The Art of the Box

As I've said before, we're planning to move. So, having heard friends’ stories about what their friends told them, before we even hired a realtor I started to pack. Not only would that get a lot of excess “stuff” out of the way and make things look better, I felt I was getting a jump on things. After all, I could pack and purge at the same time. Trust me, the purging is easier.

Boxes

First, you have to decide about the boxes. I have book boxes, which have openings on the end so you can pick them up more easily once they’re filled, and separate tops so it’s easier to close them up—maybe. Packing books isn’t that hard, especially when you can then make bags of books to donate to either the library or Goodwill, which takes almost anything. But those boxes get heavy really fast. As in, I would fill them, close them, and then just leave them on the floor for Ed to move. My lifting abilities are limited. But I also tried to pack by category—fiction in one box, general nonfiction in another, unneeded accounting boxes in a third. I think I had 15 boxes of books done in three days. Sometimes I’d fill a bottom box, put another one on top, and then put a third on top, just to preserve space.

Then there are boxes for other materials. I have good-sized medium ones for the dining room. And I had direction from a mover I spoke to on how to pack dishes, knickknacks, etc. it was time consuming but bending over is good for the waist—or so I’ve been told. Those boxes get heavier even faster. Packing dishes is an interesting effort and a lot of packing paper is involved. I worked out a deal with the hubby—I packed, labeled, and closed. He provided the raw strength to move them. He swears that at least one of the boxes weighed over 60 pounds. I’m not sure of that, but then again, I try not to lift a lot. Ever see someone steer a full box down the hall into a storage space? You can either push it, which sometimes doesn’t work well, or push it with a foot, which has benefits as stress relief. Of course, once I got it to the other room I couldn’t get it onto the pile.

Packing Order

Second, there is the decision on what to pack first. I started to pack linens early, because it was spring, I wanted the winter stuff out of the way, and I thought it would be easier to just have the summer/early fall stuff around. I even packed some of the towels—when you have three linen closets you end up with a lot of towels, even after you’ve given away a lot of them. I think the towels may have given birth to more towels when we weren’t looking and decisions to sever families of them were difficult.

And then there was my husband’s blanket, which we have named Puffy. It’s a king-sized down comforter, which can be folded and stuffed into a box, and closed. Except when I came back to the room the tape was coming off and the blanket was trying to get out—it was the only item in that box. I sat on top of it and put on more tape. It was still trying to get out. Ultimately, I stacked a bigger box on top of it and weighted that down with more linens to keep the box closed. I’m still afraid the blanket will get out. It’s the stuff of nightmares.

Third, I have loaded every knickknack I could find; someone told me that when the house goes on the market some viewers can have slightly sticky fingers so you have to get everything put away. I’m not sure that’s true but I packed them up. That includes in the dining room, where I had a hutch with shelves in it and “tchotchkes” on every shelf. I got rid of a couple of bowls but on the whole most of the items came from various travels and I wanted to keep them. That meant wrapping everything in paper, and then filling the empty spots in the box (which I’ve carefully lined with crunched up paper to give it a softer bottom) with more paper. When we got to unwrap it all, and trust me, that won’t be a fast job, I’ll need a box just to hold the paper that won’t be needed anymore. It won’t be pretty.

But then you have to have a place to put all the boxes. I solved that issue by putting a really old couch on Freecycle. That went quickly and voila—space for boxes. Many, many boxes. If you go into that room now, it’s a two-deep wall of boxes that’s 3 boxes high—I would have gone deeper but the room was getting too full. Plus, we now have boxes in the garage—only a single layer deep, but four boxes high. After all, in theory we really do still need to put the cars in too. I think.

Stacked Up

We ended up with 50-plus boxes, plus some bins that can be just wrapped in tape and loaded as is. After I was done with the dining room I walked in and said to my husband, “That’s it. Someone else is doing the kitchen.” He looked at me and decided that the best answer would be “Okay.” I’m told it will be 21 boxes for the kitchen, and I don’t know how many more for the basement and other spots that I couldn’t handle.

I don’t want to see another box to pack again if I can avoid it—I probably can’t. I still have a lot of packing paper around and will figure out how to deal with that another time. In the meantime, anyone need bubble wrap?

Next time: Talking to moving companies.

