Closure Achieved?

And so it continues.

I had another bird incident. It happened as I was leaving my house on my way to a yoga class. Yoga is, by the way, my new favorite activity. As you may or may not care to know, I am trying to be more accepting of myself and others. Yoga is proving a fantastic complement to this endeavor—especially with regards to how I feel about myself. The instructors are forever saying positive, supportive things and generally validating my self-worth and credibility as a kind and generous person.

The fact that I never actually engage in conversation with these teachers/ready-made fan club and they therefore have no idea if I am actually a good person or a raging miscreant does not detract from the enjoyment I feel as I bask in their encouragement. It is quite a treat to walk into a room and be told that I ought to devote as much of my time and energy as possible to feeling good about how wonderful I am. Actually, rather than deliver orders, they gently suggest as much, making me aware that the invitation to feel wonderful about myself is available for me to accept whenever it feels right.

Incidentally, it feels right most of the time, and I often accept the invitation with pleasure.

So I start out optimistic on a bright Saturday morning: with my yoga mat in tow, the sun is shining and I am excited to make my way to the studio where I pay a monthly fee in return for dedicated time to ponder how delightful I am. As worthwhile an investment as any other, I would say.

Now, the problem with karma is that it finds you with ease and then just sort of lingers around until the moment to strike has ripened to perfection. My moment had arrived. My guard was down. No sooner do I step out my front door am I given an unexpected preview of the class to come. There is a bird on my front stoop, and he is in fish pose.

It was a disorienting sight, and not only because I would have preferred the bird to be in pigeon pose since that would have been more species-appropriate. By the way, fish pose, in yoga, is where you lie on your back and sort of prop yourself up on your elbows while you allow your head to loll backward towards the ground. I am not sure how it earned its name because I do not think fish adopt such a pose unless dead. Maybe its full name is dead fish pose, which would have made sense given my personal circumstance at this moment: birdie looked like he had spiritually flown the coop if you catch my drift.

My immediate reaction involved two components. First and foremost, I did not call my brother. While this may seem an unnecessary detail to include, I often do call my brother when strange and unusual things happen to me. The chances that he will have a story about something that has happened to him that is both stranger and more unusual is a virtual certainty and I feel comforted by how “normal” my life then seems in comparison. Frankly, it is sort of a nice barometer.

But I did not call him. For one thing, Robert lives on the West coast; the time difference combined with the fact that he is quite a man about town, means that it likely would have been too early for him to answer the phone. But the real reason I did not call him is that he is a spiritual life coach and he had just read my story about Larry (see the Closure: A Rather Flighty Business post for details).He is enthralled by evidence of synchronicity and he would have absolutely LOVED the karma involved in the Saturday morning surprise. In my traumatized state of finding a bird corpse first thing in the a.m., I just did not feel like working through the feelings about how and why the universe was sending me a message.

Besides I pretty much knew the message anyway. In sum: Maggie dislikes birds. Despite this potentially unfair sentiment, Maggie then finds herself in a position to help an ailing bird. Maggie makes an unresolved attempt to help sick bird. Maggie feels guilty about the fact that she announced her dislike for birds and about the fact that she does not know if her victim survived or if she caused his imminent and likely gory demise. Maggie will now be reminded by the universe about her unresolved issues in various and unexpected ways until she resolves them.

Yes, I read The Secret.

And, I know about the laws of attraction and that the only way out is through, and that problems do not go away if you ignore them and blah, blah, blah. While it is true that Robert offers incredibly intuitive insight, top notch in fact, it was just too early in the morning to work through my issues. I was not feeling nearly good enough about myself yet, so I decided that I would call him after yoga.

The second component of my immediate reaction is that I did not make any attempt to personally deal with the situation. I am only slightly embarrassed to admit that it did not occur to me. Unsavory and unhygienic business is not my bag, and especially so when a dead animal is involved. For example, a few years ago, I found an almost dead mouse in the guest cottage of my mother’s house where my husband and I were temporarily living. I immediately jumped on the toilet and screamed three to five times. My husband was out of town, so from my perch on the toilet I called my mother from my cell phone. She conveniently lived across the driveway and arrived in a few minutes with a bucket and rubber gloves. She is not afraid of a little gore, my mother. Unfortunately, on this morning of the bird incident, she lived several states away. Fortunately, my husband was inside the house I had just exited.

I opened the door and screamed three to five times.

My husband is used to what I might euphemistically dub my impassioned reactions to the world around me and what everyone else might see as unnecessary dramatics. At one point I think he may have found my propensity to theatrics to be sort of cute. That point may have passed.

Still he is remarkably patient and level-headed in all matters; it takes quite a bit to rattle him. So, when I screech his name at the top of my lungs, despite the fact that he is standing right inside the door and therefore only a few feet away, he merely looked at me and said in a perfectly normal, librarian-style “inside” voice: “Yes?”

“There is a dead bird out here. A DEAD BIRD OUT HERE!!!!!”

“Okay. Go to yoga. I will take care of it.”

This solution sounded both reasonable and the best one available. I was certainly not going to take care of it. And Freya and Bruce (our dogs) seemed only marginally more qualified for the job than me.

In moments like these, I wonder what I would do if I lived alone. I would likely cry a lot more. Perhaps my mom would find herself traveling quite a bit.

So I went to Yoga which was a good thing because now I was starting to feel terrible about myself (did I cause this bird’s death because the universe wanted me to know how I had failed Larry in his moment of need?). I was in desperate need of turning around these rapidly forming negative self-statements. I needed a dose of incense-infused air and a waterfall of positive affirmations about my perpetual loveliness as a human being rather than succomb to this new self-view as an inadvertent bird-killer turned wrath of karma victim.

