign to win him.

The problem was, how did you become girlfriends with someone? I had no opportunities to talk to him, and what would I say anyway? Newsweek magazine was reporting on something called Women’s Liberation, but every teen magazine warned over and over about the dangers of girls “chasing” boys. You were supposed to wait for him to notice you.

So my campaign consisted of me watching his every move. Conveniently my best friend set her sights on Chris’s best friend. She and I spent every available moment sighing over our “loves,” or sitting in her bedroom, singing songs like ”I’ll Get You in the End” and willing it with all our hearts.

Every day I wrote entries in my diary like:
“Saw my sweetie CR coming out of the auditorium. He had on bellbottoms. He is adorable!”
or
“Today I passed CR in the hall and broke into a grin which I couldn’t stop. I have a feeling he saw me.”

But I still hadn’t actually met him. I thought I had it made when a friend told me she was acquainted with Chris. (She incidentally had also slept with Malcolm, an act she described as “awful.”) I was awed by her sophistication and I begged her to introduce Chris and me.

So the next morning, she and I wandered over to his crowd on the school steps. But here’s all she said to him: “Oh Chris, was that your sports car I saw you getting out of? No? Well, I guess it must be your mother’s then.” I was furious with her when the bell rang and we had to go to class. “Well then, let’s go back this afternoon,” she said. But I told her no, it’d be too embarrassing.

Anyway it didn’t matter. By this time, my infatuation had grown to such astronomical proportions, I’d felt like I was standing next to one of the Beatles. My heart had pounded. I thought I’d faint. What if I made a fool of myself? Under the circumstances my only sensible option was to go back watching him from afar.

A few weeks later, one of the most popular boys in school overheard me telling jokes in the hall and laughed so hard he fell on the floor. Later he kissed my hand (twice!) and told me I looked like Barbra Streisand. After that I lost all interest in Chris--or Malcolm.

...And Starring Poe as "Herself"

My friend Susan W. and I call each other “Identical Cousins” after the long-ago Patty Duke Show. Even though Susan and I are no relation, we truly do “look alike, walk alike and even talk alike.”

We are also great philosophers. You’ve heard “If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it make a sound?” Susan and I came up with a much better question, listed here in two parts:

1)What if your life is actually a situation comedy and an audience you can’t see or hear is laughing at all the things you take so seriously?

Consider: Perhaps your audience is talking right now—“Did you see the (Your Name) Show this week? Wasn’t that hilarious when the car wouldn’t start?” “And what about that big fight with the next-door neighbor? ha ha ha!”

I’m serious. I really think that happens. Or if not, it should.

A typical episode for me (from 1997):

I was on jury duty and the day’s proceedings had run late. By the time they dismissed us, the courthouse was closing up. I decided to stop off first and use the jury room bathroom. I heard someone walking around outside, but I didn’t pay much attention. A few minutes later, when I tried to leave the bathroom, the door wouldn't open.

“Oh no!” I thought, “The janitor locked me in. I’ll be trapped all night!” I started screaming, “Help!” pounding on the door, shaking the knob and… the door opened on its own. I’d been pushing it the wrong way.

As I walked out, cops and bailiffs came running, guns drawn, down the hall towards the jury room. I had to tell them, “Heh heh. Thought I was locked in the bathroom. Never mind.”

Talk about humiliating. All night I berated myself. How could I have been so stupid?

But next morning I thought, “Who am I reminding myself of?” The answer--my Aunt Thelma. Stuff like my jury room incident is always happening to her. The problem is, my mother has never liked Aunt Thelma, and always holds Thelma up as the queen of losers.

Now I realized, “Wait a minute—I love Thelma. I don’t care if she’s goofy.” That’s when I vowed to be as loving and kind to myself as I am with my aunt. Life-changing experience. Closing Credits.


The second half of our philosphical question offers the only downside:
2) What happens to you when your show is cancelled?

I say keep your ratings up--have lots of awful, embarrassing moments.

