Author: Bev

During one of my outdoor adventures, which I variously call walking, jogging, or hiking, it occurred to me that my walking attire isn’t posh, fashionable or even what some might consider appropriate.  After all, once upon a time a passerby thought I was a bag woman and asked, did I have a home.

When I walk in the summer, I carry a security alarm, my cell phone, antibacterial soap and a stick to combat spider webs and gnats.  Clear, big, shooting glasses to prevent bugs from connecting with my eyes, round out the stuff I don when heading out.  Oh, I guess I should include, the baby oil lotion applied to exposed skin, which also supposedly keeps mosquitoes at bay.

These outings range from a local and familiar three to five miles and take around thirty minutes.  I don’t take water with me because I might feel that it’s distasteful for a girl to urinate in the woods.  I tank up when I get home.

I wear long, lightweight, linen pants, this time of year, secured by socks to prevent ticks from making contact with my skin.  All kinds of bugs like me, as do plant oils.  Considering the summer heat, I’m probably considered by onlookers as a bit covered up, or over-dressed, with this hiking costume.

I usually select one of my husband’s tee-shirts with pockets for my tissues, which are always handy when walking outdoors. Does your nose run when you work, or otherwise exert yourself, outdoors?

My footwear is an old pair of Sloggers, the kind they no longer sell.  If you’re unfamiliar with Sloggers they are rubber slip-on shoes.  They suit my bunions and the rubber soles take the pounding of my feet to the varied terrain I encounter from grassy soil, sometimes muddy or wet; to gravel, sticks, pavement, rocks, acorns, and whatnot.

Diehard hikers would have me court-martialed for this getup.  I’m unapologetic, however.  I rest my case on the precedent-setting Grandma Gatewood.

Some years ago, a sixty-something woman set out to hike the Appalachian Trail, wearing garden-variety, cheap sneakers.  Why?  Because they felt good on her feet. She conquered the famous trail, not once but several times, all the while wearing (and replacing multiple times over) her comfortable sneakers.

Her attitude, as is mine, at this ripe age, is “suit yourself.”  When I was mulling over this column while jogging and I came up with the “suit yourself” title, I wondered about the origins of the phrase.  I anticipated finding it to have a metaphorical meaning that went back to the daily suit-wearing of most men in the 1920s and maybe annoying the tailor with too many prickly demands, who may have replied: “suit yourself” then.

But, no.  “Suit yourself,” does not have such a fanciful metaphorical meaning, it simply means to do or think as you please; please yourself.

When one gets to a certain age, one feels, “I’ll do what I want.”  We tend to have veered away sometime in the last decade, from people-pleasing.  Although we haven’t abandoned common courtesy and kindness to others, we don’t live to please them.  We suit ourselves.

There is a song on my jogging playlist, called Here with Me, by Dido.  In it, she sings, “I am what I am.  I’ll do what I want…but I can’t breathe until you’re resting here with me….”  These lyrics seemed a little contradictory to me at first.

Suiting yourself, or doing what you want, however, does not discount others in your life.  In most healthy relationships, independence is intermittent as is dependence.

There is a third way of relating to others, it’s interdependence.  Interdependence allows one to weave back and forth between independence and dependence, to do what you want sometimes, do what they want on occasion and do what suits you, together, other times.

This defines relationship.  Connection, disconnection and interconnection in our interactions, allow us to relate to others yet, “suit ourselves.”  It’s a win-win.

 

The fact is, there are significant numbers of people who live together, “as if married” and they feel that their relationship does not require a “piece of paper.”  I get it.

Recently an acquaintance told me that she doesn’t need to be married, that “it’s just a piece of paper,” and she doesn’t need said piece of paper.  I agree with her that the piece of paper is unnecessary, in one sense.

If my acquaintance were “married,” in spirit, the piece of paper is secondary.   Some people are clearly married, without the formal piece of paper; others are not.

My take is that marriage is not a piece of paper.  It’s more than a piece of paper.

None of us needs a piece of paper to define our marriage.  However, legally, that piece of paper provides benefits, privileges, and penalties, if unadhered-to.

Marriage, has been called Holy Matrimony.  In fact, many of our church-based wedding ceremonies were predicated upon the fact that we were being united together as one, in the sight of God “and this company.”