As class began, the teacher asked us (as they often do), to dedicate our practice to someone. I dedicated my practice to my husband and the bird in fish pose. I felt I had inflicted a certain degree of harm to both of them—to the bird for having failed his species in what was probably a botched attempt to rescue his brother Larry, and to my husband for forcing him to have to deal with the whole unsanitary and sad messiness of it all…and for screaming at him, which was in retrospect completely unnecessary.

After yoga, I felt infinitely better. Not wanting to disturb my om, I did not bring up the bird for a while. When I finally asked my husband, his response surprised me:

“Oh that bird was not dead.”

“What? WHAT?! WHAAAAAAAAAT???”

“I think he just flew into our glass door and knocked himself out for a spell. When I went outside he had flipped himself over and was breathing. So I picked him up and placed him in a tree. He sort of sat around for a minute and then flew off.”

“So what, you think maybe he flew into the door and incurred some sort of headache?” What is it with birds and headaches?

“Yes.”

“So he needed to rest in a cool shady spot until he was fine again?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think his name is Larry?”

“Ummm. Yes?”

Huh. Now I am going to call my brother; he is going to LOVE this one.

Swimming with Sharks

Since I now live in South Carolina and I am therefore able to enjoy the beach for many months out of the year, I was thinking it might be a good time for me to pursue my dream of becoming a super-cool surfer. By the way, I am not being conceited by dubbing myself “super-cool” in this mythical future life I will likely not see through to fruition. The fact is simply that if you are a surfer, then you are super cool. If you have seen Point Break, then you know what I mean. It just goes with the territory. It is just like if you play football, you are therefore a meatball. See what I am saying?

Partially unfounded stereotypes aside, it seems that in light of recent events, i.e. Cat Attack 2009 (see the “Grace Under Pressure” entry for background), I am somewhat discouraged about this future I had envisioned for myself as a super-cool surfer. If I cannot fend off a domestic cat with neither grace nor grit, then how on earth will I fare when faced with a (presumably) blood-thirsty shark?

It seems my future may have to go in another direction altogether. Perhaps I ought to consider moving to Alaska to become an ice-fisherwoman. Then I would literally be super-cool.

But frankly, this dashed surfer dream is not completely unfortunate. Being a full-fledged surfer would, after all, be going against the natural grain of my type-A personality. I was a bit fearful that to really fit into the culture, I would have to alter my whole persona—start walking around barefoot, listening to reggae, and sleeping in tents on Costa Rican vacations. And by “vacation” here, I actually mean torture, as I equate camping with an activity several steps down from a root canal in terms of enjoyment. At least with invasive dental procedures they give you prescription drugs. S’mores, while delicious, just do not make “roughing it” worthwhile for me. In any case, it was not so much that I wanted to embrace the surfer lifestyle (as I have so neatly stereotyped it here), but rather that I wanted to give the actual sport a whirl.

To ward off the skeptical reaction of my friends, family, and acquaintances, I did not just come up with this future vocation at random. I actually have experience: I went surfing one time in my life. It was about ten years ago, and boy did I show promise. I was in Australia and I was convinced, after spending two hours in the water with a board and a very patient instructor, that I would be riding waves for a long time to come. As I rested from the grueling and satisfying business of wave-wrangling, I remember relishing in my newfound calling. I was sitting on the beach, staring at the ocean/my newly identified “homeland,” and proclaimed to my instructor: “I am going to surf every day for the rest of the time I am here.” He said that sounded great, he loved my enthusiasm.

He then asked the group at large if it would be all right to take a break because he had just seen a very large sting-ray in the water and did not feel like dealing with taking any of us to the hospital or having us die on his watch that day. He said it in the same tone one might say, “Want to grab a beer later?” We all hastily agreed to the break. I then promptly abandoned all surfing aspirations in the measure of time that had previously eluded me, but I now understood all too well: the nano-second.

So, as might be evident by the fact that I am even sharing this story with the virtual world, I am working on conquering some of my fears. One such fear is the ocean, and all that lies within its unpredictable waters. This fear had been standing (sloshing?) in the way of my surfer dreams and it had been feeling like a good time to face it head-on. Just to reiterate: the most prominent of my marine life fears are sharks. Sharks are followed a close second, due to the Australia experience, by sting-rays. Sting-rays are followed a distant third by guppies which, as someone who is sort of a loner, weird me out in their need to move around in large hordes.

The main issue however was sharks. I had recently been building up the confidence to again try my hand at surfing, and I was beginning to think that, should I come face to face with a shark, I would react calmly and, as folklore has recommended, defensively. Yes, indeed, I would merely pop malicious predator shark on his schnoz or give him a quick jab between his eyes and be on my way, leaving a newly stunned shark in the wake of my indignant flutter kick. I really began to believe that in the moment of crisis, I would be rational, reasonable, and ready.

The major problem with my delusional thinking, other than the fact that it was delusional, was that the whole cat situation blew it to bits. Being attacked by a domestic house cat who had apparently forgone his meds that morning (the other plausible excuse for his behavior being that he is a Gemini) illustrated my true colors as to my capabilities when faced with unexpected and rather aggressive forces of nature. That cat really threw me for a loop and resulted in a tremendous wavering of confidence. What if, floating along on my board, fully satiated by a bowl of granola, and perked up by a cup of chai tea (what I believe to be standard surfer lifestyle sustenance), a shark comes up with the intent of biting me? Somehow, I do not think that the “Please leave me alone, you are being mean” tactic that failed so miserable with psycho kitty would prove any more effectual under those circumstances. Sharky might be hauling off with my left arm and I would be flailing about, squeaking out a meek and garbled: “Please, sir, I think you might be crazy.”

