Author: Bev

Half-done or incomplete tasks make me feel jittery at best.  If I’m honest, unfinished business makes me ill-at-ease and a tad grumpy.  I guess it messes with my peace of mind.

Giving up your peace.  Now that’s an interesting concept.  I once heard of something called a “peace- threshold,” which is the level of pain or discomfort at which you yield your peace of mind, to your circumstances.

Many of us will tap-dance just up to the plate of that threshold and retreat into stubborn possession of our peace.  We fall back onto our default, “I won’t give up,” attitude that keeps us in play and we refuse to yield to negative circumstances.

I know some people whose peace is achieved amidst an environment that would throw mine into a tailspin.  I wonder about how this state of peace is attained on different levels in different people.

Some people are totally okay with projects left “up in the air.”  Uncertainty totally unsettles some of us; others take it more as a matter of course.  I confess that I am one of the ones who gets tetchy when a certain undetermined amount of time passes with things unfinished.

I have a very small stack of papers on my desk, next to the telephone.  I’ll have to deal with them at some point as they are, in essence, my perennial to-do list.  This is what I call needling stuff, kept on the back burner.

The back burner is where we simmer stuff that isn’t the main course.  Needling stuff jabs me occasionally, reminding me that it’s still there and hasn’t been dealt with yet, but isn’t so time-sensitive that it needs dealt with now.

I think there is something to peaceniks’ interpretation of reality.  For example, there are thousands of potentially fulfilling experiences wrapped up in the process of things.  But some of us, living tenuously in peace, fixate on what we want to achieve and cease to capture the joy in our moments.

“Don’t make it happen, let it happen.”  This was the gist of a recent dream of mine.  My takeaway is to let the future come to meet me and treasure the past for what it was.

My great-nephew, who is in his late twenties forwarded this Facebook post recently: “I’m an adult which means I don’t have any hobbies; if I have any free time at all I will go lie down.”  He’s my kind of young man.

Do you have time to spare?  Can anyone really have extra time?  Remember the guy in the Bible (Hezekiah) to whom God actually gave some extra time, fifteen more years to be exact?  As I recall he blew it, got into trouble and it wasn’t a blessing after all.

There’s only so much time in a day.  Have we all been assigned a certain amount of time on earth?  If so, how can one have time to spare?

Someone has surely said to you at some point in your life, “give it some time.”  Often this is when you’re suffering some sort of loss, insult, or injury from which you are in one or another stage of recovery or acceptance.

We live in an instant culture with infinite promise.  So, it’s no wonder that waiting for anything is an excruciating endeavor for most of us.

Time is a demanding taskmaster.  It seems to be biting at our heels, reminding us in a tyrannical way, to keep moving, or else.  Or else, what?  Might we be too late?

So, we try to get things done at the last minute or….

“By the skin of my teeth” – Check out the Biblical book of Job, ch.19/vs.20, where Job describes his plight as just barely holding on, with the only part of his body escaping affliction, his gums.

“At the nick of time” – In the 1580s, if you were “in the nick,” you were at “the critical moment” …or it’s too late.

“Eleventh hour,” described in Matthew 20:9, was when a few last-minute workers, hired long after the others, were paid the same wage. Despite being brought on the job after eleven hours of hard vineyard work, they weren’t too late.

“Zero hour” originated in 1945 at the capitulation of the Nazi government at midnight May 8th. It is also a military designation, meaning the scheduled time for the start of some event, or operation.

“Under the wire” or “down to the wire” is from late 19^th century horse-racing, when a small wire was strung across the track, above the finish line, to help the judges determine which horse crossed the finish line first.

“High time” originated in the 13^th century and it refers to the warmest time in the day. Since people of that era were mostly farmers, this time marked the turning point in the day when you must have either gotten so much work done on the land or you begin doing so immediately.

“Ship has sailed” comes from the mid-19th century. · It refers to the era when ships were largely powered by wind and you have arrived too late to catch it.

As to any of your unfinished business, what do you say we just follow the rule of Larry the Cable Guy, and “get er done.” If anybody dare ask you “when,” just answer, “in due time,” and hold onto your peace.

 

 

 

“It’s up to you.”  “Do whatever you want.”  And, the sometimes, fatalistic, “whatever.”  Has someone said something of this kind to you, indicating that you are free to decide on any course of action you wish to take in a given situation?