Oh, the Decision              

We were supposed to talk to a realtor in December, but then the baby got sick and everything was put off. Then we wanted to talk to him in March but he was out of town. The conversation happened in May--with the baby along to add an opinion. Regardless of months of waiting to move forward, the decision was made… we’re moving.

I’ve lived in different parts of two adjoining states for my entire life. All of them were, let’s say, within 60 miles of each other, and I’m being generous. It was probably a little less. Therefore, the decision to move was not easily made. But, it’s hard to argue that the children might come back East; they won’t. And we do want to have an opinion when asked on what might be good for the grandchildren. Our views are very different from those of the in-laws. And that’s fine; different is okay unless one side is a criminal and the other isn’t—and even then, what kinds of criminals are they; there might be a really good reason.

So, we’re going to move. To Colorado. What’s 1700 miles give or take among friends? As it turns out, most of our friends totally understood our move. Some cried; only two got upset but I think they’re over it. I’m not sure I’m happy that everyone took it so well but I’ll cope.

I’ve started a list of what happens just to get to actually leaving. And a list of things I want in the new place—how many bedrooms, bathrooms; how much space. Do we have to have a basement or can we live without one (we probably need one just for the husband’s exercise equipment; he’s having trouble cutting down on that). And a list of what we can get rid of—turns out there’s a fair amount of that.

I’m now intimately acquainted with Craigslist. Turns out that it takes no effort to change your sale location and end up offering things in Brooklyn while living in New Jersey. However, it does take 15 minutes of effort to figure out how to change it back—and I still have no idea what happened. Plus, my negotiating ability has improved dramatically. One could even say that it is in direct proportion with how badly I want something out of my house. And some things I want gone immediately.

The next few weeks will be crazed. Not only do all these decisions need to happen, but the house must be instantly ready for buyers to view. And I have to be ready at all times to either leave the house or work very quietly in my corner and hope no one notices me. No matter what, it’s going to be messy.

More soon.

Why Fear

I am a woman, with a mind of her own.

I live on the East Coast.

I would be considered by many to be a liberal—probably socially liberal but with some fiscally conservative overtones (and no, not a believer in the Tea Party).

I am a Jew.

I started writing this almost a week after the capture of the Boston Marathon bomber (no, you can’t say I’m quick with some things).  I can tell you that after listening to everything I said the younger brother was pushed into following the older brother. That doesn’t excuse it; he was old enough to know better, and he can rot in jail for the rest of his life. It merely helps to explain things, at least for me.

But that’s separate from what I was going to say here—although related. I also watched with fascination as everyone just started screaming that it was one group or another, or should I say one person who could be categorized as belonging to a group that people feared. I found it fascinating that Donald Trump (and this was well before he decided to run for office) was asked what should happen and he said the guy should be waterboarded. A senator instantly announced that the bombers should be labeled as “enemy combatants” so that numerous Constitutional guarantees could be ignored. And at the hearings (there are always hearings, which go no place and should never even happen since they resolve nothing), they wanted to know why someone who was picked up and then proved uninvolved hadn’t been put on a watch list. (Actually, I think there are several senators who probably shoul be on watch lists; we can figure out why later.) After all, he doesn’t believe we have any rights; only he, and those who agree with him, has those.

What are we so afraid of? And why do we have to put everyone in a “group.” Can I remind you that Timothy McVeigh, and Adam Lanza, and the guy who shot up the movie theater in Colorado were all white? By the way, I worked for a Muslim (he was not all that observant but he was definitely up on everything he should have been doing to be observant); he was devastated by what happened on September 11, and could quote the Koran on why it was wrong. He was a terrible boss, something a lot of people would agree with, but in no way was he a radical Muslim. Another man in the firm had converted to Islam; he was sick about what happened. Neither of them would ever be considered "radicals." There are far more Muslims out there who hate the jihadists, and are not radical people. They just happen to be Muslims.

