**GOING MANO A MANO WITH MOTHER NATURE
In this go-go, rush-rush, stressed-out world, a way to relax and recharge is to commune with nature. Put a flower in your
hair and soak in the beauty.
This is also a way to rapidly lose your mind. Because nature, rudely, is right there in your own back yard, and
it demands things. Like attention. And a clue.
So let’s get this straight, before any more plants have to die: I’m horticulturally challenged and proud of
it. But still, I try. Driven by what’s probably misplaced maternal instinct – if I don’t have a baby,
I’ll be darned sure I have night-blooming jasmine and a few healthy agapanthus – I try my hand at "yard work."
And yes, I know my neighbors are watching my every blade of grass. And I know they’re laughing, laughing, laughing.
I see their lawns and flowers and neat brick paths trimmed in drought-resistant foliage. I watch their strange, mystic
rituals: Watering. Fertilizing. Casting out the first snail bait of spring.
This insane attention to detail obviously means they cannot possibly hold down jobs.
Now, my front lawn has its own special style. Think "football field after the CIF playoffs," with a little "aura
of desperation" thrown in.
Alas, the back yard is a whole different story. You see, I have what is known in the trade as "good soil." Too good. I
may be the lone 37-year-old woman who thinks "fertile" is a dirty word.
Did you know Morning Glories grow so fast you can see a difference in the time it takes to grab fast food? Did you know
they don’t care where they grow? And did you know that no matter how pretty the flowers, the Edison man cannot
read your meter if they’ve grown over it?
Each day as I walk out toward the garage, I run a gauntlet of guilt, tripped up by overgrown shrubs and bombarded by sad
little roses with their dead blooms still attached, leaves brutalized by marauding bugs. (But, mind you, roses that now grow
at a rather snazzy and dramatic angle, because I never did get around to staking them up. That’s actually cool. You
can’t buy Sideways Roses, you know.)
Add to this spring possums and a bird bath that magically turns clear water into brown soup, and you start to see why I
think someone has it in for me.
It’s not like I haven’t learned anything:
Never trim bougainvillea in your favorite leather jacket. Only plant grape vines if you live on a vineyard. RoundUp can’t
exterminate Bermuda unless you use more than you have. And any greenery not within reach of automatic sprinklers is pretty
much a dead man walking.
Lessons aside, I’m a wreck. The city-issued trash cans are overflowing with trimmings and pickup isn’t for
another five days. I simply don’t know how much longer I can take the pressure, which keeps growing and growing and,
quite literally, growing.
But I do know this: If Mother Nature doesn’t cut me some slack, and cut me some slack real soon, the gloves are off.
I’m serious.
I’m going to hire a better gardener.
**WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP JUMPING ON THE BED?
My friend Heather and I were talking the other morning about what it means to be a woman. I was going on and
on and on, as I tend to do, about priorities and chaos and expectations, and did she get it?
Totally, she said. Being a woman is kind of like making the bed.
Excuse me?
"It’s like making the bed. You do it, and you think you’re done. Then the next morning, it’s messed up
again, and you have to make the bed again. Do you stop making the bed, just because something you’ve done doesn’t
stay done? No, you keep doing it day after day after day, because that’s life. And that’s what I think being a
woman is like."
Now at this point, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I only make my bed when company’s coming, and she
had arrived at Babies ‘R’ Us, where she was buying yet another gift for yet another friend who was having yet
another baby, so we hung up. (Plus, my friends and I don’t do cell phones inside shops or restaurants unless it’s
an emergency, i.e., "Those strappy sandals you loved are marked down 75%! Yes, I’m at the store now! Want me
to grab them for you?)
Still, the idea stuck with me. My world isn’t going to explode if I don’t make my stupid bed; of course it’s
not. But after a while I realized that on a lot of levels, she is absolutely, positively right.
