Women's Work

SPLASH

I really liked Susan's advice to save your own life first. She articulated what I am trying to do after too many years of trying to save everybody else first.  So I am walking every day, writing almost every day, and promising myself a massage....one day.  And a few private yoga classes ...maybe.  This saving one's self first is not easy.  Perhaps I just need to dive into the icy water head first!  Everyone else is on their own.

Place the mask over your own face before attempting to help the person in the seat next to you.

That's what they tell you when you get on an airplane, before they take off. 

What they mean is Save Your Own Life First. 

That's the best advice they can give you. 

It's also the best advice I can give you. 

Well, aside from Be Particular, Pay Attention, Follow Your Gut, Floss, and Have Cash. 

As far as I've been able to discern thus far, that's about all I can really do to take care of myself, but so far, so good. 

On NOT taking care of business

Although I belong to the generation which has made taking care of oneself (both physically and mentally) into a religion, I do NOT worship in that church.  In fact, quite a few of my pet peeves have to do with my fellow boomers.

I really can't be bothered with constantly taking my emotional or physical temperature.  What I've been doing for sixty odd years seems to be working just fine and if it stops working,  hey, guess what?  I've had a good run for my money and I'm satisfied.

Wendy the Witch

Miss Wendy was a witch. And not a good witch, either. Good witches are beautiful, usually wear white or palest pink, and are quite taken with body glitter and small white kittens. Bad witches are, well, ugly. They love toads, toadstools, and slime. People say they have forked tongues, or tongues like knives, or that they will give you a "tongue-lashing," but this is metaphorical, rather than actual.

Wendy was a bad witch, the baddest of the bad – cross-eyed, gimpy, with a tongue she wielded like a samurai sword, expertly, with deadly force. But somehow Wendy got it into her head that being a bad witch, especially the baddest of the bad witches, was, well, not good. So she cast a spell, as any witch can do. And the spell was to make her seem like a good witch. Like the best of the good witches. Her hair, once raven black and as fine as a spider web, turned yellow, long, and thick. She exchanged her black cape and pointed black shoes for white tulle and white ballet flats. And her tongue – her glorious, finely-chiseled tongue – she cut out. Not literally, but figuratively. The spell she cast coated her throat with molasses-thick, honey-sweet words. Where once she croaked, now she cooed. Where once she spoke her mind, now she only spoke what would please.

Wendy became the Best of the Good Witches. Good witches everywhere told her how they admired the change, how much better it was to be a good witch than a bad. For a while, she believed them. She liked how they praised her, how she felt as though she belonged among all these white and pale pink witches, sparkling tiaras in their thick, fair hair. But she found, after a while, to her very great surprise, that she wasn't happy. She missed black. She missed smelly things, like dirt, and henbane. She missed toads, and cackling, and she started to hate having to be pretty all the time. But most of all, she missed her tongue. She couldn't even speak her unhappiness, because it would upset her newfound friends, and this the spell would not let her do. So she did what any able witch, good or bad, could do – she uncast her spell.

Now Wendy is again the best of the bad. Her tongue has severed many an oversized ego from an inflated sense of self-worth. She plays in the dirt, has bad teeth, bad breath, and a wicked sense of humor. Best of all, she is happy. That's what every witch deserves.

Taking care of beefs

I'm taking care of myself by trying to remove several beefs from my life.

How do I do that? By moving across the Atlantic!

And here are the beefs I'm going to leave behind:

• Limited opening hours: all stores close at 7pm, expect for Thursday, when some are open late (as in until 9pm) for what's called the "long Thursday." Everything is closed on Sundays!

• No customer service: in an example related to the opening hours, many stores won't let you in anymore if it's less than 10 minutes to closing time.

• Lack of cultural offerings: granted, there is actually quite a bit going on, but most of it is in a language I still have problems with. So I'm stuck with mainly amateur stuff -- most of it pretty bad I'm sorry to report.

• French: a language I never cared for much, and living in a French-speaking region hasn't changed that. It's just so complicated and cumbersome!

• Expensive but mediocre restaurants: well, they probably exist everywhere, but here they rule! For a while I even stopped going out for dinner, because it made me so mad to pay a lot of money and get so little for it. Now I go for the social aspect, but I look forward to combining nice conversation and good food again!

• My boring job: I guess that's probably my biggest beef. I feel useless, not challenged, totally dispensable... It can only get better!!!

Of course, there will be other/new beefs -- the main one certainly that I'll be much further away from my family and can't just visit them for the weekend. But I will make up for that with longer visits. And I will miss the friends I've made here. However, I have the strong feeling that a lot of them will follow me eventually -- none of them is really happy here!

