My "Adverb" Problem

Twenty seven years of abusing adverbs, and still we are married!

Like most weekend mornings, I got a call from Duncan Aviation around 7 a.m. today.  When I answered, I was treated to the dulcet tones of a handsome cabinet maker, uttering sweet nothings into my receiver. Emphasis on "nothings."

"What are you wearing?"  is a common, tiresome and, frankly, utterly inappropriate question, considering that "An old t-shirt, Hanes tummy-control briefs and a pair of men's shorts" is hardly a titillating answer.   Fortunately, because Mark doesn't know how to use the speaker phone, I never hear anyone else giggling in the background.

Sometimes, it's the little victories. . . .

This morning's inane conversation eventually turned substantive, focusing on an upcoming event that will require Mark to leave work an hour or two early.  As per my instructions delivered during dinner last night, he said he'd take off a few hours that day.  And that's when my little adverb problem emerged.  Yet again.  (Is "yet" an adverb?  I mean, it kind of tells you when . . . It's all so confusing, isn't it?!)

I had told him the event was next Friday, and somehow, he interpreted that as meaning the Friday that is happening in five days.   As though that could ever be next Friday!

Pshaw!  

Mark tells me that I do this on a regular basis, using next when I mean the week after next. Or next when I mean this.  In a rare conciliatory mood, I mumbled my agreement that I may, in fact, have an adverb problem.   How many social events, after all, have we missed because I've chosen the wrong adverb?  Okay, maybe three, tops, but, still, it is a problem.  . . . and a shameful one, to boot.  Because I pride myself in my command of precise, crisp language.

The fact that a freaking adverb--the bastard stepchild of the grammar family--has proven to be my conversational downfall is more than I can stand.  Like admitting that you don't know the difference between jam and jelly, or rap and hip hop.

 I'm ashamed to admit that, in my weak moments, I often lash out at the Associated Press, whose style rules dictate that a Friday arriving within six days of the current day shall be referred to as "this Friday."  At least that's what I think it says.

Perhaps what hurts most in these post-intervention moments is the realization that I'm going to have to rely on numbers to address the problem.  Numbers!  "May 6th" simply doesn't have the quaint ring of "next Friday."

But I'm not above changing.  Especially if it means I'm better able to communicate with the honey-voiced man on the other end of the phone, the guy who's really good looking.

"Lolly, Lolly, Lolly," Grammar Rock's lamest video EVER!--thanks for nothing!

The Good Kind of Peeps

Some mornings, after eating a salt-bomb dinner the night before, I wake a bit swollen and thirsty.  Other mornings, like this one, I wake swollen with something other than sodium--namely, love, gratitude, joy, disbelief.

After an evening that started with friends at Tico's and ended in a church balcony with those same friends, where we were entertained and moved by the words and images of Joel Sartore, it's no wonder I woke feeling happily full.

But I would be remiss to give all the credit to chile rellanos and old friends (yes, Susan, some of you are older than me!).

Like the dandelions that have suddenly fallen deeply and prolifically in love with my yard, my week has been sprinkled with vivid reminders that joy sprouts in surprising places and times.

Bottom line?  I am surrounded by so many good folks--family and friends alike--that it's surprising I haven't developed some form of gratitude-induced asthma.  And I'm pretty sure that this happy state of mind isn't mine exclusively.  I just needed to be reminded to look up and out a bit, that's all.

My wakeup calls--some written in actual ink on real paper!--came as love notes sent from dear childhood neighbors Jim and Jeanne, from library pal Paula, from cousins Paige and Jill. Collectively, their notes acted like a bracing slap of Hai Karate!, bringing the lighter version of my self to the surface again. From there, I began noticing and recalling all kinds of happy people and things that surround and fill me.  Let me generate an annotated, albeit incomplete, biography of folks who fill me, these days especially:

•Eric and Allison Holt--by far my best contributions to this world--two people who aren't so full of themselves that they can't be silly at times and who regularly (and quietly) bust their buns to get things done;

•The old Young Life gang who still has "silly skit" mode coursing through their veins, thank God;