I grew up using the male pronoun (his, him, man – as in mankind, etc.), accepting it as universal.  Women at the dawn of “women’s lib,” I grew up in its heyday, did not take offense at the language usage of the day.

In this case I’m referring to “to each his own.”  So, with today’s sensitivity to all things, gender, I adapt the old idiom, to today’s title, “to each their own.”

Some folks attribute this saying to Shakespeare’s Hamlet, “This above all: to thine own-self be true.”  Others go back further to Roman author and politician, Cicero’s “suum_cuique,” “To each his own,” but Cicero’s connotation was not what we know of the idiom, today.

This all started with a friend who commented on a puzzle I had completed and shared because it was an artwork I admire and thought it was beautiful.  She said something to the effect of “that would drive me crazy, but it’s pretty.”

You see, the “to each their own,” phrase applies to the concept of what works for me, suits me, rocks my socks, floats my boat, makes me happy, tickles my fancy, bakes my cake, flips my pancake, turns me on, or rings my bell, and yet doesn’t do any of that for you, or you, or you.  And that’s okay.

A few years ago, I commented about the overarching fragrance of Russian Olive tree blossoms as I walked a wooded path in the late Spring.  I phrased it something like, “this must be what the fragrance of God is; mesmerizing.”  A friend commented that “it surely is not, to those of us with violent allergies.”

At the time, it didn’t occur to me that anyone wouldn’t appreciate what was to me an almost supernaturally amazing and joyful fragrance.  I don’t have perfume sensitivities and my allergies are limited to being stuffed up, sneezing, and a nuisance reaction, nothing clinical or limiting as to my joy of appreciating the outdoors, or our cats, for that matter.

My friend’s comment reminded me that my experience is not the same as hers or yours, perhaps.  It might be similar in some ways, and we feel like siblings from a different family, or it might be vastly different, or somewhere in between.

Because we might be the same gender, ethnicity, socioeconomic status, from a similar geographic background, educated similarly, go to the same church or don’t go to church, doesn’t mean we have the same ideas, values, thoughts, ideologies or moral code.  Or, it might be as simple as we don’t like the same things, or perceive things identically.

Abortion is in the news, big time since the Supreme Court “leak.”  For many people, this is not a personal issue, but a social one.  I’m far too old for it to be personal to me, but it wasn’t personal to me back in the day either, in that I didn’t want an abortion, or need to struggle with the decision.  However, I knew and cared for plenty of people to whom it was very personal.

I’m a fan of the PBS show, “Call the Midwife.”  This show’s content is all about British midwives and nuns caring for their birthing community – pregnancy and birth; abortion and miscarriage; heartache and triumph, ten fingers and ten toes, and the fear and disappointment when there is some unusual variation of these, starting in the late 1950s, into the late 1960s.

Several episodes have depicted the lengths women and families had gone, to terminate an unwanted pregnancy, when abortion was not legal and the birth control pill was in its infancy.  Marital rape, domestic violence, sexual assault and intimidation were barely dealt with yet in the legal system.  I personally wouldn’t go back there, for anything.

I wouldn’t want to walk in anybody else’s shoes, other than my own.  “Different strokes for different folks,” comes to mind.  This saying originated in a 1966 interview with boxer, Muhammad Ali, as he described his boxing style in the ring.

Do you have a different style of relating to different people?  I think, long-married people definitely have a shorthand when communicating.  We talk differently to business associates than we do to acquaintances, family, and friends.

I think the different strokes which we apply to different folks is a social mechanism of respect directed toward others who have their own individual thoughts, ideas, and perceptions of right and wrong, good and bad. 

Would that we could apply the principles of, “Live and let live,” “Que sera, sera,” and the proverbial, “To each their own,” every day, all day, and to all people.  All ya all are wonderful, just the way you are, whether you’re my cup of tea or not. “I’m okay, you’re okay.”

Jazz great, Miles Davis, once said, “When you hit a wrong note, it’s the next note that makes it good or bad.” This man knew a little bit about improvisation.

My very rudimentary explanation of improvisation is, “flexibility in selecting ‘the next note’ in a tune.”  The next note is not predetermined.

I’ve personally experienced the next note as both predetermined and fixed, and flexible and creative.  I very much prefer the latter.