In need of some counsel on the predicament as a non would-be surfer, I posed the question to my friend Geoff. Geoff, never one to mince words, also possesses little to no tolerance for questions he deems “stupid.” Incidentally, this descriptor applies to most questions posed to Geoff as he has maintained for some time that 95% of the people in the world are either stupid or ugly. Most, according to Geoff, are both.

When I reminded him of this fact a few years after he said it, he looked shocked and responded: “I said that? Really? Wow.”

Maggie: “I know, it sounds extreme.”

Geoff: “Actually, I think I was being generous. I would say more like 98%.”

The fact that I am even his friend is sort of unbelievable.

In any case, I told Geoff about my shark dilemma and how my fear was a real hindrance which I sought to overcome. Geoff, without expression (or even much interest), responded in a definitive (dismissive?) tone, “I am 100% positive you will not be attacked by a shark. Ever.”

Now how exactly can Geoff, who in my humble opinion has a slight tendency to fancy himself omniscient (yet I can never call him on that because, unlike me, Geoff is almost always reasonable, rational, and most irritating of all, right), speak with such conviction on an outcome that most people could agree is rather unpredictable?
I asked him again.

Now losing patience, ever so slightly, for the fact that the dumb question was not only asked, but now it has to be repeated, he responds: “Mags, I know 100% without a doubt that you will never be attacked by sharks.”

Okay smarty-pants Geoff, how about this: “What if I go surfing every single day of every single summer for the next 15 years, then you certainly could not know 100% that I would never be attacked by sharks. The odds would have to go up.”

Geoff, affect-less as ever: “No. That would never happen. I told you.”

Maggie: “How do you KNOW that?”

Geoff: “Because, based on what you told me you would never go surfing that much.”

Maggie: “Why?”

Geoff: “Because you are way too afraid of sharks.”

Hmm. Good point. Dang.

So maybe I will not realize my dream of being a super-cool surfer. In fact, I may just have to settle for being neither super-cool, nor a surfer. But, that outcome feels rather unsatisfying given that it would leave me in exactly the same position I have long occupied. As I feel I ought to do something, I will continue to work on my fear of the ocean, and I might therefore go for a swim tomorrow. Or I will at least dip my toes in, depending on how many sharks I estimate to be in the area.

And with that, my future as a quasi-cool wader has begun.

Closure: A Rather Flighty Concept

A topic that enjoys a lot of press these days is that of closure. People always seem to be seeking it out and trying to nail it down—mostly with regards to interpersonal relationships. It is really lovely when it can be achieved through zipping off an email or text message to some person with whom you have unfinished business or loose threads of emotional turmoil hanging out of the old and ragged hemline of your relationship. In this day and age of social media platforms, it is particularly brilliant when you can sew things right up with a Facebook message or by inviting someone to be “linked in” to your world.

Unfortunately, however, such neat and expeditious methods are a rarity for someone like me. Not to boast, but as one who is quite adept at complicating even the least complicated matters with surprising consistency, finding closure (no matter how advanced technology may become) is bound to be a multi-layered endeavor. Invariably, it is an intangible process which wreaks considerable havoc on body, mind, and soul. However, it is also eye-opening and self-revelatory—hence its importance.

Most recently, I went through this arduous process with quite an unlikely adversary: a bird I met on the sidewalk.

Now, despite the name of my blog and my referencing of various birds in many of my personal tales, I am actually not a bird person. It is true that I would very much like my tomb stone to bear the inscription: “She was the kind of person who keeps a parrot,” but that is because of the larger implications inherent in the statement rather than being due to any grain of literal truth. Generally speaking, I am not particularly enthralled by birds. The aesthetic snob in me can openly say that the less exotic or “pretty” the bird, the less interested I am likely to be. “Common” city birds are therefore borderline abhorrent. The infinite germs I imagine them to be harboring make me cringe.

My husband, who innately possesses a fantastically attuned observation radar system that really ought to be classified by the CIA, often points out to me the things he notices in the general radius of our persons. Something he is especially adept at honing in on: natural world phenomenon’s—such as bird nests. Most naked eyes would skim right over the camouflaged nests. Personally, being neither particularly observant nor particularly partial to birds, I would likely not spot such sightings with even a pair of sophisticated bi-nocs and a trained team of dogs. But my husband can pick a nest out of a dense forest, six trees deep and twenty feet above overhead. Go figure. It has therefore happened once or twice that he has alerted me to a nest with tiny baby bird heads peeking out. During one such moment, I can recall being touched by the sight of a fragile little peeper squawking away for some nourishment. Of course this may not be altogether surprising; unsentimental though I may be on this topic, I am not, as it happens, made out of stone.

All of this information is neither here nor there, but hopefully provides some background as to my overall attitude about birds: I may not like them, but I can appreciate them as fellow members of the natural world. Quite simply, I prefer to live separately but harmoniously.
That being said, life—being the messy business that it is—does not always transpire in a manner which corresponds with our wishes.

