Let's All Get Potted

There is no denying I have a black thumb.

While others may tenderly place their plants in nutrient-rich soil, then nurture and coo at them, my style of plant care can best be described as survival of the fittest.

One coworker gave each of us a flowering plant again this year. It was a thoughtful gift -- although not thoughtful as far as the plant was concerned. I could almost hear the poor blighter scream as it neared my desk, sensing the souls of plants past, once green and lush, now perished from too much/too little watering, overexposure to light or work-related stress.

There are those who may not be great with houseplants but are a whiz with their gardens.

Alas, these skills have passed me by, too. Only the hardiest of plants have survived over the years: the ones that conquered the weaker varieties -- the chokers, the insidious vines, the creepers. Bullies and badasses hold the keys to the kingdom that is my yard.

Yes, I have tried to cull the herd. I hack and chop and bludgeon. But still they rise again. And the little, pretty ones, blocked from the sun and unable to cope, simply stop appearing. Until one day, I think, "There used to be a tulip here. And wild strawberries over there. Hmm."

I have this dream. It's to cultivate an herb garden. I will grow thyme and lavender and all sorts of exotic varieties. I will plant them where no animals can pilfer them and where my predatory plants can't get at them.

Sigh.

We all know better, don't we? While I love flowers and trees and green things, I just need to step away and rely on the talents of others. Or visit the MetroParks, where Mother Nature has created her own soul-stirring works of art.

To be honest, I think the plant kingdom is cool with that.
 
 

Afraid of the Dark

I feel like Charlie Brown. It's Christmas, and I should be happy, but I'm not.

I tried to sort it all out in the car on the way home last night. 

Then all evening I tried not to let it bother me, but it just snowballed, and I didn't mean to, but I took it out on Mr. Ginley.

Then I felt worse.

So I got up this morning, determined to be happy. I thought I would read the paper for inspiration for my blog. I read a story about a pastor battling cancer and a drunk driving victim who's in a wheelchair struggling to keep up with his 1-year-old son.

Then I felt worse. How could I be feeling sad when others had so much more to be sad about? What a schmuck!

I'd thought about writing about Lillian Vernon, who passed away last week. With her family, she escaped Nazi Germany, came to America and founded an empire.

Then I felt worse. What have I accomplished? I go to work every day, slay dragons, come home, make dinner, and crash on the couch. I can't even keep my eyes open long enough to watch an hour-long dvd. Then I go to bed and work all night in my dreams.

So here I sit, caught in a continuous loop, feeling guilty because it's Christmas and I'm blue, feeling bad because others have it worse than I do, then beating myself up because I could be doing so much more than I am.

Deep breath. Cup of coffee. Do a little Reiki. Stretch. Stop comparing. Open the pressure valve. Count some blessings. Be kind. Forgive. Myself.

There, that's a little better.

I'm going to the cat shelter to work this morning. Engage in a little cat therapy. Then spend the day with my husband, who knows me so well and loves me anyhow.

Maybe I'll find a little merry here after all.

Yule Be On My List

A headline in today's newspaper states that 36% of us have not yet begun to do our Christmas shopping.

This no doubt includes my brother-in-law, who, in his growing-up years with my husband, was famous for his last-minute forays at the local drugstore where his only gift options were things like the Pocket Fisherman, Old Spice gifts sets and the (then) ubiquitous soap-on-a-rope.

For the record, I have made major strides in my gift shopping. This is made easier by the fact that my son is grown, and I no longer need to go elbow-to-elbow with fellow moms who are also on the hunt for the Toy of The Year.

Aren't gift cards just the ginchiest invention?

The internet has made things simpler, too. Rather than troll the mall for that perfect something, the world is your oyster at Amazon or E-Bay. I game the system by going to Giant Eagle, buying a gift card for either of these places (thus getting points which translate into big savings on gasoline), then go online and pay with the gift card. The other upside is my credit card gets a little rest.

