Had a great talk with my best friend today. We stay in closer contact now that we live across the country from each other than we did when we attended the same school... at least in some ways. On the other hand, nothing will ever replace my memories of us going to the grocery store at 10:45pm and frantically picking the bananas out of a giant bin of nerd candy, trying to get a good-sized bag of them before the store closed at 11pm. We actually did this bizarre ritual more than once. And I highly doubt that anyone else would ever stand in the frozen food section of that same grocery store with me after studying for finals all weekend... laughing uproariously at the lima beans.
We ended up talking about how we're getting together at a Library Conference later this year... and what we each needed to know about each other's group of librarian friends, but would not be able to ask. It made me start thinking about all the things you can talk openly about with a good friend... but that would probably make you turn three shades of purple and say "um.. ff-ut--uff...mmm" a lot before you hopelessly affronted the person you tried to discuss it with OUTSIDE your friend group. Especially if you guessed wrong. At least... I think it would be that way. Sometimes you get lucky with strangers, too...
Things like "What is your sexual preference? Does your boss know?"
and
"Do you have an incurable disease?"
and
"Do you practice a Pagan Religion?"
and
"Do you get easily offended? Because you just said the dumbest thing!"
and
"I hate dogs." (Really- nobody would ever speak to you again after THAT!)
and
"Have you ever noticed how funny frozen vegetables can be?"
and
"Do you actually like the fruit-flavored condogms?"
and
"Did you go to school past high school?"
and
"Did you see that movie, Dude, Where's My Car? My favorite scene was..." (I spend a lot of time with intellectuals. We don't admit to watching corny movies with fake-looking aliens.. oh, except the Trekkies... that's different. That's a cult.)
and
"What the heck difference is there between watching dumb fake-looking aliens and watching STAR TREK, anyway??"
and
"So... how many divorces have you had?"
and
"Do you actually LIKE your mom? Because I..."
You get the picture. You probably have more topics to add to the list, too. All those questions that really help you understand and interact the people around you at a much deeper and more respectful level... but that society says you really can't talk about directly with strangers. And, specifically, that people SHOULD BE offended if you DID ask them, because somehow these things are supposed to be shameful. Isn't it sad? They are just part of living and getting through life as we know it... and often these same experiences have greatly enriched our lives and our understandings in surprising ways. For example, I have often noticed that the people who knew what they wanted to do with their lives, and just went out and DID it are often more knowledgeable and easier to learn the job from than the people who had to go out and get a bunch of degrees first.
It's an interesting topic. At least, I think it is. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be writing this. And I am constantly surprised by the people I bump into-- which ones can discuss these questions comfortably and which ones turn and run the other way. I don't have an answer yet, either. So, if you DO... let me know. DO the green ones have more fun? What kind of fun do you think they have? I mean, really. Think about it. They only melt in your mouth, and that's still illegal in several states. How much fun can they be having, and why does the color of their shells matter? In our enlightened age, it's supposed to be what's INSIDE that counts... and how you use it, of course.
Saturday, January 6
Tuesday, January 2
Yes, and...
I have a wry sense of humor. If you can't tell that I'm laughing helplessly at most of what goes on in my life, and loving every minute of it (at least the parts I blog about)... you must just think I complain a lot! The thing is-- I also really appreciate and value the people and the lessons that walk through my life. (Into... over... I swear that last guy was wearing stilettos! These boots are made for walking, as they say...)