The main issue at hand is that this “not being a bird person” came into direct conflict with my whole “trying to be a better person” when I was walking to meet my mother for lunch a few weeks back. It was, as per usual in Charleston August, 30 to 40 degrees above what could be deemed a comfortable temperature. As such, I was marveling at how hot it actually is in South Carolina. One would think that such a ponderance would get old, but much like how I spent the months from November through April in Boston lamenting how darn cold it was, it provides remarkably endless fodder for consideration. So as I was minding my own path of perspiration on my way to my lunch date, I noted an obstacle on the sidewalk ahead of me. As is likely implicit given that I do not possess my husband’s observation skills, the obstruction was in plain view. There, roasting in the Carolina sun was a bird. This bird was not moving, although he/she’s pumping little chest indicated visible sign of life. I walked closer, thinking maybe the bird was deaf, and would scoot on out when he or she felt the vibrations from my footsteps. No such luck.

This predicament posed quite a dilemma for me.

First of all, the idea of having to touch the bird was terrifying to me; I had no Purell or hand wipes on my person at that moment. Second of all, despite not being a bird person, I am also not a jerk. Well, more specifically, I do not like feeling guilty and I thought to walk away might induce some of that unfavorable emotion. Who leaves an allegedly wounded animal for dead on the side of the road? I stopped to consider how I might proceed in a manner that would enable me both not to touch the bird but also not to feel like a heartless slug.

It is all about me, after all.

I then did what I usually do in situations where swift and noble action is needed: I became alarmingly inefficient and irrational. In this case, I started speaking to my present company, the bird, about the foreseeable options we could explore. I started with trying to glean some background information: “Excuse me, why aren’t you moving?” He did not respond. It was at this pivotal moment that I inexplicably decided the bird was a he, although I never did acquire specific definitive proof as to his gender. I squatted down and moved closer. I was, in essence, in this bird’s bubble. Oddly, he did not go anywhere. Birds, I imagine, are just like any creature of nature—myself included—and ought to instinctively recoil whenever a stranger enters the bubble. But as this bird did not flinch, I quickly diagnosed him, “Oh no. I think you might be ill. Don’t worry, I will call for help.”

This last sentence was more for my own benefit than for his, because, as far as I could tell, he was not worried.

I called my veterinarian, the office of which was conveniently located less than a block away. Bonnie, one of the two women who work the front desk answered the phone. After bringing her up to date on my predicament, it was quickly established what had been a rather well-honed suspicion on my part: I know nothing about birds. Bonnie clearly needed more information for a proper diagnosis. Here was our conversation, in sum:

Bonnie: “What kind of bird is it?”

Maggie: “It is just a normal bird. You know—the kind you see around all the time.”

Bonnie: “A pigeon?”

Maggie: “No, not a pigeon.” Did she think I was an idiot? Who does not know what a pigeon looks like? “Smaller than a pigeon. A normal bird. A bird, bird.”

Bonnie: “A bird, bird?” Pause. “I need you to be more specific.”

Maggie: “Well he is not a seagull, or a crow, or, umm, a flamingo. Just a bird.”

Bonnie: “Oh, a sparrow.”

Maggie: “Yes, okay. A sparrow. That sounds right.”

Bonnie: “Well you are going to need to pick it up and bring it in.”

Maggie: “What?” Long pause. “Bonnie, I do not pick up birds. I mean I never have. I am not qualified.”

Bonnie: “Just avoid the beak. I would come myself but I cannot possibly leave the phones here. Just pick it up and bring it on in. Okay? Great” Click.

While I genuinely like Bonnie, I was slightly irked at her in this moment. I do not appreciate it when people who are specialized in a specific trade act blasé about their area of expertise by assuming everyone on the planet possesses what they consider base knowledge, but what I consider obscure and specific minutiae. I feel the same way when people start talking about the stock market at cocktail parties, throwing around acronyms as if they are in everybody’s daily vernacular. In any case, I find it sort of passive aggressive and definitely rude to make an honorable civilian (me) feel bad about being squeamish/terrified at the thought of handling a germy and potentially sick bird.

Still, I felt I was left with little alternative. Bonnie could clearly do no more to help me, what with the phones allegedly ringing off the hook at the vet office and all (I feel compelled to add here that the activity level in that particular office is decidedly un-bustling, but that could be bitterness talking). Feeling utterly foolish, I clumsily tried to pick the bird up.

Well wouldn’t you know it that the darn thing fluttered both his wings violently, wriggled out of my (rather slippery) grasp, hopped away on both feet and generally illustrated that everything was in physical working order. He then settled down a few feet away and did not otherwise suggest that he might be going anywhere. Now I was confused. If the bird was not injured, why was he just sitting there? Pride swallowed, I called Bonnie back.

Bonnie: “Do you have it? Are you on your way?”

Maggie: “Not exactly. He seems sort of fine. His feet and wings work and he will not let me pick him up. But he also is not flying away, just sort of sitting around.”

Bonnie: “Oh. Well than I am probably right then. I assumed I was.”

Maggie: “Right about what?”

Bonnie: “He just has a headache.”

What?

Maggie: “What?”

Bonnie: “Oh, you know a migraine. Brought on by the sun. He is just hot. If you brought him in, I would just have had him cool down in the back room with the air conditioning on and the lights dimmed and then he would be fine. But since you cannot get him in here, just try to shoo him into the shade so he can cool off a bit.”

Maggie: “Oh okay.” Pause. “Thank you.”

Bonnie: “Of course! Anytime.”

She spoke as though she had just exerted an enormous amount of effort. Her voice indicated that the whole scenario screamed success, yet I felt like a failure. Adding insult to injury, I was also perplexed as to the casual reference to the back room/spa retreat accommodations at my veterinarian’s office. Ought I to be concerned that I trust my dogs, my canine children for Pete’s sake, to the care of these fruitcakes? I stared at the bird. I did not love him.