•Scrabble friends Kristie and Jill, who keep showing up, in every sense of the word (even though that is more than one word);

•The Andrea bunch, who laugh and love their time together and keep inviting me to join them, despite my spotty attendance;

•Brenda and Helen--the better half of the East library--who laugh and listen and love their way through the days;

•My lunch pals, who endure my stupid stories and make me laugh;

•Spartan Nation.  You'd be hard-pressed to find a better bunch of people;

•My neighbors, who love this place and these people as much as I do;

•My siblings, who are rock stars in my mind--digging down and getting it done, with creativity, unity and love;

•My students, old and new, who are funny and talented and who, most days, give me great hope for the future;

•My "hiking" pals, Molly and Shannon and their canine companions, who keep inviting me on outdoor adventures, even after they watched me set up a tent last summer;

•My mom, who is adorable and fragile and funny and surprising;

•My larger library family, who have proved to be the kind of mid-life friends and colleagues I am lucky to have found;

•Finn and Hobbes and Rasta and Zack and--yes--even Ginger, the persnickety poodle, who have been steady companions through thick and thin, loving me in times of joy and gaseous outbursts;

 •My Master Naturalist pals, who share my deep love of the outdoors and know a heck of a lot more about it than I do, but don't wag that fact over me;

•My childhood friends, who--amazingly--are still in my life, despite the zip codes that separate us.

•My church friends, who make God and life more awesome than I ever could have imagined;

•New friends--what a thing to make a new friend at 54!--many of whom I've "met" on Facebook;

•Mark Dale Holt, who is the supreme partner in my life, immensely supportive of anything I want or need to do, including buying too many stupid socks.

Like I said, some mornings I wake up kind of swollen. . . .

Bread for Life

It all started with a wayward package of Thomas English Muffins.  As it toppled on me this morning, no longer safely perched atop the fridge, I turned to Mark with acrid accusations on my tongue.

"My God, man!  Are you trying to kill me?  What would the Muffin Man have to say about this?!"

"I was the Muffin Man," he sputtered, vitriol and bravado dripping from his lips.  Or maybe it was butter and jelly, but anyway. . . .

What could I do but stop in my tracks?  Mark?  The Muffin Man?  And so, his story--as old as the hills, or at least as old as the half-opened peach yogurt tucked behind the Velveeta (quit judging)--was brought to light.

A crackly-voiced 16 year old hungry for gas money, Mark Holt had turned to local restaurateur Mr. Steak for income, if not actual respect.  Now, I know there's probably no actual person called Mr. Steak, but having never eaten in the place before, I can be forgiven for personifying the joint. Apparently, one of the ways this Mr. Steak distinguished himself--aside from reusing hardly-touched pats of butter and reheating scallops that showed up on former patrons' plates--was by employing a Muffin Man.

No, seriously. . . .

And so, a strapping, blond-haired, teenaged version of  Mark Holt, not yet a grown man himself, walked the soiled carpeted floors of Mr. Steak, tray in hand, offering patrons his delicious wares.

"Good evening.  Would you care for a fresh peach muffin?"  Over and over and over again.  Delighting elders and youngsters alike with his endless platters of flaky goodness and his witty repartee.

Thirty years I've known him, only to find out I didn't know him at all.

Why, yes.  Turns out I do know the Muffin Man.

Sock It to Me, Baby!

Yesterday, a friend told me that her mom had gotten into socks some time in her 50s, too.  As though my new "thing" for footwear was  simply a generational signpost, like menopause or acne cream.

I'll be the first to admit that I do have a bit of a problem down there.  It's true that I just ordered another four pairs that'll arrive on Friday.  Although I'd like to point out that I bought most of them to give away to others.

Addiction can be so lonely.  It's nice to take a friend or two down with you.

If you've ever spent any amount of time around me, you know that "Fashion" is not my middle name.  The shirt I'm wearing right now?  I got it five years ago and I still consider it new.  Heck, just last week, not once but twice, my classy, ailing mom called me out for a fashion faux pas.  The first time happened when she woke from a nap.   Blinking her eyes a few times, she looked me over and asked if I'd like to borrow one of her shirts before we went to dinner.  Which we ate in her apartment's living room!  And then, a few days later, again shaking off sleep, she looked at my hair and asked aloud what had happened.