This unity that embodies Holy Matrimony reminds me of the saying, “marriage of minds.”  Several biblical sayings testify to this power of unity, which defines marriage as Holy Matrimony.  Symbolic of our marriage-intent, and spoken at ours and many other weddings are, “a threefold cord is not easily broken,” and, “where two or more of you are gathered in His name,” Jesus, in the form of the Holy Spirit, is with them; “and there is love,” is how the song goes.

The social reality of marriage is reflected in this Scripture from Ecclesiastes, “Two people are better off than one for they can help each other succeed. And if one falls down, the other can lift him back up.  A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer.”

Notice the back-to-back reference.  It speaks to the fact that if you have a marriage-partner you will be less vulnerable to outside attacks, your back is never exposed to an enemy or predator because they “have your back.”

“Love covers sin.”  This is another reference to having your loved-one’s back.  It’s ironic that we’ll overlook the lifestyle choices of one we love who has engaged in what we would otherwise define as wrongdoing, but vilify someone else who made the same choices.  That’s because our love for them, covers them, protects them, forgives them, defends them.  Would that we could make this kind of love more expansive and inclusive than our immediate loved-ones.

Paul McCartney, in one of my favorite songs, Let It Be, sings “when the brokenhearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer…”  Leave it to the Beatles to reveal an important key to finding answers to our problems, agreement.

Some papers are symbols.  Our marriage certificates symbolize our commitment to fidelity, unity, and to the long-term.  Just because some have broken their commitments in some fashion, doesn’t mean they intended to, wanted to, or expected to and nor should they be blamed or vilified for doing so.

Many of our broken commitments have been mended, altered, healed, glued, or pasted back together, for the sake of some piece of paper.  Because a piece of paper can be torn, burned, shredded or otherwise obliterated, doesn’t make null its purpose, or what it stands for.  In the “rock, paper, scissors” form of decision-making, paper, although fragile in one sense, can still win – paper covers rock, even if you’re “between a rock and a hard place.”

Even when a marriage is dissolved, another paper takes the place of the marriage certificate.  A divorce decree or death certificate.  It stood for something; thus, another paper is needed to replace it.

Symbols are representative of something that is often immaterial.  The marriage certificate has meaning in and of itself.  It represents a marriage covenant; the word covenant meaning among other things, agreement.

In essence, we sign an agreement to do our best to stay in agreement.  Sometimes our best isn’t enough and the agreement must be severed.  This is relatable, if you admit your humanity.

It is known that the first year of marriage, whether the couple has been together days, months, years, or even decades, is one of the most challenging.  Without this agreement, on a piece of paper, it was somehow easier to be together in part, yet remain unbound.  The option to part ways, before we agreed on paper, was less complicated than after the piece of paper was signed.

Having accomplished the first year of marriage, we symbolically celebrate our first anniversary, with paper.  Imagine that.  It turns out that marriage is a piece of paper, but so much more.

Okay, I’m confused.  No doubt you are too, if you’re over thirty, live in a rural community, are conservative, traditional, stay away from entertainment news, or are a strict English grammarian.

I’m talking about the new use of “they” or “them,” as singular pronouns.  For example, “please run back into the restaurant for me.  Our server was exceptional and I forgot to tip they.”

This change for most of us, is confusing and we don’t like it.  Some of us will rebel.  Some others will complain at the “unnecessary” complication.  Yet others will be hateful about it, and will make fun of “they.”

The “we,” I’m speaking about are those of us who grew up understanding the pronouns, “they” and “them,” as properly used only in the plural context of, more than one.  But it is my understanding that the use of they and them in the singular, referring to individuals, has been around since the 1950s.

Starting a sentence with but isn’t strictly grammatically correct, either.  But here we are!

Sometimes we writers can best express ourselves by stretching the rules.    Just because we grew up with something as “truth,” doesn’t make it right, nor true.

Some of us grew up hearing ain’t, hain’t, yuns, yoons, yous-guys, and all manner of modifications of a certain “eff-word” that are neither right nor truth, but to us it was usual, customary, acceptable in our sphere, and alright.  You’ve heard, “it’s just an expression.”