Recalling my husband’s state of being when he has a migraine, I concluded that the bird likely did not love me either. I tried to remember the compassion I felt at the little bird squawking in its nest, and pictured my new acquaintance as that tiny baby bird. With a renewed spirit of generosity, I shooed him into the shade and out of the line of pedestrian traffic which he rather reluctantly (and indignantly?) allowed. Feeling somewhat heroic in my having gone above and beyond, I left to meet my mother for our now considerably delayed lunch date.

Post-lunch, and freshly Purelled up to my ears, I returned to check on Larry (yes, I named him—I told you I am not made of stone). He was gone. Worried that he may have been dragged off by some carnivorous squirrel, I scrutinized the vicinity for signs of bloodshed and concluded the area seemed to be battle-free. Rather than feeling pleased and virtuous as a good humanitarian might, I instead felt rather glum. Yes, Larry was likely fine. But, as with so many things in life, the situation left me confused; I wondered if my interference had been the impetus for his recovery or an obstacle along his path—the way I interpreted him to be on mine. Though I dislike birds, I disliked even more that the situation forced me to confront a personal demon only to leave me wondering if my actions in the face of adversity propelled me up the rungs of the ladder leading to personal improvement or if they were a mismanaged botch job that had me skidding back down the ladder of life in a sort of regression—Candyland style.

I will never know if Larry had a headache, if he was meditating, or if he was injured with some malady that went undetected by me and my historically paltry observational skills. Worst of all, I will never know if he was snatched up by some predatory beast when I took leave of him in his potentially compromised state. Did I do inflict upon him harm? Did my interference do him good? Neither?

In sum, I lacked closure.

My mother had assured me, over lunch, that I had done all I could and that nature would take its course one way or another. This advice, though perfectly sound, is only mildly comforting to a control freak prone to self-imposed guilt trips. I wanted answers. And yet I had to accept that there would be no definitive answers and that the only closure I would achieve would be just that—acceptance. Since Larry is unlikely to friend me on Facebook, no matter what kind of condition he is or is not in, then that acceptance could only come from one place: from myself.

So another life lesson is learned in the unlikeliest of places: sometimes you just have to trust that the best you can do, while it might not be the best that there is to be done, is still the best that you can do--and that makes it enough. Sometimes, perhaps often, you may not have the opportunity to understand how you impacted another, and you just have to accept and hope your good intentions were received in the vein with which they were delivered.

Moving forward, I plan to hold a more generous and loving attitude towards birds. Additionally, I will be better prepared to deal with whatever obstacles cross my path—after all, I now know I can call on Bonnie to provide a safe and cool place to lie down and recover.

Judging Others--Justifiably Unjust?

I very much want to be more generous and good-willed with regards to my acceptance of others. Even though I am making concerted and consistent efforts to let go of my propensity/hobby of making snap judgments about other people, the truth is that I have not yet wrestled this gremlin to the ground. Not to exonerate myself from the blame I know is mostly my own, the fact still remains that I feel my efforts are thwarted by a rather enormous obstacle which frequently blocks my path. This roadblock is that I often meet people who, for one reason or another, make it very difficult for me to like them. And yes, I think they do it on purpose.

Just yesterday, I went to CVS to pick up some essentials, or what my brother loves to call “incidentals.” Whenever we are driving anywhere and the time in the car is estimated to exceed about thirty minutes, he cannot resist stopping at a convenience store in order to pick up these so-called “incidentals.” They invariably entail five to eight different brands of protein/energy bars because he just might, incidentally, find himself stuck in traffic and in need of a snack. He does not like to go hungry, my brother. But anyway, I was at the CVS check-out and was purchasing my version of essentials/incidentals: Trident sugar free gum in original flavor (which every so often, inexplicably, tastes like bananas) and Burt’s Bees (addictive) almond hand lotion.

Unsurprisingly, given the uncomplicated matter at hand, all was going according to plan. I hardly had the opportunity to sniff the snafu wafting in the air, when I abruptly noted that the customer in front of me was raising a rather subdued—but still persistent—stink about the fact that she felt she had a $1 coupon coming her way and the cashier seemed to be incapable of making this coupon appear.

Now, maybe it is just me, but I felt a tad badly for the cashier. She was college-aged, clearly confused, and likely did not give a fat one about the coupon. Still, she feigned (fairly believable) concern and went to find her manager. The reason I feel badly for her is because those automated registers just seem to spew out whatever the heck they want to; I firmly believe that nothing they produce has the remotest thing to do with the person operating the machinery. Evidence to this belief lies in the genuine surprise elicited when a ten foot long receipt comes out and the cashier looks up in shock as he/she delightedly exclaims: “You have COUPONS!” The shock and wonder would be as apt as if a pony had been produced. So this cashier/budding actress takes off, and the woman in front of me tries to engage me in conversation regarding her situation.

Unbeknownst to her, I neither cared about nor wanted to be a part of her drama. Frankly, I felt she was a behaving a bit selfishly, what with the line being about six people deep and incidentals waiting to be bought by all. The problem was that she was one of those people.

You know those people. The ones that want to pull in innocent bystanders (in this case, me) and will not let up until their victim of the moment has uttered some sort of empathetic nugget that assures them that their position is well understood. Now, despite the fact that I have, of course, dealt with incompetent and frustrating sales people at many a check-out counter, and therefore could easily muster up some camaraderie aimed at the man keeping us all down, on principle I refused in that moment to give any cause for team-building. Dollar off would not be pulling me over to her dark side by coaxing me into an admission that I too, have “been there.”