Blame my age, if you must.  But don't you dare try to take my silly socks away from me.  For this fashion flop, these socks are the newest, the funniest, the most surprising part of my wardrobe these days.  And, each dark morning, when I reach in to grab a pair--blind to which one I'll get--I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, shaking the cottony handful, wondering what horrible, sassy message I'll discover inside.

So, forgive me if I relish this new phase I'm going through.  Cut this girl some slack, because I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoy the fact that I can barely cram another balled-up pair of awesomeness into my sock drawer.

Living Skin Deep

Until I googled it this morning, I can't say for sure that I knew we had three layers of skin.  Sure, there's the epidermis.  Everyone knows about it.  But the lesser knowns--the dermis and hypodermis--share a wonderful word that their more popular cousin can't lay claim to:  connective.  In fact, the epidermis could be called the antithesis of connectivity, acting more as a barrier than a bridge.

Seems to me I've sloughed my epidermis altogether, because my life these days feels stunningly barrier-free and seeped in connectivity.

Be warned.  Life without the epidermis is not for sissies.  Spiritually autistic now, I am hypersensitive to signs--both real and perceived. Moved by the smallest things.  Watching my mom apply makeup, for instance. And yesterday, as I lay on the hammock, being showered by the pink petals of our crab apple tree, I felt myself become a part of the very earth.  This morning, bone tired, a hidden flock of cedar waxwings whispered to me from the treetops and I made Finn wait with me, knowing they'd eventually take flight and reveal themselves to us.  Some things, it seems, can only be known as they leave us.

This oil-and-vinegar swirl of life I find myself in these days is better lived without the shield of epidermis.  Even as I type these words, my legs buzz with secret messages that transmute me.  And if I listen hard enough, if I keep my eyes and my mind wide open, it's possible I will discover the secrets of this life, held close in this skin that connects me.

The Art of Good Timing

I don't know if there is a Grand Plan carried out by some chess-playing God who nudges my knight just so, that I might have another good move or two before someone topples my queen.  But I do know that, at times, timing really is everything, and that those times often feel benevolently directed by some sort of Grandmaster Flash.

It's kind of embarrassing, however, to assume that an almighty god would pencil in "5 minutes with Jane" on Tuesday at 6.  As though my tiny life is worth the attention.

How, then, to explain when things fall into place?

Maybe explanation is the wrong approach.  Maybe the right approach is gratitude.  Gratitude, for example, that my friend Roxi--East's recently retired (and audaciously awesome) full-time librarian--longed more to be a grandmother than a school employee last spring.

And why am I so grateful that she made such a decision?

Soap opera fans will be disappointed to know that my happiness has nothing to do with some seedy, Dewey-laced drama burbling between the two of us.  See, I'm quite fond of Roxi.  Rather, my gratitude--which took nearly a year to surface--is framed by realities that have emerged outside of the hallowed walls of East High's library.  Namely, the death and demise of too many good folks in my life.

A couple of weeks ago, a time when, historically, my blood pressure would begin rising and my fingernails  begin shrinking in direct correlation to yearbook deadlines and distribution, I realized that I probably would not have survived this school year had I not swapped my "journalism" moniker for "full-time school librarian."  The absence of said deadlines made space in my heart and brain for other, more intimate challenges.

This revelation--that Roxi had rescued me by focusing on her grandchildren rather than on our school's fiction collection--nearly took my breath away.  Especially when I think about how much joy my library job has brought me this year.  Joy wrapped up in the good folks who work beside me, in the blind embrace of new things, in the certainty of satisfying collaborations.  Truly, it has been a sparkly year for me in Room 126.  Bump-filled, to be sure.  But mighty good, too.

For a lifelong fence walker, my timing for finally committing to just one side of that fence has proved significant.  Whether Roxi and God had been working up this plan last spring, knowing I needed just such a year?  Well, it's not for me to say.

I'll stick, instead, with an attitude of gratitude, grateful for the timing and the happy space that it has provided.

