Seriously. Isn't it always?

“What happened…how did I wind up here?” she wanted to know.

“Uh, I think you’re being kinda melodramatic here.” She laughed. That’s one of the things I love about her.

“I mean, yeah. You got shit to deal with. This is life, and some stretches are crappy. We all have our turns. You’re having your turn of shit to wade through, that’s all. If you’re not happy, then it’s your job to figure out what would make you happy. Your job is to find your way out.”

I’ll cheer her on, though.

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I like to describe myself as “an eccentric genius.” People always laugh, because they think I’m joking. I always laugh, because they think I’m joking.

Elsa P., my favorite astrologer, once titled a reading for me, “If she’s not crazy, there’s no end to the good she can do you!” I laughed for a solid week, because I’d never heard myself described better.

I couldn’t fit in if I tried; not authentically, anyway. I was raised specifically to be an outsider. I can blend in well enough to function, sure. But it’s not my natural state of being.

Honestly, that crap gets old; by the time you get to be my age, you just want to be, y’kno? Or at least, I do. It does have a price, though. You have to tune out other people’s opinions.

My neighbors do call me “the Crazy Cat Lady.” I’m okay with that.

So what if I thank the spent blooms for the joy and beauty they shared when I pull them off my flowers? I’m not asking you to do it. I’m not hurting anybody. It makes me happy. I feel less guilty for plucking them off, and I do appreciate their service. I scatter them on the sidewalk, intending them to provide luck and protection to whomever crosses their paths. You may think it’s nuts, but every time I send out a positive intention, it feels good. I am adding to the sum total of goodwill in the world.

Ok. I get the point. But I don’t do this aloud if I see anybody outside, man. I’m semi-aware, even though I have a number of…eccentricities.

I see two options: I can stop dying my hair weird colors, stop talking to my flowers, stop doing my nails blue, stop dressing like a hippie, stop talking about astrology and Tarot and chakras, give glitter a rest-in-peace edict—by and large, stop being so damn colorful! I’m way too colorful to be proper for a woman my age. Anybody knows that. Even (Gasp!) me…

Or, I can be known as “The Crazy Cat Lady.” Do what makes sense to me, without bothering with what anybody else would make of it. Do what makes me happiest, so long as it doesn’t hurt anybody else.

Way I figure, it’s a service. Maybe it gives them a little amusement to see what the crazy pink-haired old lady is doing. Or somebody to feel superior to. Maybe they can feel a little more normal by comparison. Who knows? The ones it bothers probably aren’t a good match for my energy anyway.

I’m as kind as I know how to be; I try to add light and love wherever I go, in however humble (or eccentric) the contribution. Everything good I have to share with anybody is enhanced by living as happy as I know how to live.

I guess I’ll change how much “me” I let out roam in the wild if I see a good reason; I have at times before. I try stay balanced and I do what I need to do, because I am a grown-up about what counts. But I’m really hoping I don’t see good reason. It’s a lot more fulfilling being authentically colorful than widely palatable.

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They came back. After I saw myself described as “paranoid and reclusive” for acknowledging how I don’t trust the census and it bugs me how much the government is over-reaching into our personal lives, the good ol’ US of A’s main man, Uncle Sam, is back at it.

Geez Loiuse. This makes FOUR in-person visits from the Census to my house. For one form that was sent in already.

Bam! Bam! Bam! I look out the peephole—because every paranoid freak like me who doesn’t trust the rest of the world has a peephole, y’kno—and see yet another census worker, badge and GPS in tote, on the other side of the door.

I try to cut him off at the pass. “I sent it in. I sent it in already. I know it was late, but I already sent it in.”

“When?” he inquires.

“After the first follow-up visit. I know it was past the deadline,” as Mr. Disapproving  Scowl had already made clear on my last official visit. “But I sent it in.”

He starts off on his “I need five minutes of your time” spiel.

“No. I’ve done it once; I won’t keep doing it.”

He addresses me like a high school teacher would lecture an i’ll-behaved student. “I need a few minutes of your time. You have to answer these questions. Because otherwise, it won’t get counted. Those responses weren’t part of this new program, and they won’t get counted otherwise.”

(As if this is something that should alarm me.) “I sent it in once and that’s enough. Whether they throw it away or whatever, that’s not up to me.”

“Oh, no, they won’t throw it away, “ he said. Of course, I wouldn’t get so lucky. “They just won’t count it.”

“That’s not my problem. I did it once and that’s all I’m willing to do it.” I already felt like a sellout for providing information that isn’t constitutionally allowable. There were people that DIED in defense of the principles in the constitution, and me? I didn’t want to get a $5,000 fine that will, in all likelihood, never get levied for fear of a toxic public relations nightmare.

