While we’re on the subject of imperception, I’d like to state that I’m not really what you think I am, but I’d like to be what I think you think I am. (See, everyone is better off when I don’t think.)
To me,
Socializing is a contest of who can create the greatest misconception of their life. My house is clean, the children spotless and the food magnificent. I now invite total strangers to observe the fairy tale me. If one of them becomes a friend, will they be disappointed to discover the real me? Or will they be relieved?
I guess it depends on how much stock they put in their own delusions. Seeking a true friend, T.
I hate standing tippy-toed at the top of somebody else’s pedestal, because I am the dunce of the dance, and putting me anywhere near the top of anything will guarantee a terrific tumble.
I look around and it seems as if everyone else is dancing effortlessly, on beat and with practiced precision. But later when I collapse in the wings gasping a frantic breather in between scenes, I hear the murmurings of the other performers, and I realize that they too are trying to dance up to another’s expectation.
During any of my life productions, the sidelines are the safest spot to be. Just sit back and enjoy the show because any intervention would just compound the chaos behind the scenes. The husband can’t help and the family can’t mitigate the damage because most of my life is an inadvertent calamity that is certainly not intended to impress anyone.
If I worry less often about what people think, I might realize how often they don’t[1] … or is it how seldom they do?
The degree of difficulty chosen for life’s performance is directly related to the risk of injury and the amount of medication that will be needed to assure an auspicious outcome.
[1] Am I dangling again? Or is it just the participle?
Friday
Tuesday
…computer controlled chaos
January!
What excitement a new calendar brings! It’s like eating a pickle. Just thinking about it starts a twinkle at my toes that trickles up my spine, and flutters past the fingertips, escaping through my scalp. At the office products store, I stand here tempted. The shrink-wrapped computer package held reverently in my hands winks to me its infinite potential and a glimmer of hope shines through.
This new calendar is a CCC (a computerized calendar creator) and I feel like my tech buds just may burst! The new year approaches and this newest technology promises that I can “index the insanity,” “direct the deeds” and “catalog the chaos.” An on-line calendar may be just the answer to my organizational conundrum.
The program loads itself without incident, which is in and of itself propitious. My part in the process is minimal and eagerly I click to check the overall calendar for today. I take note of the three activities that pop to the screen, all three have the potential to be conflicts—but they are all carefully confined within their own half-hour time-lines. There are no overlaps or encroachments. Handled carefully with precision, the afternoon’s planned events appear to be achievable.
Then the piano teacher calls. I sense a possible souring of the recipe, but when I access the file and input the changes, the overview assures me that this is a mere touch of soda sprinkled into the vast vat of vinegar.
Next, the carpool leader telephones with a change. Could I please drive? Each of the two half-hour time spaces that this commitment fills are blank, but I sense the increased fizz as I begin my day. I begin by packing everyone a lunch, roust the youngest from bed early, drop him at a neighbor’s to catch the bus, pick up the other six kids, drive them to school, and then zip to my next obligation. Success! This computer calendar is a most effective stabilizer.
Over the years as a professional family activity planner, I’ve had many opportunities to evaluate my failures and I think I’ve identified the bomb that blasts my day to bits.
The volatile variable is the rebellion of inanimate objects around me. Usually it is the keys, but today it is the unruly purse that opted to stay home. I drive home to retrieve the persnickety pocketbook and enroute I notice that the eldest son has surrounded himself with belongings that seem to possess this same trait. Some of his seditious school stuff has escaped onto the depths of the car floor and I debate lassoing it and dragging it back his way, but I resist.
It's a mommy moment: One must always be prepared to enforce consequences! Whatever would he do if this trait should follow him into adulthood?
Reality Bite: When one takes a bubbling mixture and compresses it into a small space, the potential explosion could prove disastrous.
What excitement a new calendar brings! It’s like eating a pickle. Just thinking about it starts a twinkle at my toes that trickles up my spine, and flutters past the fingertips, escaping through my scalp. At the office products store, I stand here tempted. The shrink-wrapped computer package held reverently in my hands winks to me its infinite potential and a glimmer of hope shines through.
This new calendar is a CCC (a computerized calendar creator) and I feel like my tech buds just may burst! The new year approaches and this newest technology promises that I can “index the insanity,” “direct the deeds” and “catalog the chaos.” An on-line calendar may be just the answer to my organizational conundrum.
The program loads itself without incident, which is in and of itself propitious. My part in the process is minimal and eagerly I click to check the overall calendar for today. I take note of the three activities that pop to the screen, all three have the potential to be conflicts—but they are all carefully confined within their own half-hour time-lines. There are no overlaps or encroachments. Handled carefully with precision, the afternoon’s planned events appear to be achievable.