The improvised next note is up in the air and therefore potentially scary but it’s also the epitome of freedom.  The 1992 En Vogue tune, “Free your mind, and the rest will follow,” comes to mind.

I played clarinet, badly, in high school band.  This was the predetermined note kind of music.  When you play the wrong note in this type of music, the next note, already laid out for you, sticks out, exposing your failure in screwing up the note, previous.

As a young adult I sang in our church choir.  Dot Smith, our wonderful director, gave me liberty to harmonize.  I’ve never felt so free than when my voice could soar in unscheduled, unplanned, Spirit-led, improvisational harmonies with one note followed by the next unknown one, or string of them.

Dance has been the same in my experience.  I have been known to mess up in a dance routine, planned out way ahead and sort of memorized.  But I also had the pleasure of dancing to the beat of the Spirit rising up from within, and what a difference that license to improvise makes in your soul.

Are you free to choose your next note?  Or is it predetermined?

We should all have a license to bend.  Remember “Gumby?”  It was a rubber toy that was flexible and we could bend it into any number of positions.  It’s fun, relaxing, and liberating to model something or nothing with clay or play-doh.  It’s kid-like freedom, to improvise, or bend.

Are you “Gumby” or “set in your ways?”  You can change your next note.  Be fearless and improvise.  Nobody can say that you didn’t intend to make that note dissonant, just for the experience of it.

Unfortunately, life as we age might become more or less flexible, depending upon the notes which precede.  But the next note is up to you.

Our joints become less flexible as we grow older, but a lot can be said for “use it or lose it.”  It might take us a minute to muster our flexibility.  Transitioning from sitting to standing then walking, jogging or running takes more time than it used to but we can do it.

Or, as the joke goes, “at our age, you have to make a plan ahead of time on how you’re going to get up, when you sit on the floor.”  I can identify with our aging cat, at sixteen, when he really contemplates his getting up and lying down movements.

A loved-one with advanced cancer did the same, he took “forever” to get in and out of the car.  Myself, I have begged my daughter’s indulgence when we embark on shopping trips, “remember It takes me a minute to transition from sitting in the car or at a restaurant, to walking; it’s a way of reminding me how old I am.”  She doesn’t mind, because once I’ve regained my flexibility, I speed walk, out of habit.

I’ve observed other folks of a certain age, when I’m out and about.  We have a distinct way of moving that belies that we’ve been ambulating about the planet for a relatively long time.  I would describe our walk as concerted effort, with determination.

Do you have a flexible mind-set?  Wow, it depends on the day, doesn’t it?  Sometimes, we’re bent almost to the breaking point, but then “Gumby” makes a comeback and we bounce back to our usual upright position.

Is the opposite of flexible, rigid?  I know the opposite of improvisation is certainty.

This reminds me that choosing either a fixed rate or a variable rate on a loan, depends on how much risk you’re willing to take with your finances.  Or, if you’re in it for the long term or short term.

Well, I’m in it for the long term.  I’ve hit a few wrong notes in my day, but I’m still determined to improvise the next notes in my life and see where they take me.  How about you?

Maybe your household is among the folks who keep an orderly, up-to-date and sensible collection of foods in your refrigerated storage container.  Apparently, we are not, until I made these observations.  And now, I’m just embarrassed.

There are soy sauce and sweet-n-sour packets, oh and hot mustard, from that take away Chinese food from five years ago.  Speaking of packets, in case we run out of ketchup in the bottle, we kept only about fifty, eight-year-old ketchup packets from fast food places; not counting the twenty-five or so that reside in the car.  Better safe than sorry when it comes to enough ketchup.

We have some hardened mystery-nut-butter that “they” were sure we’d like when they gave it to us at the turn of the millennium.  I didn’t have the heart to throw away a gift.

Pumpkin flavored whipped cream seemed like a great idea at Thanksgiving.  We consumed approximately five dollops of it at Thanksgiving, and it’s May.  Surely, it’s still good.

We kept a miniature bottle of lemon-flavored Perrier, the fancy fizzy water that must feel too fancy to drink when we can drink the store-brand seltzer water in the can.  I guess we’re keeping it for a “special occasion,” whenever that may be.  Somehow, in our household, “special occasions” must not be special enough to merit consuming such items as that bottle of Perrier that has been kept for over a decade, I think.

Twelve raisins in a baggie…. I don’t know, you tell me.