The man gets snotty at my continued refusals to tell a stranger who shows up on my door any personal information about who I am or the people that live in my home. He was getting angrier, and I looked to end the interaction.

“We’ll get the information somehow!” he calls out ominously as I’m shutting the door. Say I’m paranoid if you want to; I don’t give a damn. It was delivered as a threat, plain as day.

So, we’ve got FOUR in person visits to obtain one, already-completed form sent in weeks ago. We’ve got the government keeping (but not “counting”) information sent it, and some mysterious, nonsensical program requiring paying people to go out and harass citizens who have already given up some of their rights by answering questions the agency has no authority to ask. Like the whipped cream on the sundae, it’s all topped off with bully census workers, ominously implying they’re somehow going to invade your privacy if you’re not adequately cooperative, as demonstrated by providing whatever information is demanded, each and every time it’s demanded, by whomever claims authority to do said demanding when showing up at your doorstep with a laminated name tag. Even if he does work for the census, that’s no guarantee he’s not a lunatic, after all.

Kinda makes you go all warm and fuzzy about how much you pay in taxes, huh?

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When you put energy out there, what are your expectations on a return?

There was a time, whatever I did, I had a clear picture of what I thought I’d get in return. I worked at a job, started a business, created websites, went to school, whatever it was, with clear, specific expectations on exactly where the path was going to take me. I “knew” just how each action was going to impact my life and make it better.

Except for one, especially pesky little issue: I was almost always wrong.

Not just making wrong turns on the path, although I made plenty. Not just other people reacting outside my preconsidered set of expectations, although that happens plenty, too. You can’t guess, anticipate, plan, or visualize every detail of where life takes you. Many of the best trips are side trips–unexpected, serendipitous surprises. Synchronicity is the magic.

I learned you can’t plan what comes precisely. You can have goals; in fact, you need goals! They spur you forward and force you to clarify and focus. Very hard to get what you want without knowing what it is to begin with. But the piece that gets missed so much is mixing up actual goals with the path to the goals.

My goals used to be around accomplishing a specific result; I wanted this job or that bank balance or that car or this degree or whatever.  When that happened, everything would be just right! Thing is,  it wasn’t the accomplishment in and of itself I was really searching for. It was what the accomplishment meant to me.  I thought working toward specific goals would give me security, satisfaction, freedom from worry, blah blah blah. I was actually longing for what I expected the goals to add to my life.

I have a friend who recently lost her job, and for a time, felt like her world was crashing. She confused having a long-term job with her actual goal of financial security. The financial security doesn’t come from any job, all of which are temporary–it comes from the experience, skills and talents you hold that allow you to meaningfully contribute; those abilities are what land you any job, allow you to care for your own needs independently, and allow you to progress and thrive. Exactly where those abilities gets exercised is far less important than having and exercising them. Making the transition from one expression to another expression of goals merely requires a little faith while you’re making your trek along the way.

The experiences I’ve benefited from the most notably, progressed my life the most significantly, have NOT been the times I’ve set a specific target and hit it. It’s been the side trips. The stuff that made me crazy–the times things blew up, went ridiculously wrong, or I ended up on a road completely unanticipated. These have been the gifts in ugly wrapping paper.

I still have to remind myself of the process sometimes. It doesn’t matter if I can imagine how I might get from A to B, because the path is totally and utterly irrelevant. Focus on the feeling you want–first amplifying your current experience of that feeling, which opens your life up to more of it; when you’re vibrating in tune with your goals, you metaphysically open yourself up to gifts, synchronicity, and whatever assistance is out there for you in the universal energy flow. By seeing where you are approaching your goals in your day-to-day journey now, you can build and grow until the result you wish is more purely and strongly expressed.

Now, when I see an opportunity, I put my energy out there and go Zen. I tell myself explicitly, “It doesn’t matter if things come together the way I expect. It doesn’t matter if I end up feeling stupid, or others don’t respond well to my efforts, or if I end up in an entirely different place than I expected setting out.” Whatever happens, I know I will have opportunities to learn. I work to divorce my ego from the process and trust. All that matters is that I put the energy out there in the direction I want to go, with faith and belief that I (or someone else) will benefit somehow from the energy, that my journey will be advanced, and that, somehow or another, it all adds to the light.

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I have no doubt people think I’m nuts. Well-meaning, but nuts. I try not to let that bother me. (Often, I succeed.) But sometimes, it’s just a bit much and I get tired of keeping my mouth shut. It may surprise some of you I do actually keep my mouth shut at times, but it’s true.