I try to get to the mall at least once during the holiday season. The urge is overwhelming, even though I know I'm going to have to park in the next county, be jostled by gawkers who are reading inane texts from other gawkers, and ultimately leave with one or two things I bought for myself as a reward for surviving the experience.

Shopping locally has become more popular over the past few years. I think this is a great idea, and I put a few of my holiday surprises away in May, when I shopped booths set up at the Hooley in our neighborhood. Hopefully, I'll be able to find them before Christmas.

In the meantime, I do have a few odds and ends to pick up to complete my shopping. So, although I'm not part of the 36%, I cannot yet hold my head high and crow about having everything crossed off my list.

Ho, ho, ho...happy trolling to all!

Sentimental Journey

If the media and my own personal experience count for anything, the Millennial generation hasn't a sentimental bone in their collective bodies.

On the other hand, I, at the tail end of the Baby Boomer generation, am sentimental to the point of ridiculous.

I have kept boxes of old greeting cards from people I haven't seen in years, a pre-teen scrapbook, dolls and toys from my childhood, company newsletters from former places of employment, a closet full of photographs and much, much more.

As if it weren't enough that I've dragged this flotsam and jetsam around with me, I've also inherited some of my parents' treasures. After my dad passed away and my mom went to live in a nursing home, we went through and chose the things of theirs we wanted to keep. After everyone was finished and we were down to the things that were headed to Goodwill, I sighed, took my mom's paint-by-number bird pictures, and put them in the trunk of my car. I also have their yearbooks and even my grandmother's address/date book.

I'm just a girl who can't let go.

Contrast this with my son and his generation. I am not the only parent to lament that their kids don't care much about the toys of their own youth, let alone the items their parents or grandparents cherished in days long gone. The dishes and photos and mementos don't seem to mean all that much. And when we talk about selling our house and moving one of these days, our son does not get teary-eyed as I would have as a young adult.

Oh well.

When it's time for me to move on to whatever my next existence may be, I know most of my treasures will hit a landfill somewhere. Or a Goodwill. And maybe my sadness at that thought is just vanity. We all want to believe we're leaving something behind, but it doesn't matter. We won't be around to know.

And, not having lived in my era, who will understand my fascination with Little Kiddles. Or cardboard puzzles. Or the original Nancy Drew series of books.

In the end, it's all just stuff, right?

Maybe I'll spend an hour or two going through some of those boxes this weekend. Maybe this time I'll throw some of that junk away.

Sure I will...

What's My Line?

There was an old game show with panelists who tried to guess what the contestant's line of work was.

Each panelist would ask a "yes" or "no" question, and the contestant would simply sit there and answer accordingly.

The show came to mind this morning because I was thinking of how we all get boiled down into digestible bite size brain bytes.

Consider how you imagine the people in your life. As a child, you assume your parents are like everyone else's parents. It's not until you get older (sometimes much older) before you see them as complex human beings, shaped by their past experiences.

In truth, we're all a mixed bag. Yet we are compelled to take the people we meet and slot them according to our preconceived notions. This is fine, as long as we remove them from the slot as we take the time to get to know them.

In high school, I was the quiet, smart kid. I know this is how I was perceived because these words appear multiple times in my yearbook. They were written by the people who didn't know me all that well, fellow classmates who could only base their opinion on the three seconds it took to slot me.

On the other hand, I've been at the same place of employment for well over 20 years. I know how I'm perceived based on the way people introduce me. In addition to my title, I have been called the Queen of Compliance. Which I am. But it's so one dimensional, so dull. Just once, I'd like to be called the Wizard of Wit. Or at least be given props for something other than my keen eye for disclaimers and legal text.

If this sounds a bit whiny, I agree. And in the grand scheme of things, I guess my life would be considered pretty dull. But I'm okay with it. I've gotten to know a lot of fascinating people who would have been slotted as ordinary. But scratch the surface, and be amazed.