The Rooster Within

On those rare weekend mornings when Mark and I are both home (he typically works weekends), my heart rate increases as the last section of the newspaper is dropped at our feet.  Soon enough, I know, one of us will wander to the basement to make a photocopy of the crossword puzzle.

Just seeing the slightly greyed photocopy sends me into paroxysms of cocksure giddiness.  As he hands me my copy, like clockwork, Mark will then remind me (as a lame kind of insurance policy, I tell myself) that "it isn't a competition!"

We have developed a kind of crossword vernacular over the years.

"I'm in!" is the nerd equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet. Suddenly, all bets are off, and Mark's earlier claim of noncompetition is nowhere to be found.

We both work in pen--brazen, I know!--although I think there are times when Mark would like to reach for a pencil.  Not because he is unsure of his own answer, but because he doubts mine.

This doubt usually seeps in on a Saturday morning, when the puzzles are hardest.  Just when the word "uncle" is just about to form on our lips--blank squares taunting us--we reluctantly agree to work together a bit, throwing each other a bone or two to help get us through.    He'll ask me a question and measure the validity of my answer by the way in which it is framed.

If "oh, yeah" accompanies my answer, that's when he wishes he had a pencil.  Apparently, that two-word phrase seeping from my mouth is much like Spinal Tap's claim that their amp "goes to eleven"--proof of sheer and utter nonsense.

The thing is, though, this smarmy, cracked-veneer side of my personality--lame as it is--is still a part of my personality.  Just because it smells like a barnyard doesn't mean it's not me, especially considering the absence of actual farm animals in the room.

Apparently (I use the word "apparently" as though I am shocked to learn this), crossword non-competitions aren't the only events that bring forth this impudent swagger.  Just ask Kristie and Jill--my Scrabble pals.  There, in front of the 441 squares of this most holy altar, I continually show my brazen side, making up definitions of wobbly words with the same certainty that Chicken Little clucked that the sky was falling.  Like some kind of board-game Judas, I sputter forth lies and deceits as though my life depended on it.

How on earth do I live with myself, then?  Like a social smoker, I tell myself I don't really have a problem.  That I've got this under control.  My situational lack of ethics is just a fun little outfit I put on, like some kind of sideshow act intended to entertain my friends and family.  I know I certainly draw pleasure from this unabashed approach to fun and frivolity.

And, at the end of the day, this lip-sneer inducing side of me really is an actual side to me.  So I might as well make my peace with it.

At least, that's what I'm telling myself.  Oh, yeah.

Driftwood

For nearly 18 hours, I was lost.  Unmoored.  Drifting.  Asea.

I even warned Mark last night that I felt my five-year "cry" revving up.  And he looked kind of scared.  Hey, I'm an ugly crier but not a scary one.  Ultimately, I spared him by letting my tears slip silently onto my pillow while he sunk into slumber.

This "life" thing can be really heavy sometimes.  Fortunately, my siblings and I make a pretty awesome Team Sally, but I have lousy upper-body strength, so maybe it's not surprising that, after spending the day with my ailing mom yesterday, I was ready to call "uncle" and let someone else carry that burden.

Unburdening myself, it turned out, was the secret to getting better.

I don't think of myself as stubborn or fiercely independent.  Yet, I seldom reach out and ask for help.  But last night and early this morning, I felt raw and thin and vulnerable. And I decided that what I needed most from my friends was to have them share in carrying my burden.

So I told a few folks about my wobbly state of mind.  About my mom's decline and the weight that accompanied it.

I am not well practiced in the art of being human, sometimes.  Fortunately, the folks I reached out to were confident in their ability to listen and love and absorb.  And, because of them,  my load got a bit lighter.  Not easier, to be sure, but. . . lighter.

By mid morning today, I felt almost human again.  Silly and grateful and grounded.

As for my friends?  Well, I suspect their days got a bit heavier.  That is the end result of unburdening your woes--someone's got to carry the extra load.

And me?   I will still carry this sadness within me, knowing my mom is writing her last chapter.  But I won't carry it alone.  And that makes all the difference in the world.