I’m not a fan of the Census. Now, before anybody starts spouting off about the importance of new roads and how will the government be able to accurately gauge Congressional representation, stop right there. I’ve seen the commercials, okay? I’m aware of all the nifty little “benefits” touted by the $340 million dollars spent on just marketing the census. I am willing to go so far as provide a headcount for my household–in other words, I’m perfect willing to provide the information that’s constitutionally allowable for my government to ask.

But I don’t want to provide any more information than that. Census data has historically been misused–both in the US and in other nations, and with the state of current technology, it’s possible to use the aggregate data to track individuals. Lobbying groups for marketers advocate for more complete (and intrusive) information gathering. This isn’t public service on their part.

While many people got the short form, some didn’t. They got the long form. How is it the government’s business if any member of the household has difficulty remembering, concentrating, or making decisions? Why is it important for my government to know how many times I’ve been married, how much I paid for my electric bill last month, whether I have a refrigerator and flush toilet? This helps them know “how many roads to build and how much representation my area requires in congress?” Sure.

Short answer: It’s not the government’s business, of course. But this information is pure gold to the marketers; if it weren’t, they wouldn’t lobby to continue gathering more and more of it.¹

So this being how I feel about it, I was NOT in a hurry to return even my short census form. I read up on the possible penalties, like a $5,000 fine–ugh–decided I needed to send the form, but the thought of it made me feel a little sick. So I procrastinated until a saw a sticky on my door one of the Census workers had shown up and would return. I don’t like strangers showing up at my house. So I filled out the form, partially. I put in how many people were here and their race, although I still believe it’s wrong to ask. I skipped birthdays and phone numbers and other questions because, well, it was just too much.

A few days later, Mr. Census Worker shows back up. As soon as he introduces himself, I cut him off.

“I saw you were here, and I mailed it in!” I say quickly. I wanted him to leave, leave, leave! I don’t like people I don’t know at my house.

He scowls. “It was due April first,” he says through pursed lips, shaking his head a little.

“Well, I just sent it. Obviously, it’s not going to make it by April 1st, but it’s done.” Duh, I think to myself, but didn’t say so. I did not feel appropriately ashamed.

“I need to ask you some questions. It just will take about 10 minutes of your time,” he counters. Still that damn paternal tone, still the disapproving scowl.

“No. I did it once, I’m not going to do it again.” He still had that hall-monitor-and-you-don’t-have-a-pass vibe, and I think he may have sighed, but did not argue. I know they’re trained not to argue, from my friends who have temp jobs via the Census-Making-Employment-Statistics-Look-Better program. I wasn’t rude but I was clear: no–I’m not going to give what I consider personal information to a stranger because the US government pays lots of money for pretty commercials and water bottles saying it’s a good idea to trust them.

See, it wasn’t ten minutes of my time I was worried about. It was something I value a lot more–my privacy and my freedom. My peace of mind depends in significant part of feeling like I’m in control of what information I share with whom and for what reason. I care deeply about issues like having the freedom to make my own choices about how I live my life so long as I don’t hurt other people.  This  is slipping away in leaps and bounds in the name of “everybody’s best interest” every day and it scares me. I don’t see it getting any better and if people who feel the way I do don’t say or do something about it, it will undoubtedly get worse.

So he went away, and I (sorta) stood up for my principles. And if anybody wants to know how many flush toilets I have in my house, they can go to Hell.

1. It never ceases to amaze me how people can be dead-on convinced the government is our best chance at protecting the people from the very same corporate interests that funds the campaigns of people writing the laws. Can you say “conflict of interest?” Money fuels EVERYTHING.

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I recently found out a client of mine–and her husband–committed suicide. It made the news, but the story wasn’t accurate. It had the couple’s ages reversed, said they were from California instead of Oklahoma, and failed to mention that the wife survived only one additional  day after being retrieved from the hotel room. They were in their fifties.

When you read an email with news like that, you just say, “Wow.” It slaps you upside the head and you can’t just shake it off.

I’m not unexposed to suicide. I worked mental health, the crisis hotline, detox, and case management before I went web. I’ve done suicide intervention and I’ve had clients kill themselves before. Not in this business though, no. And it doesn’t feel the same.

They were in Rome, staying in the Hotel Splendide Royal (pictured above). After having sold all their belongings, they were on a tour through Europe. They had told their family and friends they were traveling, and would decide what they wanted to do when they got back. They had said goodbyes. During the trip they’d contacted folks, let them know what a wonderful time they were having.