Then there was the shooting at Planned Parenthood in Colorado Springs. Yes, the shooter, who surrendered to police, had a lot of problems. In fact, since his problems were mainly mental, can anyone explain to me why he had a gun permit--or if not, how he got the guns? He sounded totally rational when arrested, but was talking about “baby parts.” I’ve often found it strange that it’s all right to shoot people in a clinic where abortions might be performed because you think they’re wrong, but the people in the clinics aren’t allowed to exercise their choices, which are apparently subordinate to the shooter’s—and can we remind the shooter that if they kill someone there for medical reasons aren’t they also then killing the baby? How is that murder justified? I’ve read statistics showing how many people feel that abortion is a horrific wrong, but executing someone after the legal process has condemned him is totally fine. In fact, they think more executions should be happening. Isn’t there some kind of reasoning adjustment needed somewhere? (And by the way, I have consciously decided not to talk about San Bernardino here; it's just too much,)

And that applies to a lot of other people. So some people look different and dress in a way different from you; it doesn’t mean they’re out to get you. Maybe they’re just terrified that you might hurt them simply because of their looks. And let’s throw in comments on guns as well. I know people who own guns—none of them as advanced as I’ve been told we need. I think it’s fine that they have them. I don’t want them taken away without good cause. But let me ask you: What’s the matter with a background check? You’re right, criminals don’t have them. But maybe if the guy who buys a gun to sell to a criminal has to have a background check, it will make them a little harder to get. I read that in Australia, once they insisted on more background checks, crime actually dropped. Who here would have thought that?

So let’s return to the part where I said I am a Jew--and a woman. What bothers so many people about that? I haven’t asked you to convert. I've been told I'm not wanted in my town if I think my children should date Jews, That came from a woman who objected to her Catholic son dating a Protestant It was a little mind-boggling. So, don’t look down on me and mine if our belief system is different from yours. Don’t tell me you need to go in the back door of the synagogue so your non-Jewish friends won’t know that you have a Jewish friend (and yes, I know someone who did that; her priest thought that was just silly, but her mother was terrified someone would know). And don’t act like I’m stupid because I don’t see Jesus as a messiah—may I remind you that he was ours before he was yours?

As a woman I am entitled to my own thoughts. I don't need my husband to tell me how to vote, or what to do. In fact he would tell you he's fine with me having my own opinions, which don't always agree with his. Yes, I live on the East Coast and definitely in what would be considered a "liberal" area. But I also believe we need to hold common ground with people who think differently. Finding a way to work with all kinds of people can only help us all in the long run. Fear of others based on different beliefs can only breed contempt, and nothing will get done to suit everyone.

I’m done venting now and no, I'm really not out to get anyone. My friends come from diverse groups and religions--and there are some in mine with whom I radically disagree. I have just been thinking about how tiring it has to be to hold so much animus against so many people. And I will not hang my head in shame that I said any of this. I let you live with your beliefs and opinions, even if I think you’re completely wrong. In this country, we have the right of free speech and to have other opinions. I'll always stand up for your right to that, even if I think you're out of your mind. Like the second amendment, that's protected too.

Joy…Fear…Joy

I have heard it said that if we knew what fun grandchildren were we would have had them sooner. My husband even quoted that a week or so ago. All I know is that I love my grandchildren—we have one of each—and lately, I am unbelievable grateful to have them.

My granddaughter was born in fall 2013, and I was there as her parents came home, after a small snow event. It was hysterical to take her home in the stroller—the hospital was only a couple of blocks from their home—while there was snow on the grass and the sidewalks were just a little damp. I think she had at least 4 blankets piled above her and a wool cap pulled down on her head. Just taking her out of the stroller on arrival wasn’t easy. She is now a strong happy child and we revel in her love of life.

My grandson was born in December and this time my daughter had a better feel for what she needed to do afterwards and told us what she wanted us to do. We flew out 2 days later and spent several days just holding him and his sister, playing, and generally having a wonderful time. My mother and sister came later in the week to meet him, and to attend the bris. What no one could see coming was that the bris had to be delayed. My daughter called us before dawn that day to see if I would go with her to the hospital with him. He had decided to stop eating and there seemed to be something very wrong. My husband answered the phone and before he had two sentences out, I was out of bed and getting dressed. Before the call could be done I was fully dressed and waiting with my coat to find out what time I should be downstairs. Needless to say, I was early.

The only good thing about getting to a hospital at that hour is that parking is really easy. The rest, not so much. He was now a baby who looked like even he was afraid. He still didn’t want to eat but his vitals were fine. Shifts changed and we had a new doctor who was very determined to figure out what was going on, and he still was obviously ill. You know that things are bad when a baby doesn’t complain about the efforts to get a spinal tap. Yet, he was still very calm. You would think that a week-old child who is demonstrably ill would be crying constantly. He didn’t, and I’m afraid that he might not have had the strength to do so. That alone is terrifying.