And really, I don't often share the humor I see with the people around me (with one or two glaring exceptions for friends who have the same sick views I do, and also frequently check over their shoulders for film crews). I've learned the hard way that IN THE MOMENT, it's usually just not funny to most people because it's real life, or because it's THEIR life. Admit it- if you saw the same thing on an episode of "Friends," you'd pee your pants laughing! And I've learned that people I care very much about can be easily hurt if I invite them to enjoy the moment with me later by saying, "It was really funny when you-" but they hear "I'm laughing at you because---, you loser!" And somehow, I have never been able to figure out which people will laugh with me, and what events, recalled or re-framed, will make someone never speak to me again for a long time. sigh
The odd part is that I am HAPPY to share those same moments in my own life that made me laugh at myself-- they are truly comedic in my mind, and I like to share a good laugh! Where laughter goes, I have very little shame. (I learned that one from my dad, and his sisters and brothers, whose shared corny sense of humor has really crossed the line to sad. S-A-D, SAD. Like, you might lose IQ points by laughing, I mean SAD!) I've actually managed to get into trouble on this count, too. (And not just for matching my dad joke-for-corny joke at family gatherings!) People think I'm feeling sorry for myself, or that I'm actually as incompetent (or unfeeling) as my recounted stories imply, or that I might actually think I actually AM a loser. I rarely feel sorry for myself. I often laugh at the folly in my life, but it really isn't the same thing. In fact, I'm oddly self-confident. I only once had the realization that I was a loser (besides sixth grade, but that was just about the big plastic-framed pink-and-blue glasses, and the knee-high white socks that I wore with my shorts that summer), and as soon as I thought it, I started laughing!
(It went like this: "Waaaaiiit... I'm divorced, I just lost my job, I am living in a tiny messy apartment with my cat, my parents are giving me hand-outs because I have no money, and I just started back to school for my second attempt at a degree because I still can't get a job with health insurance... Well, if that's not the definition of a loser, I don't know what is! -- insert laughter here-- That's hilarious! ...That's ME... Oh, shigt. That IS me. ...And yet, I can also honestly say that my life has never been better than it is right now, under these circumstances. Wow. Now THAT is funny!")
Friendly Laughter Bestows Grace.
Or, as the kitchen magnet my psycho grandmother (not enough people in the family laugh about her yet, so I can't elaborate) once gave me for my birthday says, "Blessed are we who can Laugh at ourselves for we shall never cease to be amused." Of course, when she gave it to me, I was in my insecure teenage years. I thought she was telling me that she thought my life was laughable. As I matured, I came to wonder how THAT WOMAN could possibly give me something THAT FITTING to who I am and how I view my world. I don't think she'd actually spent more than an hour a year with me (mandatory Christmas visit) or hearing about me since I was five or six! I guess everyone has their wonderful moments of grace. Thank you Jesus (or whoever) for that!
ANYway-- I do often view the world through the tummy cramps in my glasses (from laughing too much-- sorry, that was probably a bit vague and odd even coming from me). But I also am so grateful for the life that I live, and the people in it. I am SO LUCKY to lead the life I do, and have the advantages I have. For one thing, my parents are intelligent and self-sufficient, and still living together and loving each other. Same two people-- my whole 28 years, plus their time alone before me. For another thing, I was brought up to believe that being poor was a wonderful opportunity to exercise my creativity, and not something to be ashamed of. (For this reason, one of my all-time favorite inspirational toys has always been a used toilet paper tube. Voila- instant spy binoculars, tube-slide for small toys, bull-horn, dog-fetcher, you get the idea.) I went to an awesome undergraduate institution, and my parents (still poor) helped me out financially while I was there. I have a variety of marketable skills, including the ability to produce a decent resume. I understand how to make and keep a budget. (I'm not actually very good at doing it, but I know what I SHOULD be doing.) I know how to do credible and concise research via library, interview, internet, or inference. Pretty good, for a loser! ;)
Most valuable of all, I have more than one friend who would risk her life to help me, and who has done so when I desperately needed the help. I have more than one friend worth risking my life to help, too. Who could ask for more than that? (and a pint of really good ice cream to share with them)
I also know my family love and value me, and I love and value them-- and this is, in LARGE PART, the reason that my blog is so very wry and cynical. It's an escape valve for my irreverent sense of the ridiculous that surrounds me every day (and you, too, I'll bet). I care too much about the people in my life to risk alienating them in person. That's why I do it impersonally so the whole world can read about it, and laugh at them, instead. (That was my sense of the ridiculous speaking, by the way-- I think it's funny that I would chose to publish stories that I don't actually TALK about to most people.)
