Recently, some friends who happened to be in the neighborhood stopped by on the off chance we might be home (which, happily, we were).
It made me realize how rare this is; generally, a ringing doorbell indicates either an Amazon delivery or that our trash can lids have blown open.
In my ever-faulty memory, it seems to me that neighbors used to stop by unannounced with some frequency, especially when we were kids. But this has gone the way of the dodo, thanks to crime, COVID, and other modern inconveniences.
I must confess I would never just show up — I might text to see if somewhere were home or if it was a convenient time to receive visitors — but I kinda think that’s a shame.
I’m continually in awe of all of you who post regularly no matter what! Much as I love to write and hear from those of you who make time to respond, I sometimes just can’t seem to fit it in. And I don’t even have the excuse of a full-time job!
Although I heartily dislike the whole concept of “guilt”, it does nag at me that I haven’t kept my bargain with myself. (Never mind the pandemic pounds I haven’t lost either.)
Take last week. A hastily-arranged trip to Texas to see family was followed by an equally hasty return to host, first, a visit with dear friends we don’t see often enough and then several intense days (Highs! Lows! Seafood! Cocktails!) with my two wonderful stepdaughters. All absolutely enjoyable but with no spare energy for the computer.
On a related note, have any of you watched the series “Guilt” currently in Season 2 on PBS in the US (which presumably aired before this in the UK)? Of course those guys are stealing, lying, murdering, etc., which makes me feel better about my own minor infractions. There’s guilt and then there’s GUILT.
Lately, my inbox has become a game of whack-a-mole.
No sooner do I delete, say, a dozen messages — not a single one announcing that a distant relative has bequeathed me a sprawling, all-expenses-paid estate in the Cotswolds — than another two dozen appear.
And spam filters never seem to catch the nasty varmints. ARRGGHHH.
Whew, dear readers. After weeks of inactivity (blog-wise, that is) I have recently noticed more and more “can this be true?” events in the world.
You’ve probably seen the news story of actress Anne Heche driving out of control and hitting some unlucky woman’s house, causing it to burst into flames and destroying all of her possessions.
While Ms. Heche’s subsequent intubation and mental health issues may deserve sympathy too, here’s what has me shaking my head: WHY does the woman whose house was crashed into need a GoFundMe page to get her life back together, rather than millionaire Ms. Heche’s family immediately offering to pay what’s necessary??
And on a different note (literally), I was driving the other day and an old Eric Clapton song, “I can’t stand it” came on the radio.
My question: Who on God’s green earth would EVER cheat on Eric Clapton?!?
I hope this is not a new trend. In recent weeks, Dear Husband and I have eaten at two excellent restaurants with truly inferior bread. What gives??
First up, Toulouse — a lovely French/Creole place in Seattle, where one would expect to find good sourdough or certainly an acceptable baguette. Instead, we got flabby structure and squishy crust; mon Dieu!
Then, last week, a local place on the Oregon coast — the Bay House — which has a relaxing ambiance, superb service, and beautiful food (see below) — with this notable exception. Hey, if it’s too humid, pop the loaf in an oven to crisp it up! I’m tempted to bring my own sourdough next time. Think they’d mind?
Bread lovers of the world, unite! And what’s your pet peeve when eating out, dear readers?
“You almost got the job” (Translation: You were second out of a zillion applicants).
“You were almost accepted” … to the club, college, team, etc.
“You almost made the flight”… and now you’ll be stuck at the airport lounge eating stale peanuts for three hours.
This sneaky little word can encapsulate the difference between success and failure, or, in the case of our never-ending home renovation, the difference between ”livable” and ”not exactly”.
When our well-meaning neighbors ask, ”Is the house finished?”, no doubt wondering how in hell this remodel has taken a year and a half and counting, we generally answer ”almost”. As in, we still don’t have shower doors in two of the bathrooms because, well, somehow they were measured incorrectly. Twice. And no ovens, because they were “only” ordered nine months ago. Oh, and an unusable bath tub because the tub filler was set too far away from the tub so water splashes all over the floor and needs to be replaced. I could go on, but you get the picture.