Then the piano teacher calls. I sense a possible souring of the recipe, but when I access the file and input the changes, the overview assures me that this is a mere touch of soda sprinkled into the vast vat of vinegar.
Next, the carpool leader telephones with a change. Could I please drive? Each of the two half-hour time spaces that this commitment fills are blank, but I sense the increased fizz as I begin my day. I begin by packing everyone a lunch, roust the youngest from bed early, drop him at a neighbor’s to catch the bus, pick up the other six kids, drive them to school, and then zip to my next obligation. Success! This computer calendar is a most effective stabilizer.
Over the years as a professional family activity planner, I’ve had many opportunities to evaluate my failures and I think I’ve identified the bomb that blasts my day to bits.
The volatile variable is the rebellion of inanimate objects around me. Usually it is the keys, but today it is the unruly purse that opted to stay home. I drive home to retrieve the persnickety pocketbook and enroute I notice that the eldest son has surrounded himself with belongings that seem to possess this same trait. Some of his seditious school stuff has escaped onto the depths of the car floor and I debate lassoing it and dragging it back his way, but I resist.
It's a mommy moment: One must always be prepared to enforce consequences! Whatever would he do if this trait should follow him into adulthood?
Reality Bite: When one takes a bubbling mixture and compresses it into a small space, the potential explosion could prove disastrous.
Monday
…volatility
computerized chaos... continued
I make it back to class for the final twenty minutes, and then scarf lunch while I drive to the shelter and hold babies for three joyful hours, drive back and pick up the six car-poolers from school, drop everyone at home, and check the CCC (computerized chaos compartmentalizer) which is beeping an alarm. The screen screamed that I'd forgotten the piano lessons.
With no time to spare, I drop off the eldest son five minutes late, pick up the youngest from school ten minutes late, drop off the youngest at piano fifteen minutes late, rip to the school to pick up the daughter from drivers ed. twenty minutes late, drop her off at piano and pick up the youngest twenty-five minutes late, dash to the library to pick up reference material, get stuck in traffic and pick up the daughter thirty minutes late.
I make it home only long enough to dash in and glare vicious darts at the craven crisis creator. Lacking the time to access it completely, I dredge up an image of the calendar screen in my mind, and mentally scratch through appointments, canceling the sports practices, and then I drive and drop the daughter off twenty minutes early to her vocal music class so I can be on time to the training class for the eldest son’s newest endeavor, (doing a good turn daily).
I return home hours later, but I’m barred from checking the calendar, because the computer is engaged by frantic homework essayists. I don my split personality and race between two different subjects on two different floors of the house, one typing on the cutting edge computer and the other downstairs on the antique—a year-old version. I dash back and forth, up and down and edit the daughter’s persuasive essay on attitude while I examine the son’s view on the historical implications of the oil industry.
Reality Bite: Chem 101: What happens one shakes a compressed volatile mixture?
I make it back to class for the final twenty minutes, and then scarf lunch while I drive to the shelter and hold babies for three joyful hours, drive back and pick up the six car-poolers from school, drop everyone at home, and check the CCC (computerized chaos compartmentalizer) which is beeping an alarm. The screen screamed that I'd forgotten the piano lessons.
With no time to spare, I drop off the eldest son five minutes late, pick up the youngest from school ten minutes late, drop off the youngest at piano fifteen minutes late, rip to the school to pick up the daughter from drivers ed. twenty minutes late, drop her off at piano and pick up the youngest twenty-five minutes late, dash to the library to pick up reference material, get stuck in traffic and pick up the daughter thirty minutes late.
I make it home only long enough to dash in and glare vicious darts at the craven crisis creator. Lacking the time to access it completely, I dredge up an image of the calendar screen in my mind, and mentally scratch through appointments, canceling the sports practices, and then I drive and drop the daughter off twenty minutes early to her vocal music class so I can be on time to the training class for the eldest son’s newest endeavor, (doing a good turn daily).
I return home hours later, but I’m barred from checking the calendar, because the computer is engaged by frantic homework essayists. I don my split personality and race between two different subjects on two different floors of the house, one typing on the cutting edge computer and the other downstairs on the antique—a year-old version. I dash back and forth, up and down and edit the daughter’s persuasive essay on attitude while I examine the son’s view on the historical implications of the oil industry.
Reality Bite: Chem 101: What happens one shakes a compressed volatile mixture?