And really, I don't often share the humor I see with the people around me (with one or two glaring exceptions for friends who have the same sick views I do, and also frequently check over their shoulders for film crews). I've learned the hard way that IN THE MOMENT, it's usually just not funny to most people because it's real life, or because it's THEIR life. Admit it- if you saw the same thing on an episode of "Friends," you'd pee your pants laughing! And I've learned that people I care very much about can be easily hurt if I invite them to enjoy the moment with me later by saying, "It was really funny when you-" but they hear "I'm laughing at you because---, you loser!" And somehow, I have never been able to figure out which people will laugh with me, and what events, recalled or re-framed, will make someone never speak to me again for a long time. sigh
The odd part is that I am HAPPY to share those same moments in my own life that made me laugh at myself-- they are truly comedic in my mind, and I like to share a good laugh! Where laughter goes, I have very little shame. (I learned that one from my dad, and his sisters and brothers, whose shared corny sense of humor has really crossed the line to sad. S-A-D, SAD. Like, you might lose IQ points by laughing, I mean SAD!) I've actually managed to get into trouble on this count, too. (And not just for matching my dad joke-for-corny joke at family gatherings!) People think I'm feeling sorry for myself, or that I'm actually as incompetent (or unfeeling) as my recounted stories imply, or that I might actually think I actually AM a loser. I rarely feel sorry for myself. I often laugh at the folly in my life, but it really isn't the same thing. In fact, I'm oddly self-confident. I only once had the realization that I was a loser (besides sixth grade, but that was just about the big plastic-framed pink-and-blue glasses, and the knee-high white socks that I wore with my shorts that summer), and as soon as I thought it, I started laughing!
(It went like this: "Waaaaiiit... I'm divorced, I just lost my job, I am living in a tiny messy apartment with my cat, my parents are giving me hand-outs because I have no money, and I just started back to school for my second attempt at a degree because I still can't get a job with health insurance... Well, if that's not the definition of a loser, I don't know what is! -- insert laughter here-- That's hilarious! ...That's ME... Oh, shigt. That IS me. ...And yet, I can also honestly say that my life has never been better than it is right now, under these circumstances. Wow. Now THAT is funny!")
Friendly Laughter Bestows Grace.
Or, as the kitchen magnet my psycho grandmother (not enough people in the family laugh about her yet, so I can't elaborate) once gave me for my birthday says, "Blessed are we who can Laugh at ourselves for we shall never cease to be amused." Of course, when she gave it to me, I was in my insecure teenage years. I thought she was telling me that she thought my life was laughable. As I matured, I came to wonder how THAT WOMAN could possibly give me something THAT FITTING to who I am and how I view my world. I don't think she'd actually spent more than an hour a year with me (mandatory Christmas visit) or hearing about me since I was five or six! I guess everyone has their wonderful moments of grace. Thank you Jesus (or whoever) for that!
ANYway-- I do often view the world through the tummy cramps in my glasses (from laughing too much-- sorry, that was probably a bit vague and odd even coming from me). But I also am so grateful for the life that I live, and the people in it. I am SO LUCKY to lead the life I do, and have the advantages I have. For one thing, my parents are intelligent and self-sufficient, and still living together and loving each other. Same two people-- my whole 28 years, plus their time alone before me. For another thing, I was brought up to believe that being poor was a wonderful opportunity to exercise my creativity, and not something to be ashamed of. (For this reason, one of my all-time favorite inspirational toys has always been a used toilet paper tube. Voila- instant spy binoculars, tube-slide for small toys, bull-horn, dog-fetcher, you get the idea.) I went to an awesome undergraduate institution, and my parents (still poor) helped me out financially while I was there. I have a variety of marketable skills, including the ability to produce a decent resume. I understand how to make and keep a budget. (I'm not actually very good at doing it, but I know what I SHOULD be doing.) I know how to do credible and concise research via library, interview, internet, or inference. Pretty good, for a loser! ;)
Most valuable of all, I have more than one friend who would risk her life to help me, and who has done so when I desperately needed the help. I have more than one friend worth risking my life to help, too. Who could ask for more than that? (and a pint of really good ice cream to share with them)
I also know my family love and value me, and I love and value them-- and this is, in LARGE PART, the reason that my blog is so very wry and cynical. It's an escape valve for my irreverent sense of the ridiculous that surrounds me every day (and you, too, I'll bet). I care too much about the people in my life to risk alienating them in person. That's why I do it impersonally so the whole world can read about it, and laugh at them, instead. (That was my sense of the ridiculous speaking, by the way-- I think it's funny that I would chose to publish stories that I don't actually TALK about to most people.)