Ultimately, they moved him to the pediatrics ward, which had doctors who knew how to get liquid into him and how to hit a spinal tap on the first try. But they still didn’t know what it was, although they were quite sure it was viral. (And to give everyone their due, this children’s hospital took care not only of him but also of his parents, patiently answering any and all questions from them, and even from the extended family.) By the next morning, he was having seizures, which necessitated more tests, heavy-duty medicines to stop the seizures, and more consultations. And then they moved him to the ICU. We could go into the room, but first there was hand washing, and putting on gowns, gloves, and masks. He must have been wondering who these creatures were.

Success at last! 

It took 3 days but there was an answer. Someone from the Infections Diseases department figured it out. He had an extremely rare virus that no one had heard of, and had never been seen in that hospital, or even, I suspect, that city. Once they knew who to call, everything started to change quickly. They knew what to do, they knew what to look for that might be causing the seizures. This virus can have one of two side effects, encephalitis or meningitis, which you really don’t want but can be treated. Now all of the other antibiotics that they had tried could be removed and actually healing could happen. Five days later you could see improvement almost by the hour. It was like a miracle.

They were able to bring him home 8 days after he was hospitalized--another miracle since the doctors thought he’d be there for 3 weeks. I had had a cold that week and didn’t find out until close to the end of the stay just how it had looked to see him with so many tubes and wires attached, and monitors beating. I gather it was heart wrenching. Yet, as he neared the end of his stay I was able to go in and got a picture of him looking right at me as if to say, “You looking at me, lady?” And yes, he came home with tubes attached to a portable oxygen tank but it was small, had a shoulder strap, and was the least thing to do for him. Besides, all babies need funky accessories.

Two weeks later we had the bris and I said to the rabbi, “How many of these do you have with an oxygen tank lying next to the child during the ceremonies?” and was stunned by his answer. Turns out that when you live at a higher elevation it’s not that uncommon for a newborn to come home with a portable oxygen tank. He never blinked at it, although at a month old the ceremony itself is a little harder to do.

Today, my grandson is off the oxygen and is a happy, healthy, constantly smiling child who is a joy to his family and all who meet him. My daughter and son-in-law sleep better at night, and his big sister kisses him as she walks past. As I said at the start, if we had known how much fun it was to have grandchildren, we would have done it sooner.

Baruch Ha-shem. 

The Holidays Are Coming! What Do I Say?

The holidays are coming! The holidays are coming!! Oh no, what do we say? I have to be politically correct and not insult anyone. Really? If you say Merry Christmas to me it’s an insult? How about if on a Friday late afternoon I say Shabbat Shalom? How exactly are you insulted?

I’ve read several articles in which Donald Trump says he’s a good Christian and when he’s president everyone will be saying “Merry Christmas” all the time. First, I don’t think he’s all that great a Christian. Personally, I find him condescending and uninformed but as he says, he’s very rich. Guess the money makes him righter than anyone else. However, that’s not my point. How is he going to compel "everyone" to say what he wants.

As you can probably tell from the top paragraph, I’m Jewish. If you can’t tell from that, go look up the phrase on Google. They will explain it. I don’t have the energy for it. My point instead is that these are just words. Someone says "Merry Christmas" to me I just smile, nod, and move on—and I usually answer with “Happy Holiday.” I’m not insulted. Not everyone knows my faith, and frankly, I don’t want to know theirs. The bigger question--and frankly, there should be several big questions--is what does it matter? Obviously, if you can tell from clothing that a person is not a Christian, just don’t say it. If not, say whatever you like. No one should be that concerned with it. 

And really, does it matter that a paper cup is red, without any holiday decorations? Shouldn’t it be more important that said red cup is made of paper and probably won’t be recycled by its user? Maybe the planet deserves a holiday greeting and better treatment as well.

And another point is saying the words doesn’t make anyone a good Christian. I find it fascinating that from Thanksgiving to Christmas everyone talks about being good to others, and so many good deeds are done. After December 25, not so much. By the way, wars don’t stop just because it’s Christmas. Hunger goes on, homelessness and poverty are still there. They are just frequently decorated in greenery and tinsel.

