Gotta/Wanta

 

This is my laundry basket. In fact, it is only one of my laundry baskets as the one with my husband's clothes is down by the laundry chute in the kitchen and the one with towels and sheets is in the office. It's possible that I've scattered them around the house so they're not so threatening, but more than likely it's caused by an episode of MB (menopause brain). Another reason is that doing laundry lately is not just a matter of finding, then hauling, the scattered baskets down to the washing machine. It requires my taking the baskets, the detergent and the softener into the car and driving down to the local laundromat. And that, my friends, is not fun. 

Here's one reason that it's not fun:

There is way too much snow out there. On my car, in my car, in my driveway, on the roads, in the parking lots...everywhere. Which means it's cold. And possibly icy. I barely have enough coordination to traverse the driveway and get into the car without mishap. I'm supposed to juggle loads of laundry and laundry accessories as well? And a book? Because I'm certainly not going to the laundromat without a book. 

No, this is not an acceptable activity for a woman in her (early) 50s. I have a fireplace that works and a perfectly acceptable sofa right in front of it upon which I can sit and read. Why would I want to lug two weeks of laundry out my door into a grayish, ill-lit establishment with plastic chairs? That's easy. I don't. As I get older I am finding that making the decisions about what I gotta do and what I wanta do is coming much more easily. There is no doubt that I gotta do the laundry. But do I wanta? Nope. Not if it means the machinations described above. I still have a couple of sets of sheets, my husband has a few more clean shirts and my black tights never show the dirt. And laundry only becomes dire when there is clean underwear at stake, and happily, it's not dire yet. 

There was a time in my life when I would have felt guilty making the decision to NOT do the laundry. And not only NOT do the laundry, but stay home and read in front of the fire. Horrors!! Who does that? I guess I do, now. Now that I've reached an age where I have a little more confidence in prioritizing and a little more wisdom about what's important in life. Reading a good book in front of the fire...important. Risking life and limb for clean towels? Not important. Now...I've got to see about that fire...

Flipflops Forever

Ahh...flip-flops. I've only been home for two days and I miss my fuzzy flips that were on my feet for most of my trip to Florida. We gathered as a family in Sarasota at the House of Ringling for four days to celebrate some milestone birthdays...my father's 80th, my daughters' 30th, my sister's 50th and assorted others: a 25th, a 21st, a 45th, a 75th and a 55th anniversary. Most of the combined family was there - 14 in all. The house was at the end of the runway of the Sarasota-Bradenton Airport, but the planes taking off and landing didn't bother us. The weather was mostly cooperative and hovered near the 70 mark for most of the time. There were a couple of field trips to St. Armand's Circle, Siesta Key Beach and the Columbia Restaurant, but many of us (at least me) stayed poolside at the house. We ate, drank, sunned, partied, played games and laughed. Fourteen people sharing a home together in the bright, warm Florida sun.
Then it was time to go home. Twelve of us flew away, two went West and the rest of us went North, only to be greeted by monstrous winter storms carrying snow and ice. Today, as I sit in my living room by the fire, because all of our oil was used up while we were gone to keep the pipes from freezing, I miss my flip-flops and Florida sun. But not just because of the weather (although I really miss that weather right now!) but also because of the easy way our families came together as one. I know that it can happen anywhere - it's happened right here in my own home - but the warmth of the setting settled down onto our temporary home and we all had such a good time. I miss our Florida home and family and I'm so grateful that we had that opportunity to weave it into the fabric of our lives.

Virtual Fitness

 So. Exercise. Who knew?
Virtual Fitness

Losing it

I’m dieting. Again. Both my husband and I are, but I’m clearly the expert. He’s only had to start watching his weight in recent years, as he grew up thin and lanky, never to be bothered by the number of calories or the latest diet. (The Ice Cream diet was one of my early favorites.) It’s only aging that has him keeping an eye on his intake—damned aging—otherwise he’d be scarfing down pasta unregulated by those pesky portion sizes or calorie counts. I, however, have been dieting since I was about two. Adolescence was not my friend and even during my first pregnancy, my doctor put me on an 1800 calorie a day diet. There was no eating for two for me and I had to say good-bye to the Snickers bars that I had thought I’d be able to munch on to my heart’s content.
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Idiot

Main Entry: id·i·ot
Function: noun
Date: 14th century
usually offensive; a foolish or stupid person

Often, when I was doing a workshop or class on technology, I would open with a joke. I would tell the assembled technology novices that, “Most all computer problems are caused by an I-D-ten-tee error.” Some of the rapt class would nod and murmur knowingly. Then I would write it out on the whiteboard - “I-D-10-T”. And I would turn and smile…and hopefully there would be a round of chuckling in response. Then I would self-deprecate: Most of the problems people have with computers are caused by the user - even the problems that I have. Even though I was lumping us all together in one I-D-1-0-T pile, I never really thought of my students as idiots. But it was an icebreaker that usually made them laugh and there are not usually a lot of laughs during a technology integration workshop. At least I could start out with one.

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Polibrity? Celetician?

Politician - a leader engaged in civil administration
Celebrity - a widely known person; “he was a baseball celebrity”

I’ve never claimed to be in the know about politics. I can identify most of the current players by sight on TV, but I leave most of the complaining and analysis to my high school list serv and Cokie Roberts. (Also, sadly, Daniel Schorr, but not anymore. RIP.) I tend to vote with my heart – with the other Democrats – and I’m usually pretty satisfied with the results. I listen to NPR when I’m in the car, so I’m hearing about politics all the time, I’m just not retaining the ability to make sense of it all. Like math. 
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Destined to Fail

I was looking at a portrait the other day that my grandmother, Helen Russell Cogger, painted. It is a painting of a young, dark-haired girl playing a cello. The portrait captures the smooth wooden grain of the instrument, the crispness of the girl’s white blouse and the seriousness with which the girl was playing her music. Helen was a talented artist and, besides amusing us grandchildren with her doodles of roses and poodles and clever drawings in the margins of short letters to us, she also used to paint portraits on the side. As an artist and single parent in New York City in the 40s, she made her living with her skill – in a studio with a stable of other commercial artists such as herself. She used to draw the little cherubic toddlers modeling frilly smocks in the Montgomery Ward catalogs before photography came along and made her job obsolete.

It occurred to me that my life as an artist – a writer – is mirroring my grandmother’s life as an artist.
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