Erasmo, Part 3

I’ve written before about Erasmo, the kid I tutor who hates reading, and who takes half an hour to sit down and focus on his work.

I prayed and prayed for a way to reach him. Now I’m happy to report tremendous success.

How did this happen?

I noticed from Day One (when he told me he had a pet dinosaur) that we’ve got a very creative kid here. So about six weeks ago I started bringing something for him to play with after he reads for thirty minutes.

One week I brought colored tissue paper and white glue, and we made collages. He loved it. When our time was up, I let him pick a dozen sheets of tissue paper to take home. You’d have thought I’d given him the keys to a Mercedes: “Really? Really? This is really mine to keep?”

Once I brought some of my daughter’s Legos, a toy he’d never played with. He went ape over them and begged me to let him take some home, which I couldn’t do since they were Laura’s. But I promised to bring them back another time and I did.

Since I instituted this new system, I’ve had absolutely no trouble; he comes in, grabs a book and goes right to work.

He only goofed off once. By the time he’d put in half an hour, I said I had to go home. (Actually I could have stayed overtime, but I spotted the teachable moment.) Since then, when he gets distracted, I’ll remind him he’s cutting into “play time,” and instantly he’s right on track.

That’s why it was such a joy recently when this boy who couldn't read, read three Easy Readers in half an hour. Every time he finished a page, he made the clenched-fist victory sign and shouted “Yes!”

In June the school hosts a party for us tutors, and we bring presents for our kids. This year I’ll give Erasmo three Easy Readers (He loves Clifford books) and…guess what I found on Ebay for $30…a box of 500 Legos!

Run for the Roses

The Kentucky Derby—is there any way to convey the excitement, the thrill it held over us kids? It was the town's obsession for a whole week, a long time when you’re eight or nine.

One highlight was the steamboat race between The Belle of Louisville and Indiana’s Delta Queen. Every year I hoped Louisville would win.

Every year the Delta Queen creamed us.

A Memory:

In 1962 my brother and I went to Camp Tall Trees. That year the camp acquired a new horse, and the head counselor announced a contest. We campers would submit names and the staff would pick the best one for the horse’s name. The prize: a candy bar.

For me, it was about much more than a candy bar. If I won, that horse would be mine , or at least always bear the name I chose. I submitted the most beautiful one I could think of: Brown Beauty.

Now I was a little disappointed, but mostly pleased, when my brother won. His entry—“Horace the Horse.”

Steve later told me that as soon as he’d thought of the name he knew he’d win. As for me, that was when I realized I was hopelessly out of his league. How could my “Brown Beauty” mind ever compete with his “Horace the Horse brilliance?”

So What’s My Point?

I loved this year’s Derby, when a puny fifty-to-one nobody (with a toothless rider!) came from last place to win by eight lengths.

I also loved it when fat, dumpy Susan Boyle mowed down the cool crowd on American Idol.

My hope--maybe this bad economy has produced some kind of universal psychic energy change.

Maybe this is our year, when we losers come into our own.

Let's hear it for Brown Beauty!

My Friends, I am Getting Better All the Time.

Every year in May, I do a walkathon for my favorite charity. As always, I hit up everybody I know, including, this year, an email sent to my oldest brother Arelius.

Within hours he replied with three emails, each containing a link to a blog that said my charity is evil.

This makes me nuts.

In my family of origin, all you had to do was get excited about something and everyone would rush to tell you all the reasons why it was a stupid idea, you’re doomed to fail, nobody likes you anyway.

I was just a little kid; I didn’t know my family was sick. Every time it happened, I felt ashamed to my core.

But now, April 23, 2009, I do know such behavior is just plain mean, and I was furious. Because I was so looking forward to this event, and once again somebody I trusted shamed me.

I opened up Reply and wrote Arelius:

“Thanks a lot. I’ll write the hundreds of people I solicited and tell them all never mind…”
But a little voice inside warned me, “Sarcasm comes from the root word meaning to tear flesh. Not a healthy response.” So I erased my letter.