My daughter has for the past few years volunteered to fulfill a Christmas wish for a family in need. That makes her a good person, and a good Jew—for us, it’s a mitzvah (also to be looked up). At other times she also makes donations to charities that have meaning for her. Frankly, she really doesn’t care what you say to her. Both of my children have volunteered to feed the hungry, clean up parks, do errands for others. And not in that little four-week period where what you say is all that counts.

Maybe it’s time to not worry so much about the words but to look at the actions. And by the way, Trump’s daughter converted by choice to Judaism. I give her a lot of credit for doing that (and am also a secret admirer of how she has chosen to live her life). But, I wonder what he says to her.

 *   *   *

I think that at some point early in my blogging days I said I’d stay away from politics. This year, though, some of the politicians and what I think of as their idiocy is just getting to me. Trust me when I say that this was the least of my thinking on these issues. You don’t want to know the rest of it.

Just Listening

I’ve said before, and I’ll say it again, I seem to be regarded as a bit of a therapist and sometimes mentor by some of my friends. Today’s world isn’t easy. With all of the technology and the constant need to produce—even very young school children have homework, some of it intense—people, at least those in my age group, seem to have a much greater need to talk…about themselves, their lives, what’s wrong with the world.

 I’m not sure when I turned into the therapist of choice. I think it’s because I am a pretty good listener, and usually don’t offer an opinion unless I’m asked. But be prepared for my answer when you ask me for comment. I’ve been known to let someone have it.

A friend of mine is what I would call a serial dater. She’s on several online dating sites and goes out frequently. But I’ve been noticing that by the third date she usually finds something wrong with the guy. On the whole, I think she has a tendency to pick the wrong guys. But, she also nitpicks. The guy who spent several years in jail and had a lot of tattoos? He finished the jail term years ago and now runs a very successful--and legal—business. Whatever happened way back when is not important. The abundance of tattoos? Okay, I’m a little weirded out by those too, but he wore long sleeves on your dates, so I think he knows that people are bothered by them.

Don’t like your job and have interviewed for another one that’s easier to get to—a bonus in this job market? Be careful. The friend who asked you in to interview on a pro forma basis has then turned on you before. Personally, I don’t trust her to follow through on it--and I’ve said so. Heard this story before, with a lot of the same players. As it is said, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different response. Same goes for the serial job searcher. Very picky in what they want to do. Unfortunately the job specs for what you’ve done for years have changed, and recruiters don’t look past the education line. I don’t know what you should be doing, but maybe it’s time to either rework the resume or look for another route around it. I can’t change the specs.

The Other Side 

But there is another question in this. If I listen to all of you, repeatedly, wouldn’t it be nice if you offered to listen to me babble along on what’s bothering me? Guess not. I’ve tried to get someone to listen every so often, but apparently no one wants to hear anyone else’s problems unless they can respond by relating it to their own problems and successfully turning the conversation back to themselves. Really? Personally, I think that’s rather selfish. No one in the world has no problems. Next time, perhaps listen to others; you never know, you might learn something that you can use, without making the conversation all about you.

So, let’s talk about me…. Anyone out there? Hello?

Writer’s Block

Yes, once again it’s been awhile. And there are two reasons for that. First, I’ve had a lot of work of the paying kind. With deadlines. Good for my income but at the end of the day I had no strength, never mind thinking brain cells, to sit and write. Just couldn’t do it.

And second, I couldn’t write. Yes, it’s been a major case of writer’s block. I probably started at least a dozen entries, all of which are gathering virtual dust in a virtual folder used to keep incomplete pieces. Not good.

For me, writing isn’t easy. Especially on topics I need to choose and comment on. Sounds like it should be easier than writing on something someone else has chosen, but it isn’t. If someone gives me a topic, I’ll knock a quick essay out that will at least be decent. 

But a blog is different. It’s much more on things that mean something to the writer, especially if it isn’t subject specific. While writing it I think not only about my feelings on the subject, but in some cases, just how much I want to share of myself. That’s the hard part. I have a list of subjects I eventually want to talk about and, as I said earlier, a lot of unfinished material where my thoughts either ended too soon or for some reason I couldn’t put together the words that explained my thoughts. Eventually it will happen though and I’ll go back and finish each topic. They are all important to me.

