Archive for February, 2009

2000 years from now…

February 26, 2009

My friend Lisa recently shared with me that during the early days of her career, while working in the public relations department of ABC-TV, she kept a hand written sign on her desk that said, ‘2000 years from now when they dig us all up…’ She said it helped her put things in perspective, say, when a copy editor decided to make  changes to her brilliant, hard-worked piece.

‘2000 years from now when they dig us all up…’ If ever there were a phrase with the power to change lives, this is it. In only a few days, it has already brought me a great deal of solace. It’s even better than what I usually tell myself when the fur starts to fly. Phrases like ‘it’s all an illusion’ don’t seem to have the same pithy ring as this ‘2000 years from now’ thing. It seems to get right to the heart of the matter. I am even thinking of making a sign to wear around my neck to serve as a constant reminder.

Not that I need it so much anymore, for most things that is. The older I get, the more I try to tap into my inner Zen. I can wait calmly listening to incessant repetitions of “your call is important to us.” I can forgo firing off obscenities at a driver who has just cut in front of me. I can graciously forgive the waiter who forgets all about my table and, heaven forbid, my hunger. Even ending up on the torturous front row of the movie theater without due notice no longer sends me into even a minor tailspin.

‘2000 years from now when they dig us all up…’ Can you see how helpful this little phrase could be? From little Dylan’s “D” in math to gifted Gabe’s “No” from Yale. From the computer’s mega crash to the ten pound gain in just one week. Pfff! As we say in the Garden State, fuggetaboutit.

OK, so much for the small stuff, those irritating little annoyances of the day to day. What about dem big potatoes? The lost jobs, the disappearing banks, the receding 401s, the homeowners with no homes. There seems to be a whole lot to really be upset about these days. Don’t know about you, but many a morning I wake up with a great big knot inside, knowing I have to figure out how I can untangle it before starting my day. Anyone who’s paying attention knows something big is going on, and personally, I’m hoping I can muster up whatever it takes to get through it.

Courage? Faith? Determination? Grit? The question is “have I got enough of what I need to see me through?” Who knows? But as someone who’s a believer in self-help from way back, I’m up for trying just about anything. I welcome whatever tools show up. To add to my growing arsenal of handy-dandy de-stressors, which includes turning off the TV, sitting quietly, a friend’s shoulder, deep breaths, a long walk, a glass(es) of wine, dancing barefoot to Jerry Lee Lewis and now this – ‘2000 years from now …’  I’m already feeling better.

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Happiness is…

February 20, 2009

Happiness is … Yes, you guessed it. An organized closet. At least it’s true for me and I could name at least 20 people I know right off the bat for whom it’s also true. (Those of you who don’t give a damn about your closets, you know who you are.)

This particular revelation about the nature of happiness came from a billboard on Route 38 in suburban New Jersey. There it was, big as day, “Happiness is an organized closet.” Right on, I thought. How true. Not that mine are organized. To the contrary. But on that rare occasion when I finally get around to hauling stuff out of one and delivering a car full of trash bags to Goodwill, I can state unequivocally that I am truly happy. So, speculating with my own brand of logic, perhaps that’s why there are so many unhappy people in this country. Millions of depressives popping pills. It’s their closets.

Now listen up, you naysayers. Consider this. How happy can you be if every time you go to get a pair of pants out of your closet, three shirts and a jacket fall from hangers, and a box precariously placed upon five others on the top shelf descends and hits you squarely on the head? How delighted can you be if every time you need that “thingamajig,” you have to plow through mounds of shoes, bags, high school mementos, inflatable mattresses, suitcases, photo albums, size 4, 8, and 10 ski pants, a pair of shin guards, costumes, fans, fabric, frames, a collection of beanie babies, carnival masks, a room air conditioner, black lights and wrapping paper?

For some of us, venturing into that dark place known as the cluttered closet brings with it a giant wave of guilt – guilt for having bought it all, hoarded it all, and mostly for having let the situation get so out of hand. You tell yourself, “I am a no good, rotten sloth, a failure of a human being.” What other conclusion could you possibly draw? Warning: A messy closet can be damaging to one’s psyche. Tidied up, it can make you feel like a million bucks.

Forget the lottery or that pot of gold at rainbow’s end. That ship of ours may never come in. As the wise ones have always known, happiness is about the little things. The small successes. The simple pleasures.

A good shoulder rub, someone else making dinner, a friend who calls to say you’re loved. A beautifully sad song, a glass of wine, a hot shower, and yes, a clean closet.

So imagine the joy that awaits, the bliss that lies ahead. OK, so maybe for some it’s not in tackling that wretched closet in the downstairs hall. Maybe for you (as I must confess it is for me) there is nothing like the sublime happiness that comes from climbing into a big, warm, wonderful bed at night. But, trust me, it’s better with a clean closet.

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I give up.