And replaced it with:
“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?” Followed by a long explanation of why Arelius had harmed me.

I was about to send this, but I thought, “If I send it, I can’t take it back. Maybe I’d better wait till I’ve had a chance to calm down.” And I erased it.

But I was still seething.

It was time for my affirmations and I could not do them. If I ever needed proof, this told me that resentment cuts us off from the sunlight of the spirit.

That’s when I remembered, “Oh yeah, pray for the people we resent.” I prayed, “God bless Arelius, Give him everything he desires.” After a while I felt better, did my affirmations, and went to bed.

The next day, following consultation with an Al-Anon friend, I sent Arelius the following email:
“Dear beloved older brother, I know you meant well, but your response was very hurtful. Love, Poe"

You’ll note I didn’t go on and on, explaining how and why. Trying to make the other person understand is one of the main ways I make myself crazy.

A favorite student once gave me a bumper sticker: “Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig.”

Instead, I set my boundary, said my piece in a loving way. That feels much better.

Postscript: Arelius later emailed me back, saying, “Just trying to make sure you don't get blindsided by some yahoo while you are campaigning.” Whatever that means.

Post postscript: My husband says I should have written Arelius and said, “Thanks for the information. But you didn’t say how much you were donating.”

Why I Feel Better These Days.

One of the consequences of growing up in an alcoholic home, is that I never think I’m good enough. In fact, if you went inside my head, you’d hear a constant tape of all the reasons I don’t measure up: “I did this wrong, I forgot to do that, I didn’t do this soon enough, people probably think I’m neurotic.” Needless to say, this makes me nuts.

Al-Anon says, “If you don’t like a behavior, start doing the opposite.”

So about fifteen years ago I began a practice of thinking five good things about myself a day. Back then I had trouble thinking anything good about me. It all felt like a lie, even evil: “I’m being narcissistic.”

But Jesus said you have to look at the fruits. The more I thought nice things about myself, the more I was kind, confident, loving, altruistic, and I was a lot less depressed.

Here are the rules:
* If I’d beat myself up for NOT doing something, I get to praise myself every time I do do it.
* It's okay to think the same thought multiple times.***
* If during my daily “praise time” I think anything bad about myself, I have to come up with five more good things.
* Every day I pick one positive thing and write it down in a little book, to use on the days I can’t think of anything.
* Ever so often I increase the number of good things. (These days I can usually rattle off 100 at a time.)

Nowadays I do this six times a day: when I get up, at 10, 12, 2, 5 and at bedtime. At the same time I also pray and meditate for about a minute.

A RECENT LIST, ABBREVIATED:

1. I remembered to send my brother a birthday card.
2. Today I took time to stop and smell the daffodils.
3. I ate salad for lunch instead of a milkshake.
4. I sent my manuscript to an editor.
5. Before mailing I proofread the manuscript about ten times.
6. I asked my daughter, in a loving way, to remove her laundry from the spare bedroom bed.
7. I save pinecones from our yard and give them to a kindergarten teacher for crafts.
8. I joined an exercise class.
9. I felt self-conscious in my exercise class; then realized nobody’s watching me--we’re all just a bunch of middle-aged women having fun exercising.
10. I made the bed this morning.
11. I praised myself for making the bed this morning.
12. I praised myself for praising myself for making my bed this morning.
13. When my cell phone went through the washing machine, I didn't overeat, I called the cell phone company.
14. I remembered to send my brother a birthday card.***
15. I got my blog entry done this week.

Poe Reads Outliers With Predictable Results

I’ve been reading this book by Malcolm Gladwell. (NOTE--I AM ABOUT TO GIVE AWAY MUCH OF THIS BOOK, SO IF THAT BOTHERS YOU, SKIP THE REST OF THIS PARAGRAPH)He says the road to success is being born in either January, February, or March between 1953 and 1955 into a middle class Jewish family working in the garment trade. I go “ditto ditto ditto (if you count that my great-grandfather was a hatter.)” But if I’m so smart, why aren’t I successful?