Nobody was hurt, sick, or in pain. They felt like they had completed what they wanted to in this lifetime, and they wanted to cross over together. They asked friends not to judge, but to be happy for them, and respect their decision. They wanted to leave on a joyful note.

I didn’t know her very well–I’d done a website for her a few years ago, and handled her hosting. She was sweet and very, very kind to me, always. A gentle, soft-spoken woman. But I could go months at a time without talking to her, without a reason to, so it’s not like we were close.

But when I found out, I cried. And weird as it was, my feelings were hurt. It felt like she had done something to me. I couldn’t tell you what, because she certainly didn’t owe me anything. It made no sense whatsoever. But it didn’t matter. It upset me.   (I’ve no doubt it’s got to be the tiniest fraction of what somebody who loses someone close to them feels, and it sucked.)

And it pissed me off, too. What the Hell, you know? I prefer people I like not go and off themselves.

Which left me upset with myself for being upset. What right do I have to tell her how to live her life–or end it? How is this my business? If I liked her, don’t I owe her my best attempt to honor her wishes? Can I be happy for her?

I’ve been trying to sort this out the last week; today, I realized I’m also pissed off about being reminded that I am mortal. I am aging, my husband is aging, and someday, the one question of one or the other of us dying will become a reality. I haven’t met anybody that’s figured an out yet.

My husband says the one thing he didn’t know about being married to me would probably have dissuaded him: the level of attachment. The thought of being without the other once you’ve bonded to that point is terrifying, disturbing in a way that defies description. In 21 years, you can get awfully used to someone. I don’t want to be without him or leave him without me. I just figured we’ll be one of those couples that go about the same time, because…well, we’ll want to.

So, is it wrong they wanted to die together, without paying the dues of  age or illness first? For whom is it to say what way someone else should die, when or how?  It obviously impacts others, but it’s not about others. It wasn’t my life, so it wasn’t my decision (clearly).

I liked and respected her. So I’ll do my best to respect her request and intent, but it’s not something that I can imagine feeling joyful about anytime soon.

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I get reminded sometimes. Most of the time, I forget. It’s second nature. But once in a while, I get reminded. I live a humble life. I’m not sure if it’s by circumstance or choice.

My parents were very poor growing up. Very strong work ethic–Dad evaluated his success each evening by outline what he’d accomplished that day. They worked very hard. And they are frugal people. Those who’ve experienced lean times learn to get by on less and make the best use of what they have. This is how I was raised, and I accepted the gift of sense in this regard.

When my husband and I first married, we were young. Early twenties, 3 kids, no help. Back then, I considered at $8/hr job as paying very well, so that gives you an idea.

When something broke, we were screwed.

So you adapt. My husband is great at fixing things, and that’s why. I mean, yeah, he’s mechanically inclined, but it was the years of fixing broken crap that honed his skills. You don’t have the cash to to replace it or pay a repairman, you fix it yourself or do without.  You use things until they wear out; you get secondhand, shop around for bargains, look for quality. You ignore a lot of little things as long is it still works. You have no idea how many years I used cracked ice cube trays or used a microwave you could only cook things in increments exclusively involving 3, 6 or 9. Guess that’s why I had a mental block about throwing out my holey socks.

Time goes on– kids grow up, you earn more money, and eventually, it’s not as tight anymore. But the habits are still there, by and large. You get more iPhones and Cat Genies and Roombas and big TV’s then. I like that part!  But the basic principles of being mindful about spending, continues to hold.

Sprinkle in some circumstance. Endless custody hearings, child support bills surpassing a house payment, co-signing on on a car that ends up in the river,¹ career changes, medical bills, going to school–whatever it is. Things happen.

By whatever means, view’s the same. I live in a triplex. I drive an 1989 Acclaim that has one windshield wiper², a passenger door that won’t open from the inside, and overheats in drive-thrus. It was my daughters car, but wasn’t worth it or reliable enough for her to take it with her tto Ohio. I don’t use credit and I don’t spend a lot in general. What I do, I research well and carefully consider first. This is both in my blood and a skill practiced many years.

It sure makes it easier when you’re on in one of life’s ebb phases. And when you’re in the flow phases, it flows all that much more–so long as you don’t forget to notice.

But sometimes, it’s a little uncomfortable, too. It’s like there needs to be an explanation, except 1. there doesn’t, and 2. even when it feels like it does, people don’t much care for them. It makes ‘em  uneasy from what I’ve observed.

For me, I guess I just don’t want to leave the impression I live humbly through lack of ability, or lack of resp0nsibility, or lack of control. Simply put, “lack” is the last thing I want to be associated with.

There is humble, and there is small. My my energy, my love, and my happiness are not small.  My contribution is not small. My life is not constricted. So what’s it matter how old my car is, anyway?

