Bye Bye!

“Hello, this is Mabel, how may I help you?”

“Hello Mabel, I’m Suzanne Murdoch; we’re customers of yours in O’Fallon.  Is there a way you might be able to find our phone that went out with the recycling this morning?”

Talk about a topic that just isn’t covered in the main menu, this must be it.  How did I find myself in this predicament?  Well, it really all makes perfect sense.

My dear husband and I, though compatible in many ways, are really different.  One key area is in how we organize and perform tasks.  Take wallets.  For him a wallet might as well come with little labels on each little insert, fold, and compartment.  Money is arranged in order and with our founding fathers’ heads properly upright and aligned; cards have assigned parking places.  He clears extraneous materials every night (which end up in a pile on his bureau, but I digress).  By contrast, my wallet is bulging at the seams. I find it boring to have my bills in the same compartment all the time, so I move them around, sometimes stowing a few bills in one place and the rest somewhere else.  My cards are double and triple parked with no particular order.  I have receipts, business cards, coupons, and other incidental matter stuffed everywhere.  When I start to see seams separating or zippers that are challenged, I’ll sort through it (everything I take out gets recycled or goes in the trash).  He’ll look at me trying to find something and say “You’re so cute,” which really means “you’re a nut.”  When I’m particularly fearless, I’ll offer to tackle the pile on his bureau and I get the look, which has nothing to do with my degree of attractiveness.  Another variance is my penchant for doing more than one thing at a time — if I can talk on the phone and wash dishes, so much the better.   I work against the clock on as many things as I can do simultaneously while David deliberately completes one task before starting another.

Normally, we keep our chores and organization relatively separate and this works for us.  Combining forces requires extensive communication/effort.  So, how did our phone end up in a Waste Management truck?   It was that clear tote I use to collect upstairs recycling.  If it’s not too full, that tote is also mighty handy for moving other items from the second to the first floor (or vice versa).  Yesterday, in a hurry (natch), I took the recycling downstairs, along with some other things that needed to go down, including the handset.  Running late (another “cute” trait), I left the bag and its contents near the door and rushed out.  Cue David.  He comes home. Seeing the tote on the floor and knowing that I’ll be home soon, he decides to be the good husband he is and finish the task.   It would never occur to him to use this tote for anything other than its dedicated purpose.  Consequently, he dumps the contents directly into the recycling bin, closes the lid,  and carries it to the curb, where the recycling truck emptied it early today.  Later this morning, David called home, and I found myself searching vainly for the phone that was by now miles away, distractedly pouring hot coffee into my instant oatmeal instead of hot water (really not too bad).

Lost; one handset (you don’t think Waste Management was really going to be able to find it, do you?).  Gained; the chance to have a really good laugh on April Fool’s Day, knowing that the joke really is on us.

Do you live your life by consensus?  Forget experts; there’s another way to figure out what’s going on in our lives and the world.  We need only consensus; the agreement of at least one other individual to support our point of view.  I find myself operating by consensus all too often:

“Rachel, this is Suzanne.  I’ve got this strange rash on my left arm.  It’s kind of like little pink goose bumps.  What do you think?”

“Sounds like contact dermatitis.  Try some butter.”  (Of course Rachel doesn’t really know what contact dermatitis is; she heard this once at the pediatrician’s office where she took her son several years ago for a rash, but this was as good a time as any to show off her incredible memory.  As for the butter, her mom used it for skin irritations (or was that burns?) so why not?)

“Great; I’ll do that.”

Unfortunately, consensus is often the preferred method for any number of life decisions/guidance.  Once we have agreement, our quest for a definitive answer is over, however ill-informed both parties may be.   “Hey Lonnie, who sang “That Crazy Little Thing Called Love”? “  “That was Prince.”  “Oh, yeah.  Now, I remember.”  (Forget that it was Queen; they’re both royalty, aren’t they?)

I’ve used consensus for everything from medical diagnoses to geography/world politics, just about any area where a right answer does exist (in theory).  I find it very comforting, solving my quest for guidance and knowledge from the comfort of my home, not to mention the security of agreement with like-minded friends.

What do you think?  I agree;  we all do this.   I think it’s just a part of our flawed human logic circuits.  Next time you find yourself seeking medical advice or an answer from a friend, ask them, “How do you know?”  Chances are, like you, they have no idea.  Unless the response is, “We learned this in my third year at medical school,” maybe it might be best to seek a third opinion from someone who actually did.

Marching in formation -- timeless.