Culture is expressed through language.  Certain words are used in support of culture.  When culture changes, our language changes to accommodate it.   

My news-loving spouse keeps me supplied with entertainment trivia which he sees smattered across his various news-feeds.  Recently he mentioned a young celebrity had announced that “they” was heretofore going to refer to “themself,” according to the non-binary pronoun, “they” instead of “she.”

To many of “us,” this use of English language, feels wrong.  But moving along, what is non-binary anyway?

Non-binary, abbreviated, “Enby,” is the classification of gender identity that is outside the gender binary, a system of two – male or female.  Non-binary includes a gender spectrum with many possibilities that are peculiar, to say the least, to the traditionalist. 

In order to accommodate this classification, and to avoid the oft-used as pejorative, pronoun, “it,” we must use the already on the books use of “they” and “them,” in the singular.  I recall “back in the day,” it was rude to refer to the unknown gender of ones gestating child, as “it.” 

It was considered dehumanizing, to use “it” in this way.  With the advent of the routine ultrasound, to determine gender, we made obsolete the need for referring to our unborn, as “it.”  Shortly thereafter, we began gender-reveal events.  It was, briefly in history, cool to celebrate our unborn as her or him; he or she.

It is my understanding that we are going back to the future, still abandoning the pejorative pronoun “it,” to refer to the unborn as well as non-binary individuals.  But now it’s becoming just as culturally taboo to identify folks either born or unborn, as he or she.

Traditional English teachers are asked to “get over it,” when attempting to enforce the rules we grew up with about the matter.  In fact, “cisgender” persons, those of us who identify with the gender to which we were born, should get used to using “they” and “them” in the singular to refer to all others.

“A comfort zone is a beautiful place but nothing grows there.”  I’ve always been interested in growth.  Stagnation or even dormancy are unappealing concepts to me.  So, bye-bye comfort zone, I guess.

For the sake of better communication with and understanding of marginalized subcultures within my own, I’m willing to try to accommodate these linguistic changes.  I will make mistakes however and shouldn’t be bullied by a wider culture that doesn’t walk in my shoes.

Also, as an outsider to the numerical minority, transgender community, the linguistic changes I’ve outlined above will have little to no meaning in my everyday life.  The key, however, is that to the insider, the new use of the pronouns, “they” and “them” resonates profoundly.

I’m all for personal expression.  I’m a writer, for goodness’ sake.  I believe everyone should be free to express their personality, their beliefs and opinions, and their soul, in any way they see fit.

The next time I observe an individual of ambiguous gender, I can intelligently refer to such a person with the pronoun, “they” and its derivatives.  “Wasn’t their hair style unique?”  “Their makeup was striking, wasn’t it?”

We should all be protected to express our identity without fear of retribution.  It is my belief that we will never be “equal,” the same as others.  Equality is wishful thinking, a myth, and nonsense, in my opinion. But I’m equally passionate that we can and should treat others, all others, equitably, with fairness and justice. 

In closing, I’m going to combine a couple of quotes rolling around in my head.  One of them is from the Pledge of Allegiance: “… with liberty and justice for all” ….  The other is from, well you know, “and to all a good night.”

 

 

 

We’ve all lost something, sometime or another.  When something gets lost around the house, I take it personal.

Losing stuff, seriously peeves me.  Why?

Maybe it comes from the concept of “put it back where it belongs.”  Or, “everything has its place.”  Why isn’t it there?

My annoyance with this issue of losing stuff stems from the original effort I’ve taken to organize our stuff in the spirit of efficient household maintenance.

Do you remember the “domestic goddess” of Rosanne Barr’s stand-up comedy?  I might be one of those.  I probably can’t blame my “organizational skills” totally on Barr.  After all I took a charm class in travel school in 1973, and possessed a book touting the etiquette and graces of home-making.  So, there’s that.

We own a small house.  Importantly, we like our home’s tidy size.  I do not wish for a bigger place.

There are limits, however, as to the amount of stuff we can have in our small living space.  This is a good thing as it applies to living simply.  But it requires constant maintenance, kind of like advancing gray hair, an expanding middle, and perms.

Things not “where they belong,” is a battle which I continually lose in my household.  And right now, ours is a household of two.  Hm.  I wonder who doesn’t put things away.