The Spirit Is Happening

I know others who blog like I do—not to a specific subject area. Some of them even have specific times of the day or week when they schedule themselves to write. But I’ve never been good at that kind of planning ahead; I write better most of the time when the force just hits me. Today I’m on a plane on the way to visit my granddaughter for her second birthday. My tablet is in my bag and I finally feel the moment. This is also the start of a week with a lot less income-producing work so my brain will be able to get into some less intimidating material (all of my work for income is in medical editing, which can be very stressful). After I finish here, I think I’ll also be able to start—or finish--another blog for later posting. I feel like the words will flow. I’ve written on planes before and for some reason it’s a good spot for me to get things together.

It’s time to get back into it. 

Neighbors Are A-Changing

We’ve lived in our house for 28 years. Before that, we were in a house for about 8 years. I gave birth to my children in that first house. My older daughter started school while we lived there--we moved while she was in the first grade. I didn’t notice too many changes because we bought the house new and everyone around us had young children.

A couple of weeks ago, though, I looked at where we live now and realized that we, and the older couple down the block who were original owners (we’re the third owners of our home), are now the “old” people in the neighborhood. Every other house on the street, probably eight besides us, has changed hands in the last 10 to 12 years, and now some are changing again. Personally, I think it’s great that the street is getting young again, but then I feel really old. My children live far away so I rarely have my granddaughter playing on the front lawn. Plus some of the families that arrived in the last 15 years have kids now entering high school. They were babies—or not even born—when their parents moved onto the block.

As an example, the people in the house next door left the day after their oldest son finished eighth grade. We have no idea what happened or where they went, but I do know that they had 2 kids when  they moved in and 4 when they left. One day we saw a for-sale sign, and by spring those kids seemed to have disappeared. In fact, the mother, who was always outside with them, seemed to disappear as well. Odd, but then they left (and they were also the third, or maybe even the fourth to own that house) and the new family was coming in. One day I’ll find out what happened from her neighbor on the other side, who not only knows everything going on but also had a daughter graduate from 8th grade and will be going on to high school. That girl wasn’t even born when her family moved in.

The next cycle 

It looks like the new neighbors are starting a new cycle of kids. We saw her going to pick up her mail while carrying a baby. Then again, that’s the only time we’ve seen her. They spent a month on fixes to that house before moving in, and then just seemed to be gone a lot as well.

I like the “youngification” of the block though. Neighborhoods should be like that. My daughter just moved to a house that’s been around for a while. On one side there is an elderly woman and her daughter; behind the new house is a family with 6 kids, and I hear that the other night three more families arrived to introduce themselves—with kids of varying ages. The neighborhood is 40 years old but the original owners are moving on.

 In some ways the changes keep us young, although we’re back to driving really slowly up the block to make sure no one runs out in front of us. But, I guess it’s time for us to think about moving on as well. It’s a really good street in an excellent school district. Soon it will be the right time to let someone else enjoy it, and keep the street young. But then again, living here also helps keep us young watching everyone play. It's a hard choice.

The Art of Chronic Illness

As I have sometimes mentioned, I have a chronic illness. It’s number three on the arthritis list, and sometimes I think it’s number one, but that’s just me. Most people think that there are just two version of arthritis—wrong!! When I started this little journey I was told there were 60 forms of arthritis, but if you count the subheadings in the lists, it’s probably more like 120. You know Venus Williams’s Sjogren’s disease? That’s a form of arthritis, although it doesn’t have the word in the title. Unfortunately, any form of arthritis is pretty much a chronic illness—you get it for life; there is no cure. Fortunately, for mine there are drugs that help mitigate the problems to some extent.

But what do you do with those problems? In my case, I’m lucky; I’m considered to have a mild-to-moderate case, and I really can’t imagine how bad it gets with the moderate-to-severe cases because I’m really not happy right now with where I am with this. Apparently I’ve been in a “flare” for almost two months now (based on what my rheumatologist said the other day), and counting. He can’t predict when it might end; all he can do is tweak the meds in order to try to make things slightly better. Hopefully, the weather will improve and the rain will stop soon. A couple of drier, warmer weeks will definitely help things improve and my attitude will turn up again. (Frankly, it's been so rainy here that not only are we out of the moderate drought people were predicting, but I haven't had to water the lawn yet, and that's really unusual for late June. But, that's also beside the point.)