Like my friend, Rose, who works with me at the cat shelter. She has rescued many dozens of cats. She's gone into crummy neighborhoods to do this, plus she has 10 cats of her own at home. She cleans cat shelters by day, then goes home and cleans up after her own brood. She looks like a grandma. She's quiet. But she's full of surprises. She told me last week that she still has her Halloween decorations up because it's her favorite holiday, and she has a Jason mask that makes scary noises.

My husband, in his youth, worked with an older gentleman at a carpet store. He struck up a conversation with him after he saw the numbers tattooed on the man's arm. The gentleman didn't say much, just remarked that he had been in a Jewish prison camp.

We're not stick figures. Everyone has a story.

Sometimes, you just have to ask.

The Lesser Knowns

I'm listening to the audio version of  Sarah Vowell's book, "Lafayette in the Somewhat United States." I enjoy reading her work because she talks about people who, over time, have surrendered their spotlight to the brighter stars around them.

Let's face it, it's tough to compete with George Washington.

I've often found that the people in history who hang around the famous folks are often just as fascinating. In this particular tome, I have heard about a handful of minor players who were not on my radar screen but who made contributions to the Revolutionary War. As usual, Mr. Ginley, who is exceedingly knowledgeable about American history, recognized these characters, but I daresay they remain strangers to too many Americans, who are still fuzzy on whether the Civil War or Revolutionary War came first.

My point (that I'm taking so long to get to, sorry) is that it's often the people behind the scenes who get things done. The unsung heroes, who may or may never get a mention in a history book. The worker bees. The terracotta soldiers, fashioned after real, living souls who walked the earth in anonymity but whose faces survive, centuries later, captured in clay.


If the squeaky wheel gets the grease, in history, its often the larger-than-life figures who get the press. I don't take anything away from George Washington, who was an amazing human being or Lafayette, a real character. But it's cool to be reading about others, too, who made a difference in a quieter way. They didn't have meetings, they didn't talk about how great they were, they weren't plotting to take over, they just quietly went about the business of helping a new country establish a place in the world.

Flash forward to today and the cacophony that the media has become. It's easy to contribute to the noise, but not easy to be heard.

Who are today's heroes lost in the hoo-ha?

The Lost Letters

In the ongoing march to Idiocracy, we've decided it's a good idea to stop teaching cursive.

The brain trust behind this one believes that students use computers anyhow, so they don't need to know how to write in cursive.

No, we don't want our children's children to be able to read historical documents. Or their grandparents' old letters. Or to sign their name to anything. (If an "X" was good enough for any ancestor who never had the opportunity to go school, it should be good enough for the next generation.)

Following this logic, I've come up with other curricula we can eliminate from our schools. No sense in our kids learning stuff they're not going to use every day, right?

So, here we go:

1. Scale back on the math. Young folks don't balance their bank accounts anyhow. Why would they need to? The bank would never shortchange anyone. They never make mistakes. And cash registers scan your purchases and tell the cashier how much you need to pay. The money magically comes out of your debit or credit account. All you have to do is swipe your card. Anyone who really wants to know all that number stuff can take an accounting class. We'll leave it all to the accountants and bankers. They've done a marvelous job so far. (If you don't believe me, ask the Google to look up "2008 banking scandal".)

2.  Don't bother teaching proper English. That's what spell check is for, right? And with a couple taps on your keyboard, your Word program very kindly check your grammar, too. It may not correct all your mistakes, but who cares? The reader will know what you meant. If they can't figure it out, it's on them.

3. History is boring. There's plenty of it online. Just ask Wikipedia. Whether it's right or not doesn't matter. As long as you can say you saw it on the internets, you've got credibility. Or you can watch the History Channel, which broadcasts plenty of shows with educational value. Like Ax Men, Hunting Monsters and Big Foot Captured. If those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it, we're screwed.

Well, you get the point. Dumb children equals cooperative children. Put an idiot in the highest office in the land, convince an uneducated populace he's the smartest person in the world, and they will follow him anywhere.

Is it too early for a drink?