Why do I only make my bed when company’s coming? Because in the past few years my entire life has morphed into making
a jillion "beds" for myself and for other people. Spend 37 minutes on hold to undo the phone company’s "upgraded" and
unwanted new services. Get that hamper for $40 less down the street, but only if you return the one you already bought, wait
till next Wednesday and bring a coupon. And call your friend to cancel lunch tomorrow because your boss just planned an off-site
retreat. Right after you call your other half and remind him he has a dentist appointment in about three hours.
Sometimes issues rest quietly in the bed, unlikely to stir unless an alarm goes off: I should put away the clean dishes,
I shouldn’t watch so much TV, I should figure out what I really want to do with my life.
Other times they jump up and down on the bed and scream so loud you can’t ignore them, even if you put a pillow over
your head and turn up the stereo and chant "Oprah" over and over and over. You can’t tuck these in neatly and quietly,
no matter how hard you try.
The issues jumping on the bed are the ones that keep women awake nights. How did we ever pile up that much debt, and what
am I going to do about it? We both work 50 hours a week and the house is going to pot, and what am I going to do about it?
Will he ever propose or, no, probably not, I’m just wasting my life and I’d better figure out what I REALLY
want to do with my life because it’s whipping by like the scenery on the interstate during road trip to Vegas.
And what am I going to do about it?
Call my friend Heather, of course. And together we’ll figure out how to make the dang bed. We always do – because
that’s life.
**ANY NUMBER OF PROBLEMS
Help. Please help.
Through the wonders of modern technology, I’ve been sucked into someone else’s life, and not even Caller ID
can save me.
You see, I have what is known affectionately, in hell, as a "recycled phone number."
Usually recycling is good. Saves the environment, makes you feel good about yourself, results in some fairly stylish brown
paper products.
But in the world of the phone company, "recycled" is code for "you’ll never rest again."
It’s like those scary stories about safe sex: You’re not only doing it with that person, you’re doing
it with everyone they did it with, and everyone that the ones they did it with did it with, etc. Only imagine that instead
of trying to get sex, everyone is trying to get a new mortgage at an incredibly low, low rate.
This is what I got when I changed my phone number, and in doing so met my new friend, Hector Diaz.
As best I can piece it together, here’s the story of Hector, a man I have never met and hope I never will:
Hector was looking for a new home. That’s why the Realtors call. And he was looking for a mortgage for that home.
And that’s why the mainstream lenders call. And I’m guessing he didn’t have a credit report worth bragging
about, and that’s why the aggressive, hard-sell lenders call and call and call some more.
I think it would have been easier for ME to fund his loan than it is to explain to 400 cold-callers that no, Hector Diaz
no longer has this number and no, I am not Mrs. Diaz trying to pull a fast one on you.
(Note to lender who caught me in a moment of extreme frustration: When a person is screaming at you that she would sooner
run in front of a train than rebuff another mortgage offer she didn’t solicit, do not, I repeat, do not at
that moment try to sell her a loan of her own. If she wanted to borrow hundreds of thousands of dollars from someone,
she’d ASK. And if she could reach through the phone line and choke you, she would do that, too.
So Hector got a loan and Hector bought a house and Hector moved far enough away that he ditched his phone number. He seems
to have ditched his friends, too. And I can see why; these people, who all seem extremely surprised to learn Hector moved
without giving them his new number, think it’s cool to call at 1:37 a.m. Or 4:31 a.m. Or 10 minutes before my alarm
goes off. With friends like this, I’d leave town, too, even if I had to have 400 lenders help me do it.
But maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on old Hector. Turns out he might have been motivated by a situation similar to
mine.
Seems that before Hector had this number, it belonged to an organization working to fight domestic abuse and find
places in drug rehab for women in need. And a number, now mine, is still listed under a heading to that effect in lots of
out-of-date but still-in-use phone books.
Call me crazy… but those are different sorts of wrong numbers. So when I get a call from someone looking for Woman
to Woman? Well, I might not be an organization unto myself, but last time I checked, I was still a gal, and I have enough
time to go to my up-to-date phone book and help a woman in need connect with someone who can help.
Recycled or not, that kind of call has my number written all over it.