Monday, January 1
Perspective is a Dirty Word
Even a murderer can be understood and forgiven if you have the right perspective on his or her activities. And yet, murder is SO WRONG! Don't lose perspective on THAT important point! Lawyers often get paid a lot of money to convince a jury or judge to look at things from his or her client's point of view-- and in Greek and Roman times, great orators convinced the populace to take their suggestions for right and wrong and make them community laws. Of course, talking in public spaces was a man's right, and in that society, any woman who argued her own point in public was shameless, and unfeminine, and could easily be labeled a whore or a harlot, worthy of no respect or consideration-- however convincing her argument might be.
Sound familiar?
I recently learned that my mom has no depth perception. She's made the comment my whole life-- that she has trouble with depth perception when driving... She says it's a bit like seeing the whole world as an impressionist painting. And suddenly, I could understand her perspective. I could even expand that description and apply it to so many other mysteries about my mom's interactions with the world and with me... and have them suddenly make sense! Have HER suddenly make sense! What a relief! I'm so unapproachable with people I can't understand-- and its awful when one of them is your mom. It certainly hasn't been nice for her, anyway.
Society doesn't often use the word "epiphany," but you can always tell when someone has had one-- they say "OOOooohhhh!" Or they exclaim "OH!", and pause completely in whatever they are doing for a full two seconds, before remembering again that they are driving or cooking or reading or carrying on a conversation. There it was. That was the moment. Epiphany.
On New Years weekend, I returned a favor, and helped my parents move my aunt into a new house that was much closer to her work, and to our family. She'd put most of her stuff into a storage unit near my folks while she searched for a good place to rent, so everything was already neatly boxed. It had taken one LARGE moving van to get her life into that storage unit. She was renting two movers and their large moving van to get her out of storage again, and into the house she'd found in the new town. My folks and I were going along to help her unpack and rearrange the heavy stuff. Since I live about two hours from my folks, and three from Aunt's new place, my parents decided to drive the three of us from their house, and save on gas.
I arrived at 10:30am sharp, as directed, ready to work. Turns out, my folks weren't ready to work yet. Or drive. About 12:30pm, we all got into their car, and headed downtown. Turns out there were some errands to run before we left for Aunt's new place. I started glancing around, surreptitiously looking for the filming crew. This HAD to be another episode for the sitcom of my life. It was too ridiculous NOT to be! After 20 minutes of watching my folks try and decide what kind of bread to buy at the local bakery, and then wonder if they should get a second loaf of a different kind, and what kind would that be?... I was ready to kill something. It was 1pm, and we were still a good 90 minutes away from actually being helpful to my Aunt's move. WHY did I have to get up at 7am on Saturday?? WHY didn't I bring a stronger headache medicine, or at least a hard-backed book to hit myself over the head with??
About then, Papa's cell phone rang. It was Aunt. The moving van was full, and there were still some boxes in her storage unit. Could we bring all our vehicles and get over there to take the last of it? The movers were on an hourly rate. Their truck was two feet shorter than the one she'd used before. Wow. I guess its good my parents were running three hours behind. We ran one last errand, drove the 20 minutes back to their house, unloaded my travel gear from my CRV, and then went back into town to Aunt's storage unit. Mom rode with me, since I didn't know where we were going, and Papa was taking the truck.