Thursday
...final hour
My cretinous computer calendar beeps at midnight. “Congratulations, A New Day Dawns in Scheduled Bliss.”
The children have abandoned me, retired to bed and left me to the whim of their homework specters. I nod off on the desktop, but I am rousted out bright and early at 4:45 by the CCC’s infernal beeping that flashes “Welcome to a Structured Morning.”
I stumble to the bathroom and try to wash off the woodgrain texture imbedded in my face while I perform the early-morning revile, begin breakfast and review the final draft of the essays, only to be told by the daughter (usually up and dressed by 5:00) that she is going back to bed until 6:30. Yeah! I can fix lunches in relative peace!
Beep! “A Happy and Organized Morning to You.” It’s now 7:00 a.m. the screen-filled message interrupts and impedes the eldest daughter as she coaxes the computer to finish editing, emailing and printing the not-grounded-in-any-reality-I-know-of attitude essay. Her school bus cruises past just as she coerces the computer to print.
The elder son has cajoled the ancient computer to edit his own rough draft and print it after a knock -down-drag-out, winner-take-all clash, but if I take the daughter to school, that means the elder son must wake the younger son and the two of them must be dressed, fed and ready when I return. That’s really pushing the envelope, but I haven’t had to ask for a miracle yet this day. And I’m due.
I feel the pressure increase as I wait in a traffic jam, and listen to a news report about some nuts idea of a new bridge that will add even more cars to the sandwiched morning mess on this street. We'll never make it in time and I abandon plan one, and by the seat-of-my-pants improvise plan two.
The daughter calls home and explains the newly revised plan to her brothers. I successfully wing it without the input of any cursed computer curmudgeon, and I wonder if the captious calamity creator could have pulled this one out of its hat?
The revised plan requires sacrifice and involves the eldest forfeiting his seat in the school carpool to oversee the youngest and that means that Mom will have to make a special trip to drive the eldest to school, and the youngest will be forced to accompany us, so strip him from the tub, dry him off and cram a toasted pastry into his hand; I'll pick you up in the driveway and we're off!
That's Life, frantic and fruitful. I'm home now, alone and heaving a sigh. Sitting in front of the computer typing and trying to find any excuse to ignore the intrusive blinking interruption insisting that, “This is the Moment, This is the Day.” And I remember that I really should be sewing the capes for the Jeykle and Hyde production.
I could always go upstairs and add another layer of mud to the never-ending art project previously known as the son’s bedroom... let me enter it into the computer and see what it thinks.
Reality Bite: Moms, not computers know best how to harness chaos.
The children have abandoned me, retired to bed and left me to the whim of their homework specters. I nod off on the desktop, but I am rousted out bright and early at 4:45 by the CCC’s infernal beeping that flashes “Welcome to a Structured Morning.”
I stumble to the bathroom and try to wash off the woodgrain texture imbedded in my face while I perform the early-morning revile, begin breakfast and review the final draft of the essays, only to be told by the daughter (usually up and dressed by 5:00) that she is going back to bed until 6:30. Yeah! I can fix lunches in relative peace!
Beep! “A Happy and Organized Morning to You.” It’s now 7:00 a.m. the screen-filled message interrupts and impedes the eldest daughter as she coaxes the computer to finish editing, emailing and printing the not-grounded-in-any-reality-I-know-of attitude essay. Her school bus cruises past just as she coerces the computer to print.
The elder son has cajoled the ancient computer to edit his own rough draft and print it after a knock -down-drag-out, winner-take-all clash, but if I take the daughter to school, that means the elder son must wake the younger son and the two of them must be dressed, fed and ready when I return. That’s really pushing the envelope, but I haven’t had to ask for a miracle yet this day. And I’m due.
I feel the pressure increase as I wait in a traffic jam, and listen to a news report about some nuts idea of a new bridge that will add even more cars to the sandwiched morning mess on this street. We'll never make it in time and I abandon plan one, and by the seat-of-my-pants improvise plan two.
The daughter calls home and explains the newly revised plan to her brothers. I successfully wing it without the input of any cursed computer curmudgeon, and I wonder if the captious calamity creator could have pulled this one out of its hat?
The revised plan requires sacrifice and involves the eldest forfeiting his seat in the school carpool to oversee the youngest and that means that Mom will have to make a special trip to drive the eldest to school, and the youngest will be forced to accompany us, so strip him from the tub, dry him off and cram a toasted pastry into his hand; I'll pick you up in the driveway and we're off!