**DRIVING WHILE DRUNK WITH EMOTION
Students Against Drunk Driving (SADD) and Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) are fighting the good fight. And as
I drive past the wrecks the CHP puts on the roadsides on national holidays, yes, I get the message.
But they’re ignoring another real danger. I mean, pretty much all of my driving disasters have happened when
I was emotional behind the wheel. If you don't count the one where I fell asleep. So I think it's a trend. And we need to
address it fast, though perhaps not while furious. It’s a job for Women Against Driving Sad or Mad.
(OK, so "WADSOM" really doesn't have the snap of the others, but I think it has potential, and "WADMOS" is worse, don't
you think?)
An angry male driver has your basic road rage. And men don’t cry. But women – we pretty much hand our emotions
the car keys and scream, "Drive, damn you! If you really love me, you'll drive!"
Way back when, in my first new car, I cried up the 405 on my way to be dumped. As I drove down my boyfriend's street
and saw a parking place – probably the last one I'd ever park in on his street – I flew into the start
of a major funk.
At that moment, an also-brand-new Toyota Supra flew into the start of a major accident. As I turned left to park, the
previously invisible Supra ricocheted off my bumper and into a parked pickup. Pickup then flew into a nearby driveway, landing
in a completely different direction than its owner had intended.
So now I'm still sad, two men are mad and my insurance rates are headed up 82 percent. And yes, I still got dumped.
(Plus, insult to injury, the drama of the dumping couldn't compete with the squealing tires, crashing metal and vehicles hurtling
through the air. Major letdown.)
Years later, I slipped behind the wheel, fuming, when right before I left work for the day my future ex-husband announced
his interviews for the job in A State That Will Remain Nameless were going great. Which actually would have been great had
it not been the first time I'd heard of the job out of state.
To cope, I whipped out of my parking space, and promptly took out a quarter-panel on one of those camouflaged cement
columns that parking garages stupidly use to hold up the other floors. But I did solidify my stand against ever moving to
Texas. I mean, to A State That Will Remain Nameless But Has Little To Interest Me Personally Even Though I’m Sure Many
Others Love It.
I had by this time upped my deductible, and the $700 panel cost me $500 to fix. In comparison, the $25,000-plus in
damage from Driving While Sad cost me $250 and a fight with the insurance company about whether it had really been
raining the day I got dumped. So, speaking from experience, I would say that while both are dangerous, sad costs more than
mad. I blame the passive nature of sadness.
So, women who were students when magenta was "in" (both for clothing and cosmetics), who know when to say when and
who are more likely to drive loaded with emotion than just plain loaded, remember this:
Sad and mad, while fun to roll around in once in a while, cannot and should not drive your car.
There's a time, and it's now, for WADSOM.
Or maybe something a little catchier. But you get my point.
**HALF A LIFE IS BETTER THAN NONE
Way back in the day, when I was 12 – the day being the 6th of October, to be exact – I came home
from junior high to find my mother in a funk.
Being a most devoted and perfect daughter, my first thought (after "I wonder, are there any cookies left?) was for my mother’s
well-being. I asked her: "Oh, Mother, dear Mother, why are you so blue? Do tell. It is not right that a mother so wonderful
as you should have even a moment of sadness."
(Or something like that. And, FYI, there weren’t any cookies left.)
Oh, it’s nothing, she said. Siiiiiiiigh. It’s just – today is Oct. 6. My birthday. I’m 35.
Thirty-five? Thirty-five?
Uh, yeah? So?
Because even the most devoted and perfect of 12-year-old daughters doesn’t have a clue what numbers like "35" mean
when a person is 35. So I thought on my feet. Did some quick math. And uttered a phrase that only the most devoted
and perfect of daughters could.
"Well," I said, with all the cheer and pride I could muster, "you still have half your life left!"
As anyone older than 12 can guess, this did not play well with my mom. Though I’m not sure anymore exactly what she
said (it was more of a blurgle than anything else), I remember EXACTLY the amount of time it took for her to burst into tears:
one-point-five seconds. And that’s rounding the fraction up.