You’ve surely heard of the open concept for living space.  Well, my husband has taken this concept way too far.  If he, had it his way, everything would be left out in the open, and I’m not talking about things psychological here.

My spouse would like nothing to be put “away.”  From food to tools, laundry to books, papers to clothing, my husband would leave it out if left to his own devices.

That is, until something important is “lost.”  Then, we fall back on the old adage, “if mom can’t find it, nobody can find it,” or in our case “if the wife can’t find it, it can’t be found.”

One can lose a game.  We win some and lose some.  Unless we always lose, then it’s not losing the game that hurts, it’s losing hope that can cripple a person, labeled “loser.”

We lose items all the time.  If we call this “misplacing” an item instead of losing it, hope remains that it can be found.  I usually fall back on, “it has to be here somewhere.”

Depending on the value you place on the game or the item, we can recover from these losses.  If truth be told, misplaced items are usually found. 

You know stories of your coffee cup on the car roof, the tissue box in the refrigerator, car keys in the bathroom, and your debit card slipped neatly into that mystery space between the driver’s seat and the middle console of your vehicle.

I once “lost” my wedding ring, found in a McDonald’s carry-out bag.  That one caused a tidy panic for a very long, few minutes.

And, fortunately most of us have been rescued by a Good Samaritan, who found an irreplaceable, lost item, only to return it safely into our hands.  But this brings to mind the troubling difference between lost and stolen.

There was the time, I still haven’t completely recovered from, that I left a favorite item of clothing at a hotel.  It was a plain white cotton blouse with a little bit of stretch, ideal for travel because it was comfortable and went with everything.

After arriving home to discover the blouse missing, I called the hotel to inquire if my blouse had been turned into their “lost and found” department.  It hadn’t.  Hm.

I was referred to “housekeeping,” for further investigation.  Where else would one find a lost item than housekeeping?  No joy there.

The monetary value of that blouse was nominal, at best.  But the practical value to its owner was invaluable, with a commensurate level of distress at its loss, that has never really diminished or resolved.  I temporarily vowed not to stay at that hotel chain again, but, well, time has mellowed me and forgiveness has taken precedence, but I will never forget the loss of that blouse.

So, all things lost, are not found.  Even when we lose weight, sometimes we manage to permanently leave some of it behind.  Other times, we find every pound and then some.

Even when we lose precious people or pets, we seem to find them again in our memories, dreams, visions, photographs, and in everyday items that “remind” us of them.  Thusly let’s celebrate another holiday that I just made up, Lost and Found Day, on May 31^st.

We could personalize Memorial Day this year to commemorate not only those who died in military service, but those we knew and loved who died from wounds sustained in any of life’s battles, whether it be addiction, sickness or disease, heartbreak, or their life timed-out way too soon for us to ably accommodate.

Let’s celebrate together, a united acceptance of things lost, but mostly, all things, found.

 

 

 

I shall tip-off this column with a few tips. This is not an advice column and I am careful not to tip my hand too soon, but let me warn you not to use felt-tip pens, willy-nilly.  The old-fashioned ball-point pen will do.

I have a practical kitchen tip for you.  You might say, “who does she think she is to offer me a tip.”  Well, I am no expert, but not only do I know how to boil water, I’ve learned after all these years how to boil an egg, too.

That might seem random to you, but if nothing else, my thoughts go all random, all the time.  And I’m kind of tickled that I can now boil eggs so that my deviled eggs, or “Jesus eggs” to some of my relatives of relatives, don’t look like they’re pre-chewed or pock-marked like the aftermath of cystic acne.

Just for your information, I have tried all of the other tips offered by the experts on YouTube and the cooking websites about how to boil eggs so as to remove the shells without incident.  I thought baking them would solve all of those problems, but not so much.  They scorched EVERY time, even when I used silicone liners; and they still didn’t peel smoothly.

Also, the big deal about fresh eggs versus “old” eggs, is in my opinion, whoo-hoo, if that’s a sufficient word, or even a word at all.  You may try my tip or ignore it; it’s offered free of charge, as I am no tipster.