"It's along here on the left, right next to a big sign." Three miles later, there it was. On the left. Just like mom said. We loaded up, which was itself pretty funny. The movers pack trucks and vehicles every day. They are good at getting the most stuff into the smallest spaces. Its their JOB. But Papa and Aunt (and I have to admit, me as well) are very aware of their ability to pack a lot of stuff into a small space well. You should see how much stuff can come out of one closet in my folks' house! It's like Christmas at Grandma's, only without the wrapping paper. (I think that's actually a box of used bows down on the left, behind the sewing machine, though.)
Finally, the person who could yell their idea the loudest got to decide what box and which rocking chair went in what vehicle. It wasn't me. I'd stopped contributing when I saw the movers begin to resemble deer in the headlights of an oncoming semi. I know that pinched wide-eyed look. I had it every day in math class for years.
Then we all caravanned down to Aunt's new place, about an hour away. Well, Aunt and the movers caravanned. Mom rode with me. A whole hour to chat with mom and take her driving directions. Oh, and her driving glasses had ended up in Papa's truck when we repacked everything... so she couldn't actually SEE where we were going in order to give directions... Lucky me. There just HAD to be a camera rolling here somewhere. Papa drove on ahead, and missed the exit. He ended up getting there about ten minutes after everyone else. It was about 3pm when we started unloading everything at Aunt's.
If you've ever moved into a new place or out of an old one, on a deadline, you know how much can go wrong. It helped that Aunt had labeled most of the boxes. "Library" went into the blue bedroom. "Office" went into the yellow bedroom, unless she actually wanted it in the blue room for now. "Files," "Books," "Notebooks," "Computer Supplies," and "Miscellaneous" boxes had to be sorted by Aunt into either the blue or yellow bedroom on an individual basis. The bed frame didn't fit through the bedroom door. They had to find a saw. That one didn't cut straight, so they had to find a different saw. Then mom and I had to hold the bed frame still while Papa stood on a ladder, hit his head on the ceiling fan a few times, and sawed off three inches at the head of the bed frame. He did it in the kitchen, so nobody would have to walk through the sawdust with boxes-- at least, that's what I think he meant when he said it would be easier to clean up in there. The kitchen has the same flooring as the living and dining rooms, so it was either that, or he knew mom or I would be more likely to take responsibility for cleaning a mess in the kitchen. I'd stopped asking questions (and looking for hidden cameras) at that point in the afternoon. I didn't want to know anymore.
Turns out, the bed frame was about five inches longer than the mattress anyway, so sawing off those three inches actually made it fit better on a variety of levels. Ahh the happy accidents of moving day! The movers did a GREAT job. I mean it. They calmly carried boxes from room to room as Aunt changed her mind about where she wanted them. They hauled the heavy awkward bed frame down the hall and tried it in the bedroom doorway three times, and WITHOUT scraping the walls. They accepted her decision to relocate the piano with a smile. They even laughed with me at my attempts to stand somewhere that might actually be OUT OF THE WAY while all the heavy stuff was carried hither and yon and back again. Around five thirty, the truck was empty. Aunt paid the movers, and they trundled away with their truck. Then we started helping her to unpack. Unpack? Yeah. The real reason we were there with her in her new house today, remember? To help Aunt unpack a bit. And rearrange the living room. Novocaine anyone?
I made my suggestions for the living room arrangement (loudly so I could be heard over all the other suggestions), and then put myself in charge of the kitchen boxes and the pile of sawdust. You can live without having your table lamps on the right tables for a few days, but you can't live without silverware and cups and pans. They moved the TV unit twice, and then took a break to eat the lunch we'd packed along with us at 12:3o when we first left my parents' house. It was 6pm. Eventually, I discovered that they'd settled on the living room arrangement that I'd first suggested, and were now trying to make the TV work. It was getting close to 7pm, and I had a three-hour drive ahead of me. We spent another five or ten minutes figuring out what light switches turned off what lights, and then headed back to my folks' place. Mom rode with me, since it was now dark, and we were taking a different route from Aunt's to my folks' than we did from the Storage Unit to Aunt's. Sigh. At least this time, she had her glasses. And she bought me a full tank of gas. There's a lot to like about someone who buys a full tank of gas for a car they don't even drive.