A World of Delights

Being a both a full-time parent and a full-time worker means taking care of myself in stolen moments.  It means finding pleasures in mini-delights, with a few gee-whiz indulgences scattered along the path.  It’s about those shimmery, jewel-like moments of happiness that cast a glow upon my day.

 

Here are just a few delights that bring me unabashed pleasure, plus some deliberate ways in which I renew my soul:

 

Simple Delights

 

Unleashing my inner diva by singing, loudly and badly, while driving alone. Shoulder shimmies are mandated at stoplights if the song happens to be ultra-cheesy or anything sung by ABBA.

 

Waltzing with Kimmy while singing, "Tennessee Waltz."  As my father used to sing to me.

 

Reading Cosmo or some equally non-intellectual, mind-numbing magazine.  Bonus points if there’s time and will for trying the suggestions (Avocado and mayonnaise in my hair?  Egg whites on my face?  No problem!).

 

A cat purring on my chest and loving me, just because I’m me.

 

Listening to Nicky sing.  Anything.  His voice is entrancingly pure, clear, and completely un-selfconscious.

 

Napping on a rainy afternoon, naked under flannel sheets and a cozy comforter, in a cool room with a gentle breeze.  Thunder as a backdrop is nice.  Oh, hell, throw in a crackling fire, too, as long as I'm dreaming...

 

And speaking of naked (get your mind out of the gutter)...any chance to be au naturel when sunning is lounge-like-a-lizard wonderful.

 

Teeth-hurtin’ good music blaring on the stereo, as loud as I want it, the kind that makes me want to dance.

 

Discussing matters both lofty and silly with Ben, usually about life and love, preferably over good coffee and a lip-smackingly decadent dessert.

 

 

Indulgent Delights (notice most are food-related!)

 

Caramel macchiatos from Starbucks (and one day I’ll be over-the-top indulgent and order a venti).

 

Tasty little nibbles on the perfect chocolate truffle.

 

Buying (or even better, receiving) the absolutely perfect flower (and ignoring the guilt that it is destined to die).

 

Strong, flavorful coffee – the kind that makes my throat tingle – mixed with the perfect touch of half-and-half.  None of that skim or lowfat milk for me, please.

 

Dressing up for a night at the opera (and ballet and symphony and theater...ad infinitum).

 

Relaxing in a steamy hot tub, preferably under a starry sky.

 

Himmarshee Bar and Grill’s apple cake, smothered in homemade caramel sauce.

 

 

Necessary Delights

 

Yoga, lots of yoga, for clearing my head and calming my soul.

 

Good books on my nightstand and time to read them.

 

Carving out time to write.

 

Finding a quiet moment to reflect.

 

My friends...the ones who love me and who keep me sane (while understanding my need to be crazy).

 

My family...the ones who fill my heart to overflowing and put the joy in my life.

 

 

Unexpected Delights

 

Receiving that “thinking-of-you” phone call, letter, email, or text at the perfect random moment, just when I need a boost.

 

Completing the entire crossword puzzle, for once.

 

Happening upon a full rainbow – rare, precious and magical.  I can almost visualize a unicorn rounding the bend.

 

A heartfelt hug from an unexpected source at an unexpected moment.  And sometimes, an unexpected kiss would be nice, too.

And there it is...

I have found my actual beef. 

A friend who owns a local food business posted a question on a social networking site this afternoon. Herewith is the question:

"Does a local veggie plate mean that it is entirely vegetarian? or should a veggie plate come with a warning local veggies my be cooked in or with bacon?"

Now. I am local to the business in question, and I am in Atlanta. Atlanta, you might know, is in The South. In the South, we sometimes like our vegetables seasoned. With pork.  Or cooked in chicken stock. 

The first response I posted was "The term "Vegetable Plate" does not in any way imply that it is 'vegetarian' in nature, and certainly not here in the briarpatch. "

But somebody has gone and done it. Somebody has replied "Please make it vegan just so everyone can enjoy it. If any non-vegs want a side of bacon with it, that's cool."

In fact, I wouldn't enjoy it worth a damn. Vegetables with a side of bacon is nothing like vegetables seasoned with bacon. And I would know because I know from pork and pork products and the usage thereof. 

I have absolutely no problem with vegetarians (though I've never known a truly happy vegan, nor one who wasn't a colossal pain in the ass), and make a concerted effort to adapt my menus to their needs, but the very idea that an entire day's menu in an establishment should be adjusted to the needs of what is 4-10% of the population just chaps my heiny. 

That's as ridiculous as me requiring that everything be cooked with pork. I can walk into a vegetarian restaurant and find something to eat, or I can eat elsewhere. 

We all have to figure out what we can use and leave the rest behind. 

Also? The word veggie makes me want to throw things. 

Dammit. I knew if I putzed around long enough I'd find my one true beef.