The tip that I have for you about boiling eggs is, add a tablespoon or more of baking soda to the water, bring to boil, and boil for 12 minutes.  Rinse with cool water and let the eggs sit in the warm water until you can handle them to peel.  The peel comes off easily with smooth, shiny, boiled eggs.

And my tip for unusually good deviled eggs, is capers and sour pickles, plus all the usual stuff.  Also, the baking soda helps clean the pan in which you boiled the eggs.

Okay, that’s it.  No more tips of that sort.

I have no gambling tip for you, or insider trading tip.  And if you believe there is anything real about cow-tipping, then let’s go snipe-hunting.

Please tip your server, every server, every time you go out to eat a meal in a restaurant.  Twenty percent is standard.  If you receive exceptional service, tip more.  If you received excessively poor service, reduce it a bit, but remember you never know what another person is going through, and if you can afford to eat out, you can afford to tip the server.

Speaking about what we don’t know about people, I believe it’s true that what we see is just the tip of the iceberg, below.  “What you see is what you get,” is a myth.  Some people may be transparent, but in my experience, those folks are “far and few between.”

If you find yourself in tip-top shape, I tip my hat to you.  That is if I had a hat to tip to you.  Random fact, hat-tipping began as a demonstration of vulnerability and trust, as in removing one’s helmet when no danger was present; and only later as a gesture of respect and politeness.

Shorter people get the concept of tippy-toes.  We have to utilize this ballet-skill frequently.  My pantry and kitchen cabinets all require this particular dance of me, on a daily basis.  I guess it improves the calf muscles, or contributes to leg cramps depending on which side of the glass you inhabit, the half-full one or the half-empty one.

One last tip.  This one is geographical.  The world-famous Leaning Tower of Pisa, is no more unsteady on its foundation, than I am tipsy, when writing these tip-words, for your entertainment.  Cheers.

There are all kinds of rest, and I’m a fan of them all.  For an introvert, two types of rest particularly apply: stillness to decompress and solitude to recharge. 

I think introversion is often misunderstood.  Most of us who fit into this category are introspective, but we might also flit quite smoothly into the world as social butterflies.

We can talk among the best of them, if it’s substantive conversation about stuff that matters to us.  But, small-talk is exhausting.

The difference between us and the extroverts among us, is we need to consciously prepare beforehand and recharge after our social forays.  Our psychological and social energies are finite and have to be replenished.

Introverts need a physical and mental exhale after enjoying social interactions.  We regroup, then go “out” again.

Rest from the usual.  Rest from routine activities.  Rest from work.  Most people would call this type of rest, vacation.

I’ve secretly giggled when retired folks say they’re going on vacation.  One could argue that this is an oxymoron or even a paradox; a contradiction in terms.  That is, if you define vacation as time away from “the job.”

However, if you consider a vacation to be, time away from your routine activities or rest from the usual, or same-ole, same-ole, then happy vacay to all ya’ll retirees.  I’m aware that “the beach,” is a favorite destination, a change of geography, and scenery for many who are otherwise land-locked.

For others of us, a connection to art or nature gives us rest.  For years, I’ve found exercise in the form of walking/jogging adjacent to woodlands, both restful and invigorating, physically and creatively.  Many a story idea has emerged in mid-walk.

To all of you “caregivers” out there, rest can also include permission to not be helpful, to do something “unproductive,” or to take a break from taking on the responsibility of the world.  Rest from care.  Have you ever said, when tired, “I don’t care?”  This isn’t rudeness, it’s rest.

Or maybe your respite from care might be spending time alone at home.  Alone can be immensely restful.

Is rest the same thing as relaxation or sleep or vacation?  Is rest only physical?  Is rest only the cessation of work?  We’re told to rest when we’re ill.

Doesn’t one need psychological rest?  To stop thinking, planning, imagining?  Mental illness should surely benefit from rest.  Sometimes don’t you feel the need for rest after awaking from a particularly vigorous dream?

The Sabbath rest is a thing for some Christians.  Instituted by God himself, after creating the world and all within it in six days, He appointed the seventh day, a day of rest.  This we’re told in the epic story of Genesis.  Whew, now that was some work to recover from.  Talk about needing a vacay!