It was on this tired, dirty, and quiet drive that mom told me about the impressionist paintings, and epiphany struck. OH! She really doesn't know how deeply I feel something at times, because she really doesn't have depth perception! ... because now I understand she doesn't have a choice about her perspective, and I do. She just needs more information handed to her than the average driver. OH! Two second pause. Oops-- I'm supposed to be driving. Right. "Are you sure you don't want me to drive, honey?" I'm sure. Very sure. But I like your company, Mom.
It's all about understanding someone else's perspective. And appreciating what you see.
Sound familiar?
I recently learned that my mom has no depth perception. She's made the comment my whole life-- that she has trouble with depth perception when driving... She says it's a bit like seeing the whole world as an impressionist painting. And suddenly, I could understand her perspective. I could even expand that description and apply it to so many other mysteries about my mom's interactions with the world and with me... and have them suddenly make sense! Have HER suddenly make sense! What a relief! I'm so unapproachable with people I can't understand-- and its awful when one of them is your mom. It certainly hasn't been nice for her, anyway.
Society doesn't often use the word "epiphany," but you can always tell when someone has had one-- they say "OOOooohhhh!" Or they exclaim "OH!", and pause completely in whatever they are doing for a full two seconds, before remembering again that they are driving or cooking or reading or carrying on a conversation. There it was. That was the moment. Epiphany.
On New Years weekend, I returned a favor, and helped my parents move my aunt into a new house that was much closer to her work, and to our family. She'd put most of her stuff into a storage unit near my folks while she searched for a good place to rent, so everything was already neatly boxed. It had taken one LARGE moving van to get her life into that storage unit. She was renting two movers and their large moving van to get her out of storage again, and into the house she'd found in the new town. My folks and I were going along to help her unpack and rearrange the heavy stuff. Since I live about two hours from my folks, and three from Aunt's new place, my parents decided to drive the three of us from their house, and save on gas.
I arrived at 10:30am sharp, as directed, ready to work. Turns out, my folks weren't ready to work yet. Or drive. About 12:30pm, we all got into their car, and headed downtown. Turns out there were some errands to run before we left for Aunt's new place. I started glancing around, surreptitiously looking for the filming crew. This HAD to be another episode for the sitcom of my life. It was too ridiculous NOT to be! After 20 minutes of watching my folks try and decide what kind of bread to buy at the local bakery, and then wonder if they should get a second loaf of a different kind, and what kind would that be?... I was ready to kill something. It was 1pm, and we were still a good 90 minutes away from actually being helpful to my Aunt's move. WHY did I have to get up at 7am on Saturday?? WHY didn't I bring a stronger headache medicine, or at least a hard-backed book to hit myself over the head with??
About then, Papa's cell phone rang. It was Aunt. The moving van was full, and there were still some boxes in her storage unit. Could we bring all our vehicles and get over there to take the last of it? The movers were on an hourly rate. Their truck was two feet shorter than the one she'd used before. Wow. I guess its good my parents were running three hours behind. We ran one last errand, drove the 20 minutes back to their house, unloaded my travel gear from my CRV, and then went back into town to Aunt's storage unit. Mom rode with me, since I didn't know where we were going, and Papa was taking the truck.
"It's along here on the left, right next to a big sign." Three miles later, there it was. On the left. Just like mom said. We loaded up, which was itself pretty funny. The movers pack trucks and vehicles every day. They are good at getting the most stuff into the smallest spaces. Its their JOB. But Papa and Aunt (and I have to admit, me as well) are very aware of their ability to pack a lot of stuff into a small space well. You should see how much stuff can come out of one closet in my folks' house! It's like Christmas at Grandma's, only without the wrapping paper. (I think that's actually a box of used bows down on the left, behind the sewing machine, though.)
Finally, the person who could yell their idea the loudest got to decide what box and which rocking chair went in what vehicle. It wasn't me. I'd stopped contributing when I saw the movers begin to resemble deer in the headlights of an oncoming semi. I know that pinched wide-eyed look. I had it every day in math class for years.