There’s pickled something or other in a jar.  It was a gift and throwing it out just seems ungrateful.

Tucked in one of the door pockets is a jar of some kind of fish paste that has Asian characters on it.  It was also a gift; what were they thinking?  One of my culinary rules is, never make home-made Chinese; leave that one to the professionals.

What was I thinking when I shoved, into the netherworld of the garage-freezer, that leftover pureed canned pumpkin and its partner, gob-filling?  Maybe the justification was that I’d wake up one day and think, “I’m gonna bake three pumpkin gobs today, boy am I glad I kept that pumpkin and filling.”

I still have whole grains, mystery flours, and all manner of seeds that I thought of using in massive quantities, but used a few cups, to make several loaves of artisan breads.  This was maybe twenty years ago when we bought a wonderful bread machine that I now break out of the back of the cupboard once a year to make Finnish cardamom bread and before the low- carb diet that changed my life in 2003.

There’s a pretty designer bottle of homemade Horchata (Mexican rice milk), that I made in order to try a cocktail which I didn’t particularly like.  It still smells really good and looks so pretty in that bottle.  Speaking of pretty, we have some iced cider in a darling gift tin.

Oh, and there are choices of bottled salad dressings, all my husband’s, which stay permanently housed on the bottom shelf of the door.  I’m an olive oil and red wine vinegar gal, myself.

There are maybe two tablespoons in each, Catalina, why? Blue cheese, why? And two different kinds of ranch in bottles, several unopened packets of the really good kind of ranch; several packets of creamy Italian which came with subs; oh, and a dozen packets of mayonnaise which hubby can use if we run out of the good olive oil mayonnaise that we keep on hand.

Also stuffed in the door pockets is: A1 sauce for steaks which we just aren’t fans of, Cajun sauce for seafood which I bought for something a dozen years ago, Hickory seasoning for the salmon dip I make at Christmas time; Turkey broth in a packet which came with the turkey drumsticks which I tried last Christmas; Killer hot sauce which will remain, since we love any and all hot sauce as well as the two miniature bottles of real maple syrup alongside the corn syrup we call, pancake syrup for when hubby makes waffles, quarterly, at best.

Disclaimer, if you were the giver of any one of those food gifts that I mentioned in this column, do not take offense.  In this household we believe in the adage, “it’s the thought that counts.”  So, your gift was received with gratitude and your intent, banked.

Don’t worry, we’ve had a massive clean-out and ensconced a fresh, open box of baking soda to absorb that mystery odor from all of those enigmatic foods, long buried in our refrigerated storage box.  Cheers. – let’s have Perrier!

I broke a fingernail. My “perfect” fingernails walked seamlessly into the realm of reality the day before Easter.  It happened incognito.  The middle one, you know the one, appeared maimed to its jagged edge, which you could barely call an edge since it was emaciated right to the quick.

Unusual for my modus operandi, I said, “oh well,” tidied it up and moved on.  There was a time, back in the land of perfectionism, that I would have been compelled to cut all of my nails very short to accommodate that one broken one.

Wouldn’t it be appalling if someone should notice this lack of order, consistency, balance or perfection in me, right?  If they notice at all, does anybody really care, beyond “oh, you broke a nail?”

Atelophobia, the fear of imperfection, is probably a somewhat self-conscious fear, thinking that people notice you more than they actually do.  Sadly, most people are more concerned about themselves than they are about you

I wonder if all perfectionism is in some sense trying, without success, to accommodate brokenness because we can’t maintain perfection indefinitely?  After all, one definition of perfect, is “excellent, beyond practical.”

Is it enough to maintain a perfect façade?  The house might be crumbling inside, but if the outside looks good, all is well.  Or so it seems.

Expectation, accommodation and adaptation to reality might be the real circle of life, as it turns out.  If I’m honest, I didn’t really expect my nails to all stay one length, looking perfect, for long.  Experience tells a more realistic story.

I don’t know what day it was but one day something clicked in me and I decidedly preferred peace over perfection.  I became a utilitarian after having been an idealist for eons.

I was a teenage idealist.  It seems that sometime along the line, I lowered my standards of excellence.  “Lower your standards,” someone shouted.  “For shame!”