February 12, 2009

I don’t know when I gave up. Gave up on knowing how things work. When did I tell myself to forget it, that I was never going to fully understand how a particular device managed to turn on, make noise, produce a picture or send information? I am ashamed to say it but I do not truly understand how most of what I use on a daily basis works.

Now besides the cell phone, the computer, the internet, and a myriad of other systems, devices, machines, apparatus, gadgets and contraptions, there is yet one more. The GPS. Global Positioning System.

On my way to the far Philadelphia suburbs the other evening, I sit in the passenger seat of my daughter’s car utterly intrigued by the GPS screen in front of me. The GPS was her gift to herself from money made babysitting. Seems she got sick and tired of getting lost on her way to, you guessed it, babysitting jobs. Unfortunately, she has inherited the same lousy sense of direction as her mother – a trait I’d hoped would not be passed on in the genes – along with a slight tendency towards obstinacy. No such luck.

So there I sit studying the GPS thingamajig and marveling at the animated map with the little car running along the colored intersecting lines of streets and highways and loving the depiction of the winding blue Delaware River. I am beset with a whole bunch of questions on how this wonderful system works. I toss them one after another to my daughter as they occur to me.

“I know we’re being tracked by satellite,” I tell her “but how exactly? And there are so many cars with GPSes, how is it that signals don’t get crossed? How does it keep track? And that little map, it’s not an aerial photo, right, so it must be programmed in, but how? And have they programmed in a map of the entire world?” I go on and on. I want to know. I need to understand.

My daughter doesn’t. After a few gallant attempts to supply answers from her general store of knowledge, she is ready to give up. She knows she can’t appease me; she can’t possibly teach me what I long to know. When she’s had enough, she calmly turns and says, “Mom, it’s technology. You’ve just got to accept it.”

“Yes, of course you’re right,” I say, seeing that it is way beyond me and her and there are some things neither one of us will ever understand. “But just tell me one more thing,” I plead, my last-ditch attempt at understanding, “how does that woman’s voice work? How is it activated? “How do they do it?”

This time, with less patience, my daughter finally puts the questions to rest, “Mom, it’s the spirits. They do it all,” she tells me.

Makes sense to me. I give up.

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Feh on FAFSA!

February 3, 2009

I have never really envied the rich. Like everyone else, I imagine it might be fun to know what it is to play in that heady fantasy land of luxury, but I have never really pined for wealth. I have never longed for the house by the shore, the designer clothes, the fancy car, the diamonds, the pearls. Lack of funds never stopped me from seeing the world, and security never figured high on my list of priorities. (Just ask my accountant*.)

The only time I yearn for more than sufficient funds in the bank is when February rolls around, bringing with it the dreaded financial aid forms and my ensuing state of bewilderment verging on apoplexy. It is FAFSA time, that ridiculously hard to pronounce acronym for Free Application for Federal Student Aid. February is the month when I could kick myself for not having made enough money to avoid the “financial aid fandango.”

For those of you who’ve never experienced it first hand, the lucky ones who can sign for the whole outrageous tuition bill, you will never understand the torture imposed on those poor souls who need help subsidizing their children’s college education. You will have missed the hair-tearing confusion, the utter despair of trying to tackle what has to be one of the most nerve-wracking procedures in this culture – those of the Immigration and Naturalization Service excluded.

Along with the FAFSA, there’s the CSS Profile, an application similar to the FAFSA also used to determine financial eligibility, but this one devised by those wonderful College Board folks who have a fee for everything, adding heftily to their own financial aid. If you’re self-employed, there’s the Business/Farm Supplement; if you’re divorced, the Noncustodial Parent Profile. Good luck to you if your estranged spouse has long been MIA. You’ll probably need an affidavit from the FBI.

Along with the fifty pages of instructions to print out, there are the mandatory, official cover sheets to be sent with every piece of hard copy. There are tax returns to submit and earnings to be estimated for the year hence, a futile activity these days if ever there was one. There are user names and passwords and pins for every occasion.

It is all too much. Though I consider myself reasonably bright, I know that if it weren’t for the largesse of my friend Ann who helps me out with this loathsome task every year, my daughter would probably not be going to college. And, to my chagrin, just when we’d streamlined the process with the school she attended for two years, my daughter decides to transfer. This year, there will be a whole new set of “to dos” not just for one school but for three, the most costly requiring yet another lengthy application.

Every February without fail, as I walk around with the foreboding of having missed a deadline, I think about those less fortunate than I. I think about those whose lives are far more overwhelming than mine. Way harder. Those who never finished high school. Those who don’t write English; those who struggle just to speak it. How do they do it? How do their children ever make it to college? I’m hoping that they all have an Ann in their lives.

* Daniel Wolf, JD, CPA, aka Accountant Man, also helps immeasurably to make this hateful process go as smoothly as possible.

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