Then we all caravanned down to Aunt's new place, about an hour away. Well, Aunt and the movers caravanned. Mom rode with me. A whole hour to chat with mom and take her driving directions. Oh, and her driving glasses had ended up in Papa's truck when we repacked everything... so she couldn't actually SEE where we were going in order to give directions... Lucky me. There just HAD to be a camera rolling here somewhere. Papa drove on ahead, and missed the exit. He ended up getting there about ten minutes after everyone else. It was about 3pm when we started unloading everything at Aunt's.
If you've ever moved into a new place or out of an old one, on a deadline, you know how much can go wrong. It helped that Aunt had labeled most of the boxes. "Library" went into the blue bedroom. "Office" went into the yellow bedroom, unless she actually wanted it in the blue room for now. "Files," "Books," "Notebooks," "Computer Supplies," and "Miscellaneous" boxes had to be sorted by Aunt into either the blue or yellow bedroom on an individual basis. The bed frame didn't fit through the bedroom door. They had to find a saw. That one didn't cut straight, so they had to find a different saw. Then mom and I had to hold the bed frame still while Papa stood on a ladder, hit his head on the ceiling fan a few times, and sawed off three inches at the head of the bed frame. He did it in the kitchen, so nobody would have to walk through the sawdust with boxes-- at least, that's what I think he meant when he said it would be easier to clean up in there. The kitchen has the same flooring as the living and dining rooms, so it was either that, or he knew mom or I would be more likely to take responsibility for cleaning a mess in the kitchen. I'd stopped asking questions (and looking for hidden cameras) at that point in the afternoon. I didn't want to know anymore.
Turns out, the bed frame was about five inches longer than the mattress anyway, so sawing off those three inches actually made it fit better on a variety of levels. Ahh the happy accidents of moving day! The movers did a GREAT job. I mean it. They calmly carried boxes from room to room as Aunt changed her mind about where she wanted them. They hauled the heavy awkward bed frame down the hall and tried it in the bedroom doorway three times, and WITHOUT scraping the walls. They accepted her decision to relocate the piano with a smile. They even laughed with me at my attempts to stand somewhere that might actually be OUT OF THE WAY while all the heavy stuff was carried hither and yon and back again. Around five thirty, the truck was empty. Aunt paid the movers, and they trundled away with their truck. Then we started helping her to unpack. Unpack? Yeah. The real reason we were there with her in her new house today, remember? To help Aunt unpack a bit. And rearrange the living room. Novocaine anyone?
I made my suggestions for the living room arrangement (loudly so I could be heard over all the other suggestions), and then put myself in charge of the kitchen boxes and the pile of sawdust. You can live without having your table lamps on the right tables for a few days, but you can't live without silverware and cups and pans. They moved the TV unit twice, and then took a break to eat the lunch we'd packed along with us at 12:3o when we first left my parents' house. It was 6pm. Eventually, I discovered that they'd settled on the living room arrangement that I'd first suggested, and were now trying to make the TV work. It was getting close to 7pm, and I had a three-hour drive ahead of me. We spent another five or ten minutes figuring out what light switches turned off what lights, and then headed back to my folks' place. Mom rode with me, since it was now dark, and we were taking a different route from Aunt's to my folks' than we did from the Storage Unit to Aunt's. Sigh. At least this time, she had her glasses. And she bought me a full tank of gas. There's a lot to like about someone who buys a full tank of gas for a car they don't even drive.
It was on this tired, dirty, and quiet drive that mom told me about the impressionist paintings, and epiphany struck. OH! She really doesn't know how deeply I feel something at times, because she really doesn't have depth perception! ... because now I understand she doesn't have a choice about her perspective, and I do. She just needs more information handed to her than the average driver. OH! Two second pause. Oops-- I'm supposed to be driving. Right. "Are you sure you don't want me to drive, honey?" I'm sure. Very sure. But I like your company, Mom.
It's all about understanding someone else's perspective. And appreciating what you see.
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