The real issue is in deciding that you will live your life in spite of the disease, and not let it dictate what you will do. At least, that’s how I do things. 

So, what happens?

I refuse to give in to the problem. Therefore, no matter what, I get out of bed at just about the same time every weekday, sometimes more slowly than others, and I go about my business. What does that mean? I just touted up numbers and essentially, I just about doubled my business income this quarter over the last one. Now, having said that, I should admit that the first quarter of this year was not great. There just wasn’t enough work out there from my clients and I had trouble finding new ones. Fortunately, in mid-March I picked up a very steady assignment plus another new client, and had work from some of my steadier clients. It was a big help, and this next quarter is also looking decent. But the issue is that I never missed a deadline, and only had to cancel once—and not for arthritis, jbut for a stomach bug that made things difficult.

I have crocheted for years. I committed to making a dog-shaped afghan for my granddaughter. It was an easy pattern that went fairly quickly, but the winter and spring were not good for my kind of problem and I had to stop for a bit so my hands could recover. Oh, and I had then said I’d make a matching afghan for her very close friend. What I thought I’d deliver by late March was actually delivered at the end of May. Not sure when I’ll be picking up a crochet hook again, but it probably won’t be one of the really skinny ones unless I have a thick handle on it. But, they got done. Now, I’m working on an alphabet needlepoint for the anticipated second grandchild—I’ll need it done by Thanksgiving. Any idea how many little holes you have to fill with the thin floss and really thin needle? I work for a couple of hours at a time, and then come back a few days later and have at it. No matter what, it will be done, and framed, on time.

My family came to visit on the Memorial Day weekend, and I kept up with everything. Yes, I sat down sometimes when I got too tired but I’m hoping it wasn’t wildly noticeable. They know my hands are not in great shape so my issues in picking up my granddaughter were not considered all that big. After she left, I sat down for the afternoon—and cleaned up more the next day. Everything gets done, but on my schedule.

What’s the point?

If I were to let the arthritis have the last word, none of this would happen. I’d just sit here with an e-reader (much lighter than an actual book) and do next to nothing. Instead, it’s better for anyone with a chronic illness just to live. I still go walking as often as I can (usually the floors are flat there; if there’s even a quarter-inch lip on a sidewalk I’ll find it and fall over it so the mall is just better). The issue is to choose to do; not choose to sit. I know that not everyone can do that, but then again, I believe that even if my illness was in the severe category, I’d make the choice to do I have to believe that everyone can do something, even if lying down; it’s the only way we can have productive lives.

Even my rheumatologist is sometimes surprised that I keep going regardless. My impression after my last visit was that he wants me to slow down just a little bit in order to handle the flare. My greatest fear, though, is that if I give into problems any more than I already do, it will start to take over. I imagine that at some point in the future I will have to slow down to accommodate it, but right now, I just refuse to let it further impact my life.

I think that dealing with everyday life along with a chronic illness is an ongoing fight for everyone, but has to be done on our own terms—and those are different for every “victim.” With any luck, no one else will notice my fights.

And yes, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted here. The weather and the illness were part of that issue, as was the avalanche of work. Plus, can’t seem to find the lists of topics I have on index cards on my desk. I write them down as I think of them, then can’t remember what I wanted to do. That issue will be handled this week when I absolutely promise to clean out that desk. I’ve got a new work setup that I think will be better in the long run, and it’s time to clean out anyway. A good purge of “stuff” always makes me feel better.

Return of the Clique

In 1963 my parents moved our family from what most would consider a more rural area of New York (although we were really just outside of New York City) to a more suburban neighborhood in New Jersey. My father had been commuting more than 50 miles each way for his job and it was time to go closer. 

I’ve never been the person to have lots and lots of friends around. At heart, I’m probably more the solitary type and normally am comfortable being close to just two or three people. But I was happy to make a friend on the new block right away. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in my class in the public schools so I was on my own the first day. And, surprisingly, when I went to gym class—yes, gym class, who would have thought it, which was shared with another class, I instantly clicked with a girl there. So, there was hope.

My parents were very big on certain ideas, some of which I think have disappeared in the last 50 or so years. One was that when you went to school you sat, you learned, you paid attention, you respected your teachers. The other concept was that you did the same in religious school—which I attended 3 times a week for a total of about 5 hours. I was stunned when I walked into the first class there and the girl from gym class was sitting there. To this day—and after more than 50 years of friendship with her—I am grateful. Without her sharing the class, life would have been hell. Why? Because of THE CLIQUE.   