1. Or, as we sometimes call rivers, “Crack Whore Parking Lots.” Don’t ask.
2. Driver’s Side–Score!

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New Year’s, I generally eschew resolutions. There’s so often more an excuse to pretend we can solve every problem we have in two and half weeks, or maybe just another opportunity to feel bad about ourselves. It’s usually a better idea to make changes day-to-day, as you see the need. While there’s perhaps some value in the ritualization or symbolic significance of new year/new you thing, still… We’re usually not reasonable or kind with ourselves that way.

But this year, I did make a resolution: I am getting rid of all the holey socks.

I’m pretty frugal. Maybe from growing up in a family that sometimes had little, lean times raising kids in our 20′s, or just a practical nature, I don’t know. But I have socks. With holes. Too many. And when I run across one of these holey socks, what had I traditionally done?

Why, wear them, of course! Sometimes two pair, or teamed up with some slippers, to make up for the holes. And afterward? I take them off and put them in the laundry and wash the damn things again. And each time I end up with one of ‘em after a sock search, I am surprised and disappointed all over again. But I put them on anyway.

It’s as if I somehow expect the socks to magically heal in the drawer. I try to avoid it, ignore it, put it off and forget about it instead of just throwing the stupid socks out.

Uh oh. How many times do I avoid, ignore, cobble up or otherwise deny what is not working in my life? Because it’s easier “not to think about that right now?”

I’m done putting on holey socks. When I notice anything in my life isn’t serving it’s function, when I see something isn’t working with my life, it’s done.

That’s hard sometimes. Sometimes your favorite socks wear out. Sometimes, it’s just time to change socks. You outgrow the old ones, and they don’t fit anymore. You may still have an emotional attachment, but it doesn’t change the facts, man.

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Hyperbole annoys the living Hell out of me. Why do folks feel the need to drama-queen it up, anyway? When you yell “Fire” in absence of smoke, when you declare emergency without actual crisis, or in general overreact in ways that can be construed as nothing beyond performance, I get cranky. Seriously…’cause if you don’t think I’m going to notice, you’re dumber than you take me for.

Now, when I hit on one of these episodes, I may not call it out. There’s a very good chance I won’t. I’m busy. I work hard. I have better things to do.  And tapping Harry Hyperbole on the shoulder to say, “Hey–I see through your bullshit!” is going to be a poor use of my energy, 99.9% of the time. What’s the point? If  manipulation is how a person relates by default, why on Earth would me calling “Shenanigans” change that? Somehow, they’ll see the light? Fat chance. More likely you’ll get denials and more of the same. ¹

Even beyond my knee-jerk disgust for disingenuous of any flavor–and mind you, I have one!–the practice mystifies me. I don’t know if the manipulation is intended to spur me into faster action, elicit a specific emotional response, be politically advantageous, avoid the possibility of complaint or what. I usually avoid trying to figure it out too much because that’s so completely foreign to how I think, it makes my hair hurt to attempt understanding. I’m a huge fan of the “say what you mean, and mean what you say” philosophy. Makes life about a quadrillion times simpler. As a plus, I don’t have to try and remember what persona I adopted yesterday–I’m the same, yesterday, today and tomorrow.

I guess I could feel sorry for folks who compelled to resort to sleight of hand to reach their goals, but I don’t. Maybe it’s because being underestimated is a pet peeve of mine going way back. Spending years as a fat chick, nobody thought I could possibly have a meaningful thought in that round little head of mine.Yes, I could easily clear up the misconception, but it sure gets old fast.

Truth is, I am one of the brightest people you’re ever going to meet. You can say that’s an arrogant statement (and you’d be right), but it’s as true as the sky is blue.When people are dishonest with me, I notice. I’ve got a good nose for it. And maybe I keep my mouth shut at the time for want of a point, but you can be damn sure I file the information away. You get yourself an entry in my “not trustworthy” ledger, and it’s more than selling me short. It’s selling off the potential for a relationship.

You treat me with respect, don’t complicate my life with unnecessary grief, and generally show yourself to be a person of integrity, there is virtually no end to the lengths I will go to in order to help and support you. And I’ll be completely glad to do it! I give of my energy and expertise freely–nobody has to finagle cooperation out of me. Perhaps that’s why I find attempts to steal it offensive.

1. Reminds me of all the Cheaters episodes, where the busted routinely cries, “You could have just asked me! ” As if  asking the right question, the right way in the right time would somehow magically elicit a different response that the daily onslaught of lies they’re swimming in…yes, I watch Cheaters. I don’t care.

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