Suddenly I feel not good enough.

I’d like to ask Mr. Gladwell how many outliers grew up in violent, alcoholic homes, where there was hell to pay for making any kind of a mistake, including being too happy or spontaneous? How many were social outcasts for being atheists, Yankees, non-athletic, and having a dad who was a communist? Huh? Huh?


Then I read this: Successful people don’t just spring full grown from Zeus’s forehead. If you spend at least 10,000 hours (about ten years) of doing something, you’ll be a huge success.

I realize I have done 10,000 hours of Al-Anon, reading, petting cats,and goofing off.

(This morning I shared all this with my friend Donna and she tells me I am way too hard on myself. Donna suggests...

A SOLUTION:
Imagine looking at yourself from outside and visualize how you'd like to be. What would you look like, even down to facial expression?

I will try this and report back.)

Slow News Day

Saw a purple tree this morning which had dropped a huge bunch of blossoms in the gutter. It looked like a long purple river flowing down the street.

Which reminds me…Easter’s just two weeks away.

LPR and I always make Mexican Easter eggs, which are filled with confetti. The idea is you sneak up on someone and bop them over the head with the egg so they get covered with confetti.

Instructions:
Every time you cook with an egg, punch holes in both ends (One pinhole sized, the other larger, about the size of your pinky fingernail.)Put your mouth on the smaller hole and blow the yolk and white into a bowl to use. Then rinse the shell in hot, soapy water and let dry. When Easter time comes, decorate the egg as usual. Then push confetti inside the big hole and glue tissue paper over both holes.

The first year we made them, we took them to church to sell as a fundraiser but sales were slow. The following year I painted pictures on the eggs--blossoming trees, dinosaurs, strawberries, cats, and lots of rabbits--in cars, in boats, sunbathing at the beach, playing trumpets, doing the Bunny Hop. Every egg was different. After that we always sold out.


Off The Subject

A song my brother taught me when I was 8:

Here comes Peter Cottontail
Hoppin' down the bunny trail..
Dead drunk!

We thought this hilarious.

Poe's Barbie Secrets

My friends and I never played that Barbie was a teenaged fashion model. She and Ken were always married with a large family, usually in the Antebellum South, with period clothes we made ourselves and plots borrowed from heavily Little Women or the Honeybunch series. (Lots of diphtheria).

My brother could sometimes be coerced into playing Barbies with me, but he wasn’t much fun. He would always have Ken strip her naked, then beat her up with the Barbie Sports Car, or hanging her from the curtain rod. He now confesses that he found Barbie a huge sexual turn on.

I have to confess we girls were rather titillated by her big breasts and highly-defined butt. (The first Barbies are spooky-looking with those tiny vampire eyes; you can tell she was originally a hooker doll designed to amuse businessmen.)

Then they came out with Ken who had genitals--minimalist, but genitals nonetheless. (Looking back, I wonder what the Handlers were thinking, coming out with such sexy dolls for young children.)

At age eight or nine we had virtually no knowledge of sex, but ever so often my girlfriends and I would, as we called it, “play dirty with our Barbies.” In these dramas Ken would kidnap Barbie, strip her naked, and force her to do the most humiliating things we could think of: he would keep her locked up in a drafty stable, ride around on her like she was a horse, using "bearing reins" that held her head painfully high, then make her to drink a quart of sour milk.

After that we’d go back to the wholesome mom and dad stories, now set in the South Sea Islands or ancient Greece.

I noticed about twenty years ago that Mattel put jockey shorts on Ken and gave Barbie smaller breasts, plus big eyes and a wholesome smile. Now they even have a Carol Burnett Barbie, dressed for the famous Went With the Wind skit, a curtain rod stuck on her shoulders.

I like the idea of a funny-looking Barbie. Sorta gives goofy girls like me the hope that we too will someday become fashion icons.

Books That Changed My Life

Someone asked me for book recommendations, which is like asking an alcoholic to take a drink.