     

It turns out that my particular grade in school had a clique in it. How did that happen? A lot of the parents had moved from a town about 12 miles away that had fallen out of favor. So years before, they all moved to my new town—and almost everyone lived in the same neighborhood, so their children could grow up together. In fact, it seemed like they did just about everything together. And, I think there were people who wanted to be part of the group, so they lived on the edges of that neighborhood. While most of these families had at least two children, apparently the bulk of the next generation turned up in my class.

My new friend’s parents were actually part of the group at one point, but when they moved they opted to live on the other side of town and not be part of that. Their beliefs on child rearing and what was important were much more in alignment with what my parents thought. As my friend has said, “The day she arrived I finally had someone to talk to.”

But this is just background. The clique continued through high school, although other kids worked really hard to join it so there was some ebb and flow in it. The bigger problem was that they really didn’t seem open to even interacting with people outside their group, and it was very insular. And yes, I sound insulted that I wasn’t part of the group, but when you have to work with someone who really doesn’t want to interact with you, it’s annoying.

Ultimately, we all graduated and they had to go their separate ways. But at the reunion who did they stay with—the old crowd. And by the way, my sister was 4 years behind me. Even her class had heard of this group in the school. It lived well beyond its “Sell by…” date.

 Fast Forward 40+ Years…

Aren’t cliques so high school? Apparently not. I was working as the only staff editor for a medical education agency. Everything was supposed to come across my desk, and the higher ups were very happy with my work. Granted, there were some days when they thought I could read 90 pages in an hour—I refused to even try—but for the most part everything was going very well and I was happy to have regular work. But then there was a palace coup and one manager leapfrogged another to take charge of my group. He put someone else in charge of the day-to-day running of things.

I knew there would be trouble the first time she came in for a meeting. Spoke to everyone, except me. Bad management technique. It then became apparent that she didn’t like editors who worked on staff. How did I know? I have really good hearing and she said so to someone else. And somehow work didn’t arrive when promised so it was sent out to be completed overnight. The writing was on the wall, and I sat back to watch. I’ve been there, seen that. High school was back.

A couple of people left and were replaced—by people with no experience. An editorial assistant was hired, without my input, and not even introduced when she started. But you could see that she was part of the “in” crowd. Then I had a couple of stupid comments made to me based on age and speed. Sorry, but speed is not really a desired part of the editorial world—usually, spelling is a big thing. Plus, they couldn’t figure out how I could fix somethings by keeping notes on what I did. Obviously, I should just remember everything—that’s what they did and it worked fine except when it didn’t. In one week I had at least half a dozen projects that I had to fix after they “corrected” things. Oh, and they referred to me as “she” in really loud terms but never by name. It was juvenile.

Came the day when I was called in and told things “just hadn’t worked out.” (Patently untrue.) The lead manager, the one who committed the palace coup, couldn’t look me in the eye because he knew what was happening was just wrong. But the rest of management was young, and they liked to deal only with the young pretty girls—almost all of the staff. I took the severance, which was quite generous, and left. The only issue was proving to the unemployment office that I was let go without cause; I won that too.

After I left I kept an ear to the ground and found out what happened. Seems that cute editorial assistant who was in the work clique left a month after I did, so they had no one. Work still had to be sent out and some of it just came back wrong (and no, I don’t think I’m perfect but at least I wrote the style sheets). Some of those young things had helped “grow” the firm. Within 6 months it was shrinking again. They had to give up the big fancy office and all those clique-y types were demoted to the same or lesser positions that they had previously. I heard that one of the blessed ones made a huge error, but her mother was a friend of the owner so she was just demoted—and kept her nice office. The company has since moved to much smaller quarters and a number of people have left. But the heart of the clique is still running things—and from what I hear, not well.

The Moral of the Story

 High school should stay in high school--and really, cliques should stay in grammar school. Once you graduate it’s time to grow up. If you can’t make friends outside of the group you grew up in, you have bigger problems. Life is more than a clique. And working in the real world means you need to sometimes step out of your comfort zone. Some of the people outside of the clique really do have value—and maybe experiences you can learn from. Try it.