That's Life, frantic and fruitful. I'm home now, alone and heaving a sigh. Sitting in front of the computer typing and trying to find any excuse to ignore the intrusive blinking interruption insisting that, “This is the Moment, This is the Day.” And I remember that I really should be sewing the capes for the Jeykle and Hyde production.
I could always go upstairs and add another layer of mud to the never-ending art project previously known as the son’s bedroom... let me enter it into the computer and see what it thinks.
Reality Bite: Moms, not computers know best how to harness chaos.
Monday
…an eyeful
Hey, I’m tentatively revising my wholehearted recommendation for eye surgery. I’m thinking that there are downsides that are only just now becoming apparent.
It’s obvious that I have lost the sympathetic ear. “No, Mom, you can find your own keys. I know you can see them now,” and “Dad says it’s safe for you to drive us.”
I was once legally blind and I miss it! I can no longer use the missing contact lens excuse for my haphazard mowing, sweeping, mopping and paper chaos. Before, even with corrected lenses, I could never really see as far as the floor and though my eye-doctor isn't promising perfect vision, unfortunately mine is now good enough to notice dirt in the corners, the film on the mirrors, the dust on the pictures and the crust on the windows. I’ve decided that visually challenged is not necessarily a bad way to go through life.
To me,
Life is filthy and some things are best left unseen, i.e., television and the whole of every election campaign. I’m thinking it’s a shame my hearing is still good. T.
Flying about blind as a bat had other heretofore unrealized benefits, and the best was that I never knew my shower was filthy. There is a whole new world open to me in the bathroom now that I’m not walking around with scratched glasses, peering into a foggy mirror. The worst of these seem to be connected to my being unclothed.
I lived in my own little fogbank and sometimes life is simply better that way.
Reality Bite: There is an upside. When I put in the milky antibiotic and life returns to a haze, everything can again be beautiful.
It’s obvious that I have lost the sympathetic ear. “No, Mom, you can find your own keys. I know you can see them now,” and “Dad says it’s safe for you to drive us.”
I was once legally blind and I miss it! I can no longer use the missing contact lens excuse for my haphazard mowing, sweeping, mopping and paper chaos. Before, even with corrected lenses, I could never really see as far as the floor and though my eye-doctor isn't promising perfect vision, unfortunately mine is now good enough to notice dirt in the corners, the film on the mirrors, the dust on the pictures and the crust on the windows. I’ve decided that visually challenged is not necessarily a bad way to go through life.
To me,
Life is filthy and some things are best left unseen, i.e., television and the whole of every election campaign. I’m thinking it’s a shame my hearing is still good. T.
Flying about blind as a bat had other heretofore unrealized benefits, and the best was that I never knew my shower was filthy. There is a whole new world open to me in the bathroom now that I’m not walking around with scratched glasses, peering into a foggy mirror. The worst of these seem to be connected to my being unclothed.
I lived in my own little fogbank and sometimes life is simply better that way.
Reality Bite: There is an upside. When I put in the milky antibiotic and life returns to a haze, everything can again be beautiful.
Wednesday
…really, it’s me!
To me,
I know I’m a piece of work, but am I really a work of fiction? Books should relate to the reader, but I might be too weird. The truth of it is that my life is not fiction, at least not until after I finish writing about it. It turns out that most times my truth is stranger than fiction!
As research for the book, I took a quiz to see what kind of a person I am. Quizzes are informative. That’s why we buy the absurd magazines, right—for the quiz?
1. Locked out of the house? …batting 1.000 so far!
2. Locked the keys in the car? …weekly? …in with the child?
3. Left a family member at the store? …and noticed?
4. Put something unusual into the refrigerator? ha!
5. Used the wrong name for a family member? Always!
6. Left the iron on. …for weeks?
7. Dialed a number and forgot who you called? … again.
8. Turned white clothes pink in the wash? … today?
9. Put your heel through your hem—fixed it with tape?
10. Had a zipper break—and fixed it with staples?
11. Wore two different shoes—color and style?
12. Shopped for groceries without a purse—and money?
13. Left without the children in the car—and the groceries?
14. Forgot where you were going—and how to get there?
15. Discovered food in the oven left there from last night—and ate it for breakfast!
I have a perfect score! 100%, and that means I’m absolutely normal, the epitome of perfection! This quiz proves it, therefore everyone should be able to relate to me.[1] So the book should be a success!
I know I’m a piece of work, but am I really a work of fiction? Books should relate to the reader, but I might be too weird. The truth of it is that my life is not fiction, at least not until after I finish writing about it. It turns out that most times my truth is stranger than fiction!
THE QUIZ
As research for the book, I took a quiz to see what kind of a person I am. Quizzes are informative. That’s why we buy the absurd magazines, right—for the quiz?