These are the best of the best:

The King of Mulberry Street (Donna Jo Napoli) A nine-year old Italian immigrant arrives alone, forsaken, and penniless in New York City, not speaking a word of Engish. How does he survive? You'll be surprised and delighted. Based on a true story.

Everyday Holiness (Alan Morinis) A handbook for bringing the sacred into one’s daily life. Very nurturing and life-changing book.

Watership Down (Richard Adams) If you haven’t read this yet, turn off the computer right now, run out, and get it. Hypnotic, mythical in impact. I almost named my first-born Hazel.

Bury the Chains (Adam Hochschild) How a small group of concerned citizens changed the world. (If nothing else, just read the first two pages of the introduction. Amazing!)

China Boy (Gus Lee) A skinny little boy learns how to defeat bullies. The ending will make you stand up and cheer.

Three Cups of Tea (Greg Mortenson) Fighting terrorism one school at a time. Perseverance facing down the impossible.

The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald) Way better than when you read it in high school. The luscious poetry:(here speaking of Manhattan) “I became aware of the old island here that once flowered for Dutch sailor’s eyes--a fresh green breast of the New World. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams...”
Ah, I swoon.

The Problem With Thank You Notes

My task this week was to write a thank you note to the editor who critiqued my manuscript at the writer’s conference. Everyone knows it’s a smart business practice.

The problem is I am hopelessly neurotic about it. I know I am schmoozing this editor--my big chance to impress her. I must also plug my manuscript to make sure she remembers me later when I submit something. But I have to write like I am not schmoozing and not trying to impress or plug my book.

I wrote four drafts of the thing--Three measly sentences and it’d taken me five days. Yesterday I had to make myself some of my two-minute ice cream (recipe below) just to calm myself. Is it any wonder I never get stuff done?

My friend Jacqueline says I am perfectionistic. I think I’m just following my family's rules. As a kid the biggest sin was making a mistake. It didn’t matter if it was a minor offense or an innocent error, there was hell to pay.

A Typical Example:

At age eight, I had to dress and get to school by myself every morning because Mom worked. One afternoon when I got home, Mom had a screaming fit because I’d worn my Brownie uniform with a magenta sweater. Apparently they clashed. To make matters worse, school pictures had been taken that day, so now I’d ruined them. The shame of this hung over me for decades.

It wasn’t until about five years ago that I suddenly realized, “Wait a minute. That picture was in black and white. What difference did it make if I wore a magenta sweater?”


But this stuff gets injected into your DNA and it takes continual work to leach it out.

As far as the thank you note was concerned, what I finally did was pray—“God you know what this editor needs; give me the words.”

Suddenly I remembered—a thank you note is just an act of kindness. After all, everybody is insecure, even editors.

After that I forgot about impressing her or making sure she remembered me and my manuscript. I just sent an act of love. She had given me a very thoughtful and gentle critique and even her criticisms encouraged me because they made my writing better. And that’s what I told her. No schmooze, just fact.

NOW FOR THE GOOD PART

Poe’s 2-Minute Ice Cream
(This particular recipe is designed for people who are trying to eliminate sugar and cholesterol, but purists can substitute cream and add sugar to taste)

1 frozen banana
1 cup frozen strawberries or peaches
1/2 cup nonfat milk
1 Tbl cocoa powder(optional)
1 Tbl nut butter(optional)

Puree in blender. (It helps to pulse, and you have to stop frequently to push the fruit down between the blades) After two minutes it should have the consistency of soft-serve ice cream. For firmer stuff dump it into a Tupperware and freeze for an hour or two.

Speaking of Stupidity…

This weekend I attended a writer’s conference at the coast. Soon after I arrived, something happened to my brain. It thought I was in high school. Once again I felt like an space alien. It didn’t help that most people there were published. A lot. I struggled every second to blend in. Or at least keep the other authors from shoving me into my locker.