On the other hand, ”almost” could have magical powers, e.g., ”The bullet almost pierced your lungs/spine/brain” or ”That car almost plowed right into you”.
If only this were one of those good ”almosts”. Grrrr.
A couple of weeks ago, I wandered down a blog rabbit hole reading a post and responses concerning the author’s dilemma of whether or not to have a third child.
The comments were sensitive and thought-provoking, relying on various writers’ personal experiences and larger ethical questions, such as: Is it selfish to bring more children into a world where profound climate change threatens to create an uninhabitable future for the next generations?
Set against the current debates on Roe v. Wade, the decision whether to have children at all is increasingly fraught.
It is, of course, both a deeply personal and mostly unknowable decision with no ”right” answer. Some of the women had yearned for children and wished they’d had more before their biological clock stopped ticking. Others admitted that parenthood involved more sacrifice than they’d ever expected. Which isn’t to say they regretted or resented having kids, though some might have, but it was not exactly what they’d envisioned.
Having struggled to balance a demanding career with raising two kids— on my own after my divorce when they were young teens— I know it’s not a simple choice. And that it’s not for everyone, regardless of what your friends, family, or well-meaning co-worker tells you. Or, frankly, your spouse, unless they are the sort of person who is guaranteed to cook, clean, change diapers, do at least 50% of the work, and take over when it all becomes too much to handle.
The only person who should decide what you truly want is you. Letting anyone else pressure you either way will just lead to resentment.
As someone who is not particularly patient, and who likes things done the way I want them done, I could easily have forgone the parenting experience. And not because I don’t love my kids, which I do, but because I would have been a happier person if I hadn’t been stretched so thin.
I do know this: parenthood is hard. Kids get sick, get hurt, require a lot of attention for the first two decades, change your marriage (not always for the better), and come into the world with their own personalities which may not be the mini-me you envisioned. And how would you handle serious illness or disability— theirs or yours? Or becoming a single parent?
For anyone on the fence, I’d say you will be ”ready” when you feel that any and all obstacles are less important to you than not having kids. If you thrive on order and control, the chaos implicit in having children will be profoundly stressful, no matter how much money you can spend on childcare. Kids are messy, unpredictable, and not for everyone. I know an awful lot of people who never had children and don’t regret it.
Another litmus test: What’s your ideal pet? A cat, which can be happily left on its own? A dog that needs frequent walks, lots of attention, and rewards you with unconditional love?
Do any of you watch The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel? One of the current storylines reminded me of a long-forgotten (subconsciously buried?) episode in my own life.
In the show, Joel’s interfering mother keeps trying to set him up with a “nice, appropriate, Jewish girl”, while he is secretly dating medical student Mei Lin, whose parents are the landlords of his Chinatown nightclub.
It was the 70s. I was in my early twenties, living in Manhattan, and had been seriously dating a Canadian artist for about a year who was not remotely Jewish and therefore not even borderline acceptable to my parents as a potential suitor despite his charm and talent.
My mother– never the most open-minded of people — opposed him sight unseen and started a campaign to “help” me come to my senses. This mostly took the form of not-so-subtle hints and comments. Then, one day, she learned that a neighbor’s father was in the hospital and his doctor was single and Jewish. Jackpot! My mother, never having met the man herself and knowing nothing else about him, told her neighbor to give the doctor my phone number — needless to say without my permission — even though she knew I was in a relationship.
I was livid. But it wasn’t the poor guy’s fault, so when he called I agreed to meet him for coffee.
Was he Prince Charming? Not in the least. I found him unattractive, timid, too old, and boring, and we had nothing in common except the same religion. I daresay he was not drawn to me either.
Ultimately, the artist and I broke up — for reasons having nothing to do with our families. But I’d learned my lesson: Keep my private life private unless I wanted to endure a boatload more unsolicited advice.
As a parent, I know it’s hard to see our kids making choices we feel are wrong for them. But unless their latest love interest is a criminal mastermind or serial killer, it seems wise to stay out of their relationships unless they ask for our opinions.
Who knows? With a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T, they might even listen.