Today, I’m publishing the third installment of my Air Force story under “Recent Musings” which covers my twelve weeks at Officer Training School (OTS) near Lackland Air Force Base in Texas.  They say we have a “fight or flight” reflex; faced with a difficult situation we do one or the other.  Despite my urge to flee, I proved too stubborn to admit defeat.  Many have gone through the experience of Basic Training or Officer Training, not to mention ROTC or the four-year (gasp!) service academies and managed much better than I did those many years ago in muggy Texas.  I was ill-equipped for success — not athletic, not a “joiner”, fond of my privacy and solitary pursuits.  I was there mostly on a dare and because I could see that the experience might be good for me.  Little did I know that I was embarking on a critical chapter in my life.  Not mentioned in this installment is that my future husband had left Medina a mere three weeks before my arrival.  I had no way of knowing this as I struggled with the demands of OTS, ultimately deciding to stick it out rather than leave and admit defeat.  To this day, I am grateful to Lt. Bishop, not for his encouragement, but for being the burr under my saddle.  Whether by design or by accident, he was the perfect foil to challenge me to bring out my inner warrior.

Gotta rush!

Sometimes I’m convinced that I’ve been hard-wired with a timer, living my life as if I will be penalized if I don’t finish a task in the shortest time possible.  This compels me to act in ways even I would find annoying if I were on the receiving end.  “Why are you turning here?” I ask my husband when we’re going somewhere, having already mapped out the optimal route in my head, but of course not bothering to share it with him.  Even if I had, I’m sure he would point out that I’m not the one in the driver’s seat.  (Maybe he should give me one of those kiddie steering wheels I had as a child; that way I could steer without interfering with the driver.)

Ironically, although my time has been more unstructured as of late, that chronic feeling of lagging behind hasn’t abated.  My routine is not routine, but is rife with multi-tasking (yes, that sound of rushing water is me doing the dishes while I talk to you).  I find it hard to sit still and concentrate; lately I keep my laptop computer on my knees while making phone calls and keeping an eye on the TV.   As quickly as I try to do things, I don’t like to be kept waiting – that covers everything from doctor’s offices to green lights (why is the driver ahead of me so slow to react?).  Put me in a “customer care” queue and I’m likely to go bonkers listening to how important my call is as the minutes continue to tick by.    Out shopping, I will invariably be in the slowest line, behind the one person who has a challenging price check.

Most disappointing of all is my own failure in the “get it done” quickly area.  Rather, I seem to be slowing down as I get older, marching off in a certain direction only to get there and wonder why.   Multi-tasking usually means I leave something significant undone, forgotten or dropped along the way.

When I was a child, I wasn’t bothered with a long list of “need to do’s”.  I remember summer days that stretched endlessly ahead, punctuated by play activities that left plenty of time for daydreaming or contemplating the leaves on a tree.  It strikes me that my rushing here and there has actually robbed me of time – time to think, time to be.  Maybe, just maybe, if I slow down, I’ll find what I’m really looking for.  No time to think about that now; I’ll put it on my “to-do” list.

I am not a morning person; I burn the midnight oil much more reliably than I greet the sun.  Lately, my inner night owl has been challenged as I’ve walked our dogs early in the morning, and I mean early – usually between 5:30 and 6:00 am. (For those of you who are laughing out there, saying things to yourself like “If she thinks that’s early …”, then God bless and keep you, but this is my story after all.)   I wake rudely as small determined creatures clamber over my inert form.  Rolling over and burying my head under my pillow, I feel muzzle pokes in my backside and hear the grating sound of scratchy dog toes running desperately over our hardwood floors.  “Just a minute,” I vainly mumble.

Once up (and this is a relative term), I’m pushed from behind as if this will actually get me to move quicker.  My pre-dawn outfits are usually a pair of sweats over my pajamas; I’ve even been known to throw a coat over my nightgown and put a pair of shoes on without socks (which was all right until the morning a neighbor’s dog got loose and I ended up at their door in said outfit at 6 am).

Outside,  I walk with my head down in the cool air, steeling myself until I can return to the warmth and comfort of home.  This morning, though, something prompted me to look up.  There, in the deep blue expanse above me was an extravagant apricot moon, so large and fat it hung low in the sky, suspended just above the tree line, thin wisps of clouds wafting across its surface.  I looked around.  No one else was on the streets.  This beautiful scene was for my eyes only.  As we finished our walk and turned for home, the sky slowly suffused with light — delicate swathes of pink, purple and orange, with birdsong providing the perfect soundtrack.  While I had been asleep, God had been faithful, just as He has been with all the sunrises and sunsets since creation.   I took a long breath of the cool morning air, grateful for His promise of a new day.

Does this make me a morning person?  Now, that would be a miracle!  While I’m out in those early hours, though, rather than looking down at my sockless feet, I’ll keep my eyes lifted so I don’t miss the dawn of another day.

Wash in Winter

You may have noticed the heading of “Puppy Tales” and related stories under the “Pages” menu bar.  Today, I’m publishing the story of  our latest addition, Wash.  Let me make it clear we’re not like those dog people — you know, those owners who are more than mildly obsessed with their puppies.  After all, we successfully resisted dog ownership for years, largely due to my allergies and our frequent moves.  Some years ago, though, that all changed with Sammy, followed by Zoe and Wash.  Let’s just say that I didn’t exactly embrace adding canines to our household.  Our one previous foray into pet ownership was Angie, a guinea pig, that died in my hands one school day and is now solemnly buried under a large oak tree in the back yard of our former church building — more than a little traumatic.   Besides, dogs require care; they can be noisy, messy and limit your freedom.   My first reaction has invariably been “no” followed by capitulation, regret, and finally acceptance.  Even now, the rug and bed frame in our bedroom bear the unmistakable scars of little teeth, and I have sacrificed several pairs of shoes to the same.  All that said, it has been worth it.  If you’ve been considering dog adoption, or just want to be diverted by our experiences, check out the links under “Puppy Tales” to learn how we learned to say “yes” and love our new family members.