As always in these situations I forgot to meditate, I forgot to pray. But the triumph is that I didn’t hide out in the bathroom, my favorite survival technique in school. I even went up and talked to people.

But on the last day I wished I’d stayed in the bathroom.

Sunday morning I arrive late to breakfast, so most tables are full. I sit down in an empty seat, then realize--Oh no! I’ve sat down next to a Big Author, a speaker at the conference. (We’ll call him Emerson Waldo.)

This creates a crisis. On one hand, I want to suck up to this guy; after all, he’s famous. At the same time I have total contempt for the extremely narcissistic lecture he gave the day before. I decide I will say nothing, eat my breakfast, and get out as fast as I can.

But he looks at me expectantly. Rats. I have to talk to him.

I don’t want to be like everybody else: “Oh Mr. Waldo, I just adore your latest book.” So I say, “Tell me. What was your childhood like? What made you into the writer you are today?”

He looks surprised. Good. He must be intrigued. Maybe he’ll retain fond memories of “that delightful conversation with...what did you say your name was, Miss?”

His answer: “I liked to read.”

I say, “Yes, but we all liked to read. What experiences led you to writing your particular books?”

“I spent twenty years clerking at K-Mart…”

I am shocked. “I can’t imagine you clerking for twenty years.”

“Pumping gas was worse.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Abruptly he stands, “Well, it’s been nice talking to you.” He LEAVES!

I am appalled. What a rude man! After I tried so hard to give him something interesting to talk about.


Following breakfast I go to a Panel Discussion by all the conference speakers. To my surprise, I don’t see Waldo. What’s happened? Did my questions upset him? Is he sick? Hiding in the bathroom?

Stop it, Poe. I push away my neurosis and tune into the discussion.

Then I see one author I don’t recognize. I say to my friend, “Who’s he?”

“That’s Emerson Waldo.” Long Pause.

OMG! I’d been talking to the wrong person! No wonder the guy got up and left. He must have thought I was a total nut case.

For ten minutes, I think about going back to my room and seeing if Housekeeping could lend me a gun to shoot myself with.

But suddenly I started laughing and haven't stopped since. According to Al-Anon, one mark of maturity is the ability to laugh at oneself If so, I must be the most mature person in town.

Mature but really, really stupid.

How the Grimke's Changed My Life

I talked last time about Sarah and Angelina Grimke, patron saints of Courage to speak the truth, even if everyone else thinks you’re stupid or a nut case.

Most great men and women were considered stupid nut cases in their own time.

“And in the naked light I saw ten thousand people maybe more.
People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening. People writing songs that voices never shared. No one dared disturb the sounds of silence.”


MY SUBMISSION FOR STUPID NUTCASE:

Our culture says that, in order to be good people, we must always berate ourselves, never praise ourselves.

But all that ever did was set my self-esteem at zero

When anybody ever criticized me or disagreed with me, I’d beat myself up, “You see? You're wrong. You can’t do anything right.”

In honor of the Grimke's I've decided to do the unthinkable:

Every morning I think of 50 positive things about myself. And during the day I look for ways to affirm myself: “Good job making that left turn, Poe. I like the way you slow down to let people pass.”

Has it made a difference?

One example:

Our thirty-year old pressure cooker drips a little water from the gasket. I’m too cheap to replace it. This drives my husband crazy.

A few weeks ago I was cooking some rice when he came in and gave me the Dreaded Superiority Glare. Pointing to the pressure cooker, he said, “We live in a desert. We need to conserve. Look at all the water you’re wasting.”

Normally I would cringe with shame.

I said, “You want to talk about conservation? You waste a lot more when you brush your teeth with the water running.”

He scoffed, “It’s only a trickle.”

I said, “Even a trickle wastes a lot more than the pressure cooker.”

Triumph!

(The next day I happened to go in the bathroom while he was brushing his teeth. He had the water running full blast. I was sorely tempted to say, “Just a trickle, eh?” But I asked myself, “Would you rather be happy or would you rather lord things over your husband?” I just gave him a kiss and went on my way.)