Whoa, hold on a minute.  Who set those standards to begin with?  Me thinks it was me, when I was an idealist.  I’ve since, relinquished my mental perfection-detection meter and re-defined certain minor flaws as a variation of normal.

For a Sociology course I taught, I studied utopian communities of the 19^th century.  Do you have, or your family had, Oneida silverware, an Amana refrigerator or freezer, or a Shaker cabinet or ladder-back chair?  All three of these renowned crafts are products from utopian communities.  They were idealists who no longer remain as living, contemporary communities.

Idealists lose steam because the reality is that any philosophy which demands perfection and rejects anything less, will fail the test of time.  People are flawed.  No one can conform absolutely to the highest degree of excellence, consistently and forever.

Excellence has degrees.  You’ve heard the increments: good, better, best.  It has been said that “the perfect is the enemy of the good.”  Or, as Voltaire said, “The best is the enemy of the good.”  Confucius said, “Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without.”

The drive toward perfection can be a good thing because it may just result in a great thing.  But the dark side of the pursuit of perfection is the persistent attitude that says, “if it’s not perfect, it’s not right.”  This translates to, “I’m not right, or good enough.”

Enough is a parallel concept of perfection.  When is good, good enough?

Can you stop on the road to perfection and say, that’s good enough?  Can you stop the car, at good?  Can you conclude, “I’m good?”

When is enough, enough?  Ancient Taoist philosopher, Lao Tzu (Laozi) says, “There is no greater sin than desire, no greater curse than discontent, no greater misfortune than wanting something for oneself.  Therefore, he who knows that enough is enough will always have enough.”

Someone once said perfectionism is a waste of time since twenty percent of your effort gleans eighty percent of your desired result.  Does eighty percent  work for you?

I noticed a column by one of my compatriots, blasting those of us who are moderates, as not caring enough to take a stand.  Unafraid, she has taken a solid stand and that’s admirable.  It is clear where she stands and clarity is good in communication.

I, on the other hand would make a poor politician or activist.  I guess I see too much of value from most every perspective.

I have always considered myself chameleon-like, able to adapt to people of every ilk, from the elite to the humble, finding worth in every soul.  If I had a little girl, yes, a girl, I would probably buy her the new “you can be anything” mermaid Barbie, that when dipped in water, changes color.

Those of us in the moderate middle have also taken a stand.  See, I took a stand in the last paragraph, stating that I would buy a Barbie for my little girl and probably wouldn’t buy one for my boy.

The concept of taking a stand originates with the military, holding their position against an enemy.  Make no mistake, there are enemies to the right and to the left of where I stand.

Extremes are the enemy of the moderate, who maintains a position of reasonable limits, resisting the extremes of both the right and the left.  We in the middle, have an ability to see the merit in points of view that reside all over the map.  We believe in pulling those worthy ideas, philosophies, theories, and actions into our stand.

We get stuff done through mitigation, restraint and control.  The ineluctable moderate is the only just winner in the battle between the extremes.

Bridge Over Troubled Water, the Simon & Garfunkel song from 1970(Paul Simon), comes to mind.  What would we do without bridges?  They connect us from one side of the gorge between us, to the other.  The moderate is that connection, that bridge.

I stand for equity, kindness, forthrightness, decency, intelligence, communication, humility, common sense, and all things leading to agreement.  I believe in standing up for the little guy, but I’m not afraid to stand up for someone powerful who needs another to come along side.

The things of common goodness which I was brought up admiring and aspiring to be, bring us from the far left and the far right into a place of compromise.  This is not a bad word.

My own husband used to dislike the word and concept behind compromise.  It sounded to him, as it likely does to some others, like giving up, giving in, or not taking a stand – a crouch perhaps, but not a stand.

I guess I was born a peacemaker.  Every disagreement must be moderated with give-and-take from each side, bringing them firmly into middle ground.   We are not a homogeneous culture, community, household, or partnership, and disagreements abound.

Compromise is not diluted commitment.  The thing that settles disagreements is give-and-take, diplomacy, communication, and yes, compromise.  As Ella Fitzgerald sang, you have to “give a little to get a little.”  She went on to croon, “no love, no hope…with love there’s hope.”

Jesus himself said that love covers sin.  He modeled the concept with the prostitute he met at a watering hole.  He conversed with her about not only physical water, but the metaphysical kind: living water, or love.  Others ridiculed and judged the woman for her lifestyle, but Jesus covered her, with love, forgiveness and compromise, “go and sin no more,” he said.