Have you ever looked back on something meaningful in your life and realized that it didn’t start out that way?  Sometimes it’s as if someone handed us the end of a string and told us to follow it, gathering it as we went, not knowing how long it was or where it would take us.

That’s a little like it was for me when I committed to the military for four years (some would argue that the Air Force isn’t the Marines and I would gratefully agree).  I had no idea where this commitment would take me, but I started the journey.  It changed my life.  Today I’m publishing Part II (or Part Deux) about the exhausting day that marked the beginning of my new life.

Part III is yet to come.  Think “Private Benjamin”.  I had always enjoyed the comforts of my own room and privacy;  I didn’t really like any activity that was outside and good for you; getting up early was not my strong suit, and I had never developed a regular routine around anything in my life.   All that was about to change.

Check out Part II under “Recent Musings”.  Hope you enjoy taking this journey with me!

I thought I must have invented the phrase “tyranny of the urgent”.   Google would beg to disagree, but it has all too often been my life’s course.  The day starts; I have so much to do.  When I was working full-time, I was busy responding to all the demands that came my way.  I couldn’t let a minute pass without reflexively checking my e-mail.  I had an “open door” policy and welcomed the frequent interruptions of co-workers.  Small wonder that, at the end of the day, I had accomplished little except figuratively dowse small fires with the contents of my coffee mug (good thing that  first morning cup of coffee grew nice and cold as the day wore on).  Even as I sought the quick adrenaline rush of response to the siren call of “do it now” , I knew I was neglecting what was really important.

I thought all that would change when I left the corporate world for a time.  My life would be filled with what was meaningful and fulfilling —  little did I realize that urgent gremlins lurk everywhere, masquerading as larger priorities, nor had I faced up to the fact that I had tooled myself to get a quick high on menial task completion. E-mail was replaced by laundry, bills, home maintenance, what have you.  Every once in a while I ran into a fragment of something I had started that threatened to be profound, but was abandoned, no doubt for the quick fix.  There was always something demanding my attention, attempting to lure my life vessel from the deep  to run aground in the shallow waters.

Today I took time to do something important.  I wrote my brother.  He lives in Hawaii and never really joined the modern era.  He loves letters, handwritten, embellished, and touched by human hands.  After the devastating earthquake in Japan, I called him to make sure he wasn’t staying near the beach as he usually does.  He was safe.  Before, I never seemed to find the time to write him, opting instead for the quick call.  Tonight, I penned him a long letter.  Tomorrow I’ll mail it.

A woman, I consistently live my life in some aspect of guilt.  It starts as soon as I get up in the morning.  Why didn’t I get up sooner?   I’m already behind.   A screen scrolls in my mind prominently displaying all those tasks and responsibilities I have yet to address.  I measure my worth not by who I am but by my performance.  Speaking of who I am, there’s a lot of work to be done there as well.  I’m impatient, prone to speak before I really think, and seem to deal with the same personal struggles over and over.

When I mention my feelings of guilt to my dear husband, it’s as if I’m discussing the green and purple polka dot rash on my arm.  He just doesn’t get it, and that’s exactly what he tells me.   I think about my life free of guilt; the person I would need to be to make that happen.  Well, I would need to be perfect.  Of course that’s impossible.  It reminds me of that robot from an old science fiction movie that, in response to logical conflict,  intones “That does not compute,” over and over until smoke billows out of his circuits and his big aluminum head drops abruptly to the side. (What doesn’t compute is that he’s male.  A woman could play that role so much better.)

When I think about it, perfection is boring.  None of my funny stories or sense of humor derive from perfection.  It’s imperfection that drives what is interesting about us and our lives.  I’m convinced that God gave us a sense of humor so that we could deal with our innately imperfect selves.  It works for me.  Forget the search for perfection;  maybe we should be getting to know (and like) our imperfect selves.  Maybe we’ll even get more done in the process.

One thing I’ve wanted to put down on “paper” for a while is the experience I had joining the Air Force.  For one, it was pretty funny (I wasn’t exactly what you would call a likely candidate).  For another, it is an example of how doing something that challenges (or scares) you can be a good thing.  I’m writing it in several parts; today I’m publishing Part I under “Recent Musings”.  If you’re interested in what comes next, Part II shouldn’t be far behind.  Sometimes, the people who push you the most aren’t the ones who are nice and encouraging; they are the ones who throw down the proverbial gauntlet.  Don’t tell me I can’t do something (that’s my job)!