I was not merely being stubborn, although that was a component of my reaction. Moreover, I was making a statement. While I am all for people saving a buck, especially in this economy, I simply will not play any part in perpetuating the unnecessary drama that seems to define the eternally beleaguered in our society. As such, I have not, and will not, as a rule, make CVS check-out clerks run around to managers who are never available. By the way, what do those CVS managers do anyway? Has anyone ever noticed that it takes them an inordinately long time to come to the “front of the house” whenever they are summoned on those crazy microphone telespeaker things? What happens in the back rooms of CVS anyway? It must be so gosh darn BUSY back there.

So the woman/stink-raiser turns to me and says: “Why would I lie? I mean I know I have this coupon coming, right? Why would I lie?” I suppose, at this point, she was looking for validation as to her upstanding character as a non-liar, but as I did not know her from Adam, I just stared dumbly ahead, trying to see which Hollywood star was spotted with (gasp!) cellulite on the cover of the most recent OK! Magazine (speaking of liars, do the people who publish that magazine even have a conscience?). Fortunately, the girl came back, harried-looking manager in tow, and passed off my non-lying, non-friend to her. Even though she was likely now out of my life forever, I could not shake the itching notion that I simply did not like the woman. I really wish she had left me out of it.

All hope was not lost however: by way of cancelling out my dislike for the stink-raising stranger, I was excited about being kind to the cashier, especially since I had worked up some sympathy for her cause during my time serving as a primary witness to the whole coupon debacle. As she started to scan my first incidental, she caught a glimpse of someone she knew. A true multi-tasker, as she checked me out, this was the conversation I witnessed:

Check-out: “OH MY GOD!!!! Britney!!! How are you, hon? Your hair looks AMAZING!!!”

Britney: “I know, right? I love it. What are you doing?!”

Check-out: “Just working.” Eye roll. “You missed the PIRATE party.”

Britney: “Oh my God, I know. But, like, my little brother was in town. I love him, he is just so cute. He was in town with five of his friends. So other than him, there were six of them. Wait, no, I mean there were six of them INCLUDING him. They were just so cute. I love them.”

Check-out: “So what did you do?”

Britney: “Well, oh my God. He was so wasted! He is just so cute. I love him. But when they got here, I was already at a party. So they came and then we were ALL so wasted. They left this morning before I got up. They wrote this note and it was so cute. It was like: ‘We had so much fun and you and your friends are so cool.’ He is just so cute, I love him. So what are you doing?”

Check-out: “Oh, just working” (spoken as if the question had not just been answered 10 seconds ago, but I guess Britney does have a tendency towards repetition, so maybe Check-out was used to it). “Better get back to it. Bye. Love you.”

Britney: “Bye. Love you.”

Check-out then halfheartedly turned her attention to my receipt that was printing (incidentally, with a $1 coupon, but thank goodness the stink-raiser was too busy being a martyr with the frazzled manager to notice). So, all charm now (I am telling you the girl is missing her true calling as a soap opera actress), she directly addresses me for the first time: “A customer survey came up and if you fill it out, that would be great. Just go to the website and it will ask you questions, and you have to rate your experience here on a scale of 1-5. But if you give anything less than a 5, then this store will only get zeros. So could you fill in all fives? Thanks.”

Isn’t she just so cute? And yet, somehow, I do not love her.

Good thing I purchased my incidentals; roadblocks are clearly everywhere.

Speaking my Truth

A lesson I am constantly trying, and often failing, to live by is the importance of being true to myself. As my brother frequently reminds me, adhering to your truth, no matter how “odd” or quirky it may seem in relation to others--and to the world in general--is an integral aspect to having authentic relationships with everyone from yourself, to your family, to your grocery store clerk.

I agree with my brother, although I must say the whole affair is easier said than done. Like many women, I struggle to break free from the chains of people pleasing—because not only is it a futile pursuit, but it tends to leave the “pleaser” miserable. Plus, and here is a little gem for the files, people actually do not like people pleasers. Well arrogant, self-important people do, but that is only because they assume in their narcissistic ignorance that the world is there to serve them.

Evidently the little “releasing of judgment” goal I have set for myself is going a little slower than anticipated.

But it does seem that regular people would just prefer you were yourself and then they can take you or leave you. My big discovery seems to be that we are all better off having relationships with people who actually like us. Go figure. How and why it took me 32 years to figure this out is a tale for another time. So now, in trying to be consistent with speaking my truth, I am attempting to implement this ground-breaking information into my life. Never one to shun outside assistance, I turn to personal role models for inspiration. Oddly enough, I find that this life lesson is quite well illustrated through the observation of one of the more unique individuals I have ever encountered: my mother.

My mom does not believe in recycling. Although I would like to add the disclaimer here that she does frequently reuse various items and she is hardly what someone would describe as wasteful. In fact she reuses paper towels so many times, I think she ought to do PR for Bounty (in her house, those rolls are not only the quicker-picker uppers, they are also everlasting). But she is adamant that the whole “recycling movement” is a scam designed to make the tax payers pay money and to make people erroneously feel good about themselves. She suspects, by the way, that once the recyclables arrive at the various waste centers, they are just all dumped into the trash together. When I pointed out that it seems like an awful lot of work and effort to cover up a mere scam, she took on a very serious expression and said cryptically, “People are covering things up all the time, everywhere. And things with much bigger consequences than some empty milk bottles.” This response was strange to me. Is my mom a mafia lord?