Ouch. Hit a nerve. Not to mention did some pretty bad math.
So as the most devoted and perfect practitioner of denial, I quickly filed this episode away in the "good intention, bad
execution" part of my brain, got a college degree and didn’t give it another thought.
Until one day – the 24th of December, to be exact – when I looked at myself in the mirror and realized
that this time – whoa, um, birthday – I was the one who was 35.
The good news is that no snotty little person with good intentions and the tact of a 12-year-old opened her yap and made
me cry.
The bad news: That’s because I didn’t have one around. Never had. Still don’t. And if I did, I don’t
think the snotty little person would be all the way up to twelve yet, given my slow performance at the starting line.
Harumph.
But I’m no wimp, I thought, I can take care of myself. I didn’t need any help. So I bravely did what any perfect
and devoted grown-up daughter who didn’t yet have her own daughter could be capable of.
I made myself cry.
Then I picked myself up, steeled my resolve and decided that, yes, Scarlett, (you see, I like to call myself "Scarlett"
when I’m alone and talking to myself and … OK, stop, some things are TOO embarrassing to tell)
Yes, you in the mirror, tomorrow is another day.
And every "another day" keeps me hopeful that someone, someday, will be there to make me cry like I did for my mom. Maybe
start a family tradition?
I mean, it could happen. I still have half my life left.
**WHERE, OH WHERE DID MY OLD HOBBIES GO?
I miss my old hobbies.
I really do.
Hobbies are fun and a good release. They allow us to escape our daily grind and experience lightness and joy. They’re
worth the hours spent, three times over.
And I used to have good hobbies, ones I could be proud of. In public, even. People would be genuinely interested in them
and intentionally stay to listen to my stories, instead of looking around frantically once I’d started and then realizing
all escape routes were cut off.
I skied. I baked. I did stained glass. They were dignified hobbies, strong but feminine, and they were mine.
Then life hit, and they were toast.
These days my hobbies are more … loose. They run more along the lines of attending real estate open houses, scooping
the dog puckey and offering unsolicited advice. Not exactly things anyone forms a club around.
Tight quarters after high school meant nowhere to do art, I waved goodbye to stained glass.
(Did I say high school? Like, the high school that ended in 1983? Am I really missing something that I HAVEN’T DONE
it for longer than I ever did do it? Hmmm. Yes. Wow, this is even sadder than I thought.)
Skiing lasted several years after my move to Southern California. Free time was an issue, and cost, plus a few years ago
I developed odd control issues about driving up the winding hill to Big Bear and after that nobody wanted me in their car
anymore.
Another contributing factor: In the Northwest, where I grew up, the words "The skiing was good" are never followed
by the phrase "and there weren’t even many rocks." I just can’t get over the whole Southern California skiing-on-rocks-and-fake-snow
thing.
Baking lasted the longest because cookies are fortunately a food group. When I was hungry I could blend my hobby and my
need to eat and call it a day.
It’s not all bad, though.
Real estate open houses are an exhilarating and inexpensive way to spend a Sunday. I go from house to house, hunting relentlessly
for the one that will have the answers to all of my décor questions, plus make me think I have more equity in my home. There’s
the verbal jousting with the Realtor, where I can be "looking, but for my friend," "considering selling my home but (insert
reason here) has me on hold until 2005," or my personal favorite, "just being a nosy neighbor."
Scooping the dog puckey is both chore and sport, and the fun culminates far away from the playing field, during epic Conversations
With Other Dog People. The puckey details reveal deep secrets about the animals and also about you, their keeper. (Kid people:
This might ring a bell for those currently changing diapers. People without kids and dogs: Think "reading tea leaves after
an Easter egg hunt." And nobody actually wants to do it with you.)
They’re lesser hobbies, yes, but they’re mine, and for right now they’re the best I can do.
What, you say? Did I forget one? The giving of unsolicited advice?
Start again at the top of this column, and I think you’ll see how a hobby can become a way of life.
