Sometimes misunderstandings work out for the best.
It was midnight. We were sweaty from all the dancing. We had had a few drinks as we enjoyed the nightlife on our last night of a cruise. We usually preferred the quieter spots on the ship and participated in trivia or had drinks by the pool. But this was our last night – so, what the heck, we branched out and decided to check out the Crows Nest.
There were three of us – myself, my brother, and his wife. My husband and my kids had gone to bed early. At first we were a little uncomfortable — everyone seemed so young and we hadn’t been to a nightclub in years. I felt like everyone was looking at us (we later found out that they were!). But everyone’s friendliness won us over. Julie and I danced with my brother at the same time- and for some reason, people kept high fiving my brother. Before long, we were dancing with other people. Several of our fellow dance partners bought us drinks. We noted that the people on this ship were so friendly!
The next morning, bleary eyed and a bit hungover, we looked back on the schedule of events from the previous day – and we saw that we had mistakenly chosen to attend a singles/meet and greet event. Oops! We had been fresh faces on the singles scene … and that explained a few things!
It seemed like a good decision at the time. We were 8 years old. We didn’t want to wake Alyson’s sleeping dad. That made perfect sense to me. So, I walked home – five blocks – crying and clutching my arm.
I got home and my mom sprang into action. She supported my arm with a curled up magazine and then my parents took me to the emergency room. A broken arm – the result of falling off a swing set.
Forty two years later (42!!) I was back in touch with Alyson and she apologized for sending me home with a broken arm. She has felt bad for 42 years! I didn’t feel bad at all – the arm healed up nicely and it was a pretty funny story. I’m glad we got back in touch so we cleared that up!
It’s just stuff. That was my mantra for an entire year as I cleaned out my mom’s house. Russian china, Persian rugs, broken vacuums, Afghan jewelry, worn towels, tax returns, ancient coins, personal notebooks. It was an eclectic mix of valuable items and lots of junk. My house could not hold all that stuff, so I had the challenge of getting rid of it. Guilt ensued. Everything had a memory for her.
And then it clicked .. those were HER memories.
It took a year to get to the stage where I could get rid of her stuff and not feel bad. My brother and I took a few items that truly held sentimental value. Then we had friends walk through the house and take whatever they wanted. We filled a dumpster and a half with the junk, we sold some practical stuff on Craigslist, we sold some stuff at an auction, we gave away some stuff on Freecycle, we donated some stuff to Habitat for Humanity, and we called a junk company to do the final sweep of the stuff in the house. The common denominator? It was just stuff.
In the end, I know why she left the stuff. She was tired and she didn’t feel like making those decisions. She was 80 years old and she had a lot of memories attached to her stuff. Throwing out the stuff would mean devaluing the memories. She didn’t accept that the memories could live in our heads – without the stuff.
I do plan to leave less stuff to my kids. But I’m not sure if I’m doing a good job just yet. My guest room is full of boxes of stuff (mostly my mom’s stuff). My office cabinets are full of stuff. My closet is full of stuff. And I just ordered more stuff online. The cycle continues … and I think my mom would be humored that I still have so much stuff!
TGIF . Thank God It’s Friday … but really? Whenever I hear that expression, I think of my dad. He hated that expression. His thought was … “if you are only happy that it’s Friday, then what about all the other amazing things that can happen on the other six days of the week??”
For years, I didn’t agree with him. I wanted a break from the school week. I wanted to have the weekend off from work. But as I grew older, I realized that awesome things happen everyday. I mean, my daughter was born on a Tuesday. That was a pretty amazing day. My son was born on a Monday. Yay for Monday! I got married on a Saturday. I volunteer every Thursday with kitties. I go out with friends on Wednesdays. I’ve had vacations start on Sundays. Lots of great things happen seven days a week.
I have inherited my dad’s optimism. But I’m not so sure if I totally agree with his dislike of “TGIF” … because every time I hear that expression, I think of my dad, and that’s pretty great. So, whenever someone says TGIF, I smile and it’s misinterpreted as agreement. But I’ll take it. TGIF. Thanks for the weekly reminder!
Seven months. We had plenty of time to prepare. But as the fateful day was upon us – nothing. We scrambled. We made phone calls to the funeral home and to the crematorium. No one could give us a clear answer. We were on our own.
My mom passed away seven months earlier. Immediately after her death, we had a formal service – lots of speakers and a reception to follow. Friends and family came in from out of town and we celebrated and honored a grand old lady. Closure. Sort of. But since my mom was being interred beside my dad at Arlington National Cemetery, there was a seven month gap between services. And today was the day that she was being interred.
As a family, we agreed that we would take some of her ashes and spread them somewhere special. I had the urn tucked away on a family room shelf for 7 months. A quick peek revealed a tightly clamped seal – the kind that one cannot replicate at home. Arlington National Cemetery was very clear with their instructions — no partial ashes.
Since my mom was a bit of a rebel, this seemed perfect. We had a clandestine mission. She would have approved. The boys were out – my brother and my husband wanted nothing to do with this — their squeamishness and their rule following natures rendered them helpless. So, my sister-in-law, Julie, and I took charge. Julie went to the craft store and got two vials – and supplies to “bedazzle” them. We cut off a bottom corner of the ashes bag and poured some ashes into the shiny, pink, bedazzled vials. We took an old fashioned twisty tie and sealed the bag and tucked it beneath the bulk of the ashes. Our secret deed done.
Most of my mom now resides next to my dad at the storied Arlington National Cemetery. But the rebel in her floats in the lake that she lived on for 40 years – and the adventurer in her drifts in the waves in a secluded beach in Tortola. I think she’d like that.
Usually, bad lessons learned from gambling result in money lost and sad people. But that is not how this story ends. This is the story of a couple of lucky friends who made poor decisions and were rewarded for it.
Ken and I were gambling buddies. There was a time when we would go to Atlantic City once a month. We’d play craps and blackjack — but mostly craps. We played blackjack when we wanted to relax. We were “smart” gamblers – we had read the books and we knew our odds.
We usually fared pretty well. We were disciplined. If our allotted money ran out, well, we were done. But not on this particular Sunday. Our money ran out way too fast. So, we did exactly what you are not supposed to do … we hit up the ATM. We agreed to each take out $20. When playing craps properly, that is basically one bet.
So .. we put our money on the line and we put it behind the line. Dice were rolled. We won right away. Another roll. Another win. We placed bigger bets. We kept rolling the dice. We played craps for two more hours. We were high fiving and giggling and our mantra was “this is such a bad lesson!”
By the time we left, we had each recovered our original losses and then each netted a profit of over $400. We sheepishly grinned as we left the table, knowing full well that we were not supposed to be rewarded for making those decisions. But I was indeed rewarded – I bought a set of wrought iron furniture for my deck (nutty gambling purchase, I know). That was 22 years ago — and I still have the furniture and I still have a great gambling story!
It’s hard to only walk 168 steps in one day. Unless you are sick or are bedridden, it’s practically impossible. I don’t mean to brag, but I was able to accomplish this rare feat one weekend in March.
I was on my annual girls weekend. It was Sunday – the day we don’t leave the beach house. Getting out of pajamas and showering are considered optional.
What was my trick? How did I do it? It involved a tight triangle. I went from the couch, to the bathroom, to the kitchen and back to the couch. Repeat every hour from 10:00 am until after midnight. Talking, eating, and drinking do not count towards steps. Genius.