1. Locked out of the house? …batting 1.000 so far!
2. Locked the keys in the car? …weekly? …in with the child?
3. Left a family member at the store? …and noticed?
4. Put something unusual into the refrigerator? ha!
5. Used the wrong name for a family member? Always!
6. Left the iron on. …for weeks?
7. Dialed a number and forgot who you called? … again.
8. Turned white clothes pink in the wash? … today?
9. Put your heel through your hem—fixed it with tape?
10. Had a zipper break—and fixed it with staples?
11. Wore two different shoes—color and style?
12. Shopped for groceries without a purse—and money?
13. Left without the children in the car—and the groceries?
14. Forgot where you were going—and how to get there?
15. Discovered food in the oven left there from last night—and ate it for breakfast!
I have a perfect score! 100%, and that means I’m absolutely normal, the epitome of perfection! This quiz proves it, therefore everyone should be able to relate to me.[1] So the book should be a success!
Can you tell me you’ve never been on hold so long, you forgot who you called? The clerk comes back on the line and asks politely for whom I am holding and the only word I can think of is hamburger.
“I misplaced my hamburger,” I respond. She perkily responds, “Okay,” and she puts me back on hold … almost. She comes back on, “Did you say hamburger?” Laughter wells in her voice.
Employees at stores are not allowed to show shock, surprise or emotion of any kind, but she must have reached her saturation level.
Reality Bite: I provide entertainment on some level anyway.
[1] Or at least consider me an expert.
...starving
To me
I’ve finished writing three times. At some point in my writing, I must admit the truth—that the font is not at fault. It’s not going to get any better when it’s printed in a different format—with the spelling and grammar checked—that no matter how much I try to improve it, there may not be much anyone can do. This is it! Let it go! Terina
January, I immerse myself in my new venture. I sink into the writing, surfacing for nothing and no one. I float it by a friend who loves it and a contest… that hates it.
February, I live on the theory that chocolate slows down the aging process … it may not be true, but who dares risk it?
March: The guilt sets in and I write less insanely, but still manage to accomplish the better part of nothing.
April: My parents read and then pan the book. They know me, and they’re right. Dad thinks it’s bombastic, boring, and bilious. “Learn from other humorists, or go back to writing instruction manuals.” Mom gently agrees that college may be an option.
To me,
This book is about uniqueness, being an oddball just like everybody else. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. Parents know best. How many times have I, myself, echoed that mantra? T
It’s May and I’m seeking the voice—the melodious tone that keeps the reader enrapt—the mellifluous essence of the soul. When I find mine, it’s a raucous din that makes no sense whatsoever. This too may never end, not in June, or even July. This jaunt may be a ten-year odyssey into the future.[1]
June passes, then July and while on vacation, I find a glut of fresh butchers to carve away the gristle! As they read the essays, they express an initial enthusiasm to go at it with a meat cleaver, but they are easily overwhelmed by the task at hand and they either nod off or drift away.
[1] The teenager’s homework assignment is Homer. Can you tell?
I’ve finished writing three times. At some point in my writing, I must admit the truth—that the font is not at fault. It’s not going to get any better when it’s printed in a different format—with the spelling and grammar checked—that no matter how much I try to improve it, there may not be much anyone can do. This is it! Let it go! Terina
January, I immerse myself in my new venture. I sink into the writing, surfacing for nothing and no one. I float it by a friend who loves it and a contest… that hates it.
February, I live on the theory that chocolate slows down the aging process … it may not be true, but who dares risk it?
March: The guilt sets in and I write less insanely, but still manage to accomplish the better part of nothing.
April: My parents read and then pan the book. They know me, and they’re right. Dad thinks it’s bombastic, boring, and bilious. “Learn from other humorists, or go back to writing instruction manuals.” Mom gently agrees that college may be an option.
To me,
This book is about uniqueness, being an oddball just like everybody else. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. Parents know best. How many times have I, myself, echoed that mantra? T
It’s May and I’m seeking the voice—the melodious tone that keeps the reader enrapt—the mellifluous essence of the soul. When I find mine, it’s a raucous din that makes no sense whatsoever. This too may never end, not in June, or even July. This jaunt may be a ten-year odyssey into the future.[1]
June passes, then July and while on vacation, I find a glut of fresh butchers to carve away the gristle! As they read the essays, they express an initial enthusiasm to go at it with a meat cleaver, but they are easily overwhelmed by the task at hand and they either nod off or drift away.
[1] The teenager’s homework assignment is Homer. Can you tell?
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