There are two sides to every coin, but one coin.  There are two sides to every argument, with the goal being agreement.  There are two people in a marriage, making one union.  A collective of trees makes a forest.

I recently dreamt of the 1986 Culture Club (Boy George) song, Karma Chameleon which totally portrays the chameleon as a wishy-washy uncommitted creature which takes no stand.  Was the dream defensive for my chameleonic personality?  Or is it just a reaction to very self-assured activists, critical of us chameleons of the 1960s “make love not war” flavor, who don’t join their fight?

My perspective about chameleons is that they change colors in order to adapt to an ever-changing environment.  First one color then another is a form of assimilation, accommodation, and adaptation – all survival mechanisms.  Back to the military, we must “adapt and overcome” or face sure defeat.

I don’t take a knee.  I don’t bow.  I don’t crouch or curtsy.  I stand, probably for you, and you, and you.

I’ve seen enough old spy movies to have a suspicion that Vladimir Putin could conceivably follow through with his threat to flip the switch activating nuclear codes.  For that matter so could Joe Biden.  Flipping that switch is an ominous thought, well above my pay grade.  However, it got me to thinking about switches, in general.

Actually, switches of the electrical kind are fun and entertaining devices.  I recently watched a television show or movie that in one scene featured a woman mindlessly switching a light on and off, on and off, to assuage her boredom or was it, frustration?

I once had to run a switchboard on the receptionist’s lunch hour at a transportation company I worked for.  It was a desk-size console covered with switches or buttons.  It wasn’t quite as ancient as the one run by Mrs. Olsen on Little House on the Prairie, with flip switches and a headphone, for listening in, but it was close.  Pushing buttons and flipping switches made that old switchboard a grown-up toy reminiscent of my little girl’s cash register from back in the day.

I’ve never owned a switchblade and probably never will.  But they are bad-ass, huh?  I think it’s not so much the blade, but the sound of switching them open, that seals the deal.  I might like having one just to hear the soothing sound of switching it open.

Or maybe I should become a switch-person at a train-yard.  I worked for Auto-Train many years ago and I will never outgrow the thrill of trains.  I still find train-yard sounds, soothing.  Even the screeching of heavy iron clanking against heavy iron makes me smile and it reminds me of the Proverb (27:17), iron sharpens iron, generally understood to illustrate friendship and accountability.

How many times during a television watching session do you switch channels for nothing but the joy of the switch?  Do you drive a standard shift automobile or truck, because you find switching gears entertaining?

Are you familiar with the flexible, thin branch from a tree, called a switch, which is used as a whip with which to spank naughty children?  I was never hit with a switch, a belt, or even spanked, as I recall.  But, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was required reading by those of us born in what I generically call, 19sensibleshoes.  Tom Sawyer, or was it Huck Finn, was hit with a switch and if I recall correctly, he had to select said switch.

Modern child development and parenting literature teaches us that spanking, let alone switching the backside of children suggests to them that hitting is the way for someone more powerful than you to solve a problem.  Some folks, including ones that were hit as children, would argue that spanking or switching just taught them to behave, or at least not get caught misbehaving.  That’s an argument for others.

Or maybe you know the switch as a metaphor for a device of behavioral or psychological control.  A pointed finger is a sort of switch because it’s an object for pointing out stuff, or why else call it a “pointer finger?”

My husband enjoys a picture of a little girl with a switch pointed at a little boy, that I printed for him from the internet.  This picture which resides in his man-shed as well as on his office desk, is captioned “I’m not bossy!  I have skills…leadership skills!!  Understand?”  Enough said.

We’ve all had to make some unpleasant switcheroos from time to time, say from salt to herbs to add flavor to food; from chips to popcorn; from red meat to chicken and turkey; from size um-um to a bigger size UM-UM; from a little chocolate with our sugar bars to unsweetened 72% or higher cacao/chocolate bars that honestly taste like dirt at first, but I’ve learned to like them a lot.

Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters sang, “You got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive, Eliminate the negative, and latch on to the affirmative….”  So, might I suggest that the next time you switch outfits for the fifth time before leaving the house, “accentuate the positive,” and think of it as entertainment.  You just pulled a switcheroo and got away without a switching from somebody, anybody.