Doesn’t mental work make you just as tired as physical work?  After an epic day of desk-work, (can you say Monday?), one can feel released from the “chain-gang.”

Some folks apparently never rest; thus, we say they are “laid to rest” when they die or bid them adieu with the wish, “rest in peace.”  We’ve all heard someone say, “I’ll rest when I die.”

Rest is one of the more sublime behaviors for the human-being.  This brings me to the ultimate rest, sleep.

Not ones to be described as good sleepers, some of us really treasure rest.  In fact, some nights even though sleep eludes us, we can still rest and rejuvenate, if we allow ourselves the pleasure.

If, instead of counting how many hours of sleep we would get if we go to sleep in the next half hour; we were to just shut down, and allow ourselves to rest, it might be a restful night. We’ve all observed a baby who fights sleep.  Stop being a baby, and rest.

There are moments, particularly after a long day of work, when I curl up in that just-right Goldilocks position, get the My Pillow positioned in that space between my head and neck and reach a position of what can only be described as perfect rest.  It may not result in sleep but it’s satisfying rest.

In fact, I think perhaps one could characterize the baby tucked up in its “fetal position,” inside its waterbed womb, as “growing, in rest.”  Oooh, that sounds like a nice kind of rest.  Regression therapy anyone?  Get some rest.

It’s not necessarily the same thing, but “we all have something.”

Years ago, when writing a book, I came across a news headline about a scientist posted in the North Pole or was it the South Pole, who got cancer.  Unable to get home promptly for treatment, she had to treat herself with whatever supplies and technology she had at hand.  But when finally flighted back to civilization she said, “we’ve all got something, mine happens to be cancer.”

Like that scientist mine might be cancer or another sickness.  Yours might be a battle against a past that still haunts you.  Maybe your something is financial struggle.  Or your fight could be with a difficult relationship that you can’t sever nor reconcile.

But one thing is certain, “we all have something.”  It’s universal.

Then again, “there’s always something.”  We’re never free from some needling something that keeps us “fighting the good fight.”  The Biblical Apostle Paul, had a figurative thorn in his side, literally needling him to stay appreciative.

Why do I always think of Robin Williams’ line in Mrs. Doubtfire, “I am job,” when I write the biblical name, Job? But back to the subject at hand, there is the Old Testament figure, Job who had a trifecta of trouble, testing his loyalty to the God who gave him everything, only to have it all taken away by Satan.

We homeowners often lament that the honey-do, DIY jobs around the house, never end; whining regularly that “there’s always something.”  And what Monday morning doesn’t start out with hope that this time it’ll not be as usual, punctuating the end of the day and the beginning of the week with, “there’s always something.”

Even if you’re “living the dream,” make no mistake, there is always some hindrance, tension, or problem to be overcome.  I think of the one element required in a good plot, whether in a book or film, which is tension.  Something to get out from under.

And don’t you know that’s the thing that drives us forward and drives us crazy at the same time.  I can’t tell you how many times my husband and I have discerned the advent of that element of plot in a movie, much to our dismay, “well, there has to be tension or there would be no movie, eh!”  We’d usually prefer that it skip the cliched problem and move on to the solution.

The underdog always thinks, “if I could just get to be ‘top-dog’ I’d be fulfilled or content, or happy.”  I think it was Rockefeller (John D.) who answered the question put to him, “how much money does it take to make a man happy?  One more dollar.”

“Fighting the good fight,” a line taken from the Apostle Paul’s letter to his protégé, Timothy, is a precept which encourages us all to become better at our humanity.  It’s meant to give us the strength to battle whatever “something” that stands between us and completion of our purpose in life.  And “there’s always something.”

“Gonna try with a little help from my friends…”  That was how the Beatles described our need for some help to deal with the “somethings” that hound us.

I know to the independent sort of folk, “help” is a “four-letter” word of the dirtiest kind.  But sooner or later we’re gonna need some help for something.

One of my favorite songs is, “Giant” by Calvin Harris.  Let me close this with a little something from that song.  Maybe it’ll help you with whatever something you have to deal with this week:

“I would be nothing without you holding me up…  Now I’m strong enough for both of us…  Climb up on my shoulders, tell me what you see…  We’ll be breaking boulders underneath our feet…”