Building on her theory on recycling, she also believes global warming is a sham and sites the increasingly freezing Massachusetts winters as evidence to that testimony. She seems to eschew all things associated with terms like “progressive” “alternative” or “liberal,” almost as if she has an allergic reaction to the words themselves. Further evidence of her unique set of personal principles, is that, despite being divorced from her first husband whom she married in the Catholic Church, and the fact that she believes wholeheartedly in abortion, she is a recently renewed and avid Catholic. She will tell you this with a serious face even though she has maybe been inside a church three times in the past twenty-four months. And once I know for a fact that it was just to check out the architecture. Now I know faith is not necessarily about how often you attend mass, but it still seems a rather peculiar point on which to stand firm if the foundation is actually quite non-existent. She harbors no illusions about the well-publicized questionable activities priesthood seems to foster. In fact I think such scandals may add to her overall enthusiasm about the religion—she seems to love the whole double-life, cover-up sort of crimes—the more clandestine, the better. Seriously, is she a mafia lord?

She is also the only person I know who openly and frequently admits to having supported the Bush administration, which is somewhat odd because I live in South Carolina and you would think I might know more people who unequivocally leaned right. The fact is, I know a lot of republicans, I would just be hard pressed to find people who willingly laud the recent republican tenure to groups of virtual strangers in social settings due to the understandable fear of being pummeled with commentary—and maybe fists—due to the current economic turmoil our country is now “enjoying”. We actually have one family friend who shares my mother’s unwavering political view to a tee, and the two of them are thick as thieves when they get together. By the way, he is also someone whom I love dearly and from whom I hide at social gatherings.

Despite the fragmented knowledge, questionable sources, and general anxiety about “touchy” subjects that often hinder me from engaging in political or religious debates at social events, my mom jumps into any and all such conversations with determination, passion, and conviction. This tendency, in equal parts, amuses and horrifies my siblings and me. Bizarrely, and much to our astonishment, people really like our mother. My ability to be objective is understandably questionable, she is my mother, after all, but I am merely the messenger here. I am not exaggerating when I say that people, seemingly “normal” people, actually seek her out at parties. They seem to be in both awe and confusion as to her persona in general, and this combination attracts people like bees to honey. (Or do bees make honey? Flies to honey?) Anyway, my mom could fit in quite easily anywhere; she is quite attractive and stylish. Although she has an inexplicable propensity to wear any number of bedazzled items of clothing, most of which were purchased from Chico’s, she is really rather innocent-looking, as a woman in her early sixties could understandably be. So, in light of her innocuous appearance, and despite my all too keen awareness of her gregarious social “sharing” style, it remains a tad jarring when, upon saying requisite goodbyes to people at the end of the odd party I might attend with her, a stranger will embrace me heartily and chuckle as he says something like, “That mother of yours. She is something! She would talk shit with the Pope wouldn’t she?”

Ummm. Yes? No? What? But without even knowing what that means, I know what that means; this guy got a load of Gail and the effect was memorable.

Of course my brother and sister and I all love her to pieces, but we also realize that she has some challenging (read: embarrassing) qualities and would understand if the democratic party had her on a “Wanted” sign at various campaign headquarters across the country. My sister, who herself possesses remarkable and unfathomable patience for the ranting of any and all strangers, thinks that people are just being kind and biding their time until this seemingly harmless woman with fiery red hair and an equally fiery passion tires out and moves onto to another unsuspecting group. My brother suspects she is heavily medicated. I think it might be a combination of each of my sibling’s speculations, but moreover, I wonder if people just sort of admire the courage of her convictions.

I know I do.

True, she says outlandish things, makes sweeping generalizations, and is no stranger to the stereotype. She offers unsubstantiated proof to theories she, in all likelihood, concocts in her bathroom as she applies makeup. It is my hunch that she performs dress-rehearsals of sorts as she relays these theories out loud to her loyal test-audience: her Chihuahua, Paco. Paco is captivated by my mother for the obvious reason that she feeds him every day, but also because he seems to have an innate sense of gratefulness driving his loyalty due to the fact that my mom adopted him from a shelter--he was a stray dog found in Mexico, and he somehow landed in the Cape Cod MSPCA. Paco is, incidentally, the exception to my mother’s rather rigid stance on border patrol.

I admire my mom. And this is not to say that I agree with either her beliefs or her manner of delivery. This is also not to say that I have not been utterly mortified by many of her statements on a somewhat regular basis. I have and I will, in all likelihood, continue to hide behind large plants and/or equally large fellow guests whenever the topic of politics is breached at a social outing and my mother is within a ten foot radius. But she is a compelling character, not only because she is my mom and I innately love her, but also because she seems to have—in spades—that elusive quality known as gumption. She really does not care if people agree with her, or if they argue with her (in this way, I am offered some relief to the whole mafia suspicion). Moreover, she does not give a toss if people like her. And, in the most ironic accordance to Murphy and his darn law, people love her. My mother’s popularity is a testament to the fact that people like people who are themselves, who are “speaking their truth,” as my brother would say, because an authentic relationship with a stranger, or even with those closest to you, is actually a rarity in this world of obsequious people pleasing and duplicitous dealings. In addition to her refreshing frankness, my mother would obviously prove fascinating material for post-party fodder: “Did you meet that woman in the Chico’s ensemble? She seemed so innocent and yet…She was off her rocker!” Just to answer the question that is likely on everyone’s mind, the strongest beverage my mother consumes is iced tea.

Recently, a close family friend, a man who is in his fifties came out of the closet. Incidentally, he is the aforementioned person who shares my mother’s political views. Now, as you can probably imagine, my mom has some opinions on homosexuality. As such, I was a tad reluctant to share the news with her, out of both protectiveness of this particular friend and out of fear that my mother might say something that would make me angry with her. I ought to disclose here that I am a true “momma’s girl” and being in any sort of altercation with my mother is tantamount to mild torture. In any case, I broke the news with some hesitancy. Her response surprised me: “Isn’t that interesting. Huh. You never know, do you?” Not wanting to really get into it, and by “it,” I mean the whole topic if how, when, where, or why some people are born one way and some another, we chatted about nothing for a few more minutes and then hung up. She called me shortly thereafter and I braced myself for a long discussion about homosexuality that she and Paco had likely rehearsed in the three minutes since we had said goodbye. “Maggie, I have been thinking about what you just said about Ben. I am really happy for him. He ought to be happy.” Hmm. It did not take a detective to sense that something was awry in Rightwing City on the other end of the line. “But…” Here we go. “I am concerned about something.” Uh oh. “He is still a republican, right?” “Yes, mom, I believe he will always be a Republican.” And now, might I say God bless my faux Catholic, anti-recycling, scandal loving fire pistol of a mother for she is nothing if not unpredictable. Her response: “All right then. How nice to have gay friends. How liberal!” And with that she hung up, likely to call the Pope and talk some shit.

Grace Under Pressure

Something I need to work on is my capacity to maintain grace under pressure. Evidence to this assumption is that yesterday I was out walking my dogs and we were attacked by a cat. It was less a cat than it was a crazed killer mountain lion in the body of a domestic feline. Anyway, I was occupied watching a woman with a baby in a back pack walking along the opposite side of the street with two dogs. She was dressed in clothing I suspect was made of hemp, definitely had dreadlocks, and was humming audibly. She looked far more suited to a hippy commune than she did to super-preppy downtown Charleston. She exuded such an air of relaxed “whatever” that it was somewhat disorienting to see that she had the dogs on leashes--she definitely seemed the sort to never confine a fellow creature in anyway. Although the baby was in a backpack, but babies cannot walk so I bet when baby is two or three baby will have free-reign. Anyway, as I was observing/rudely staring at this woman, a scuttlebutt seemed to arise out of nowhere with my two dogs. I looked down and the aforementioned “cat” was on my dog Freya’s back. How he got there was a mystery soon to be solved.

Freya, a 30 pound German Shepard mix, threw him off—with considerable effort (apparently our new friend was not of the declawed variety, and despite the controversy over that procedure, given the unfolding scenario, it was an arguably poor choice by his owners). The cat landed on his side on the ground. He then hissed at Freya, baring his teeth and all. Freya, undeterred by what she must have seen as a rather piddly attempt at intimidation--the cat was half her size--snapped quickly back at him and then, in an attempt to maintain some of her dignity (Freya is innately quite dignified) started to turn and walk in the other direction. Apparently this reaction did not go over too well with this insane feline who wanted, apparently and inexplicably, to kill Freya. The next thing I know the cat is flying through the air. And I mean he lunged and literally hurled his body as though he just popped out of a cannon. He landed, once again on Freya’s back. At least I now know what transpired in the few seconds I was otherwise occupied staring at the hippie woman.

I think it is important to impart a full visual of what was going on: the cat is clinging to Freya’s back, Freya is angry and is now interested in not only getting the heck out of dodge but in perhaps taking a bit of a chunk out of little tabby’s bod just as a friendly reminder not to mess with creatures twice his size. Bruce, meanwhile, my 15 pound terrier mix, is all pomp and circumstance. He is running in circles, fast as can be, and yelping as loud as his ear-drum piercing little vocal chords will allow him. He is being no help to Freya by the way, and definitely pretending to charge the cat, only to back up before he enters the vicinity that could be truly deemed the danger zone. Remind me not to bring Bruce when and if I ever expect to be involved in a bar brawl.

But you know what they say about people in glass houses. Therefore you might be interested to know that me, the Caesar Milan trained, dominant pack leader is taking a page from the recently observed hippie’s book—I am setting a truly alternative example for my little canine children. I am frozen in place, tangled leashes in my hands, heart rate reaching maximum poundings per second and plea bargaining in a voice that is about 8 octaves higher than the octave at which I normally speak (which is, incidentally, about where Minnie Mouse operates). My ingenious wording: “Please cat, leave us alone, I think you might be crazy. You are being so mean. We do not like you and want you to stop.” I have a newfound respect for police and/or anyone who has ever tried to talk a suicide victim off a ledge.

As my feet/cinder blocks are stuck to the pavement and my darling daughter is being pummeled in what can only be described as a jungle cougar brawl, suddenly the door to the house we are fighting/yelping/plea bargaining in front of opens. A woman swooshes out and deftly picks up her cat, who is now hissing on the ground after being tossed a third time from Freya’s back. “So sorry,” she said sweetly. It was the same sort of apology that might be uttered if she had accidentally bumped my grocery cart, and seemed rather unsubstantial for excusing an attempted murder. She disappeared before I had a chance to say anything, although that was actually a good thing considering what I was about to say was a rather mediocre rebuttal in the form of: “Your cat is mean, and we do not like him.” I turn around to walk away, and see the hippie standing there, still humming, still hemped out in blissful hippiedom. She smiled and drawled happily: “Wow. That’s some cat, isn’t it?” Amazing. She witnessed violent near-bloodshed and she was cool as a cucumber. I collected my sweaty, teary, shaky self and waddled off, making a mental note to start wearing hemp.