Category: Change is Good. Right?

  • Fooled by a Dummy

    Fooled by a Dummy

     

    How I was outsmarted by a dummy:

     

    In the bestseller “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up” https://www.housebeautiful.com/lifestyle/organizing-tips/a25908482/marie-kondo-book-life-changing-magic-of-tidying-up-tips/one of Marie Condo’s basic rules is to get rid of anything that does not spark joy. While my daughter took this to a whole new level whittling down her belongings to basically the clothes on her back, my son got rid of one broken Iron Man action figure and called it a day.

    And so, because I’m a mom who has chosen to buck the trend of at least trying to raise independent and self-sufficient kids, I packed up my son’s room. It was fairly easy going until I got to him. The puppet had been a birthday gift to my son from my in-laws a few years back, and he was a hit. I hadn’t seen my son play with him for a while though, and for sure the puppet’s tux and top hat were long gone.

    While I felt certain the stripped puppet no longer sparked joy, I also felt if discarded the puppet would find a way back and kill me in my sleep.

    In an attempt at a compromise, I put him in the box of stuff to donate. “I wish you well as I send you out into the world to make another kid happy,” I said, and there is a chance I said this out loud so he could hear. I then backed slowly out of the room.

    Well, what do you know. I was sure myself or my husband had set out all boxes for donation out on our driveway for pick-up back in Colorado. But, we are now in Alaska and curiously I opened this unmarked box and there he was at the top of the pile. 3,364 miles later. Ah, well played, sir.

    And on the opposite end of the spectrum, my daughter.

    When it comes to possessions my daughter makes Marie Condo author of “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up” look like a packrat.

    If we all have past lives, my guess is my daughter was a train hopping hobo during the Great Depression. One who could write something like, “An Expert’s Guide to Riding the Rails” if only a pen and paper didn’t take up so much space.

    Prior to our move to Alaska, the rest of us spent weeks sorting and filling bins and boxes. It took my daughter fifteen minutes to pack everything she wanted, and it all went in one backpack. One that met airline carry-on size restrictions.

    As anyone with a teen daughter can totally not relate to my daughter likes to shop but not buy. I will press a credit card into her palm, drop her off at the mall, and beg her to buy back-to-school clothes only to return hours later for pick and see her with zero bags in hand. She’d hop in the car and hand the credit card back to me explaining everything was either too expensive or nothing she wanted. Sometimes I think my daughter is an alien posing as an American teenaged girl, one that could have used a few more hours of cultural instruction before the big pod drop.

    Now you might be wondering about stuff that isn’t clothing? A couple of years earlier my daughter spent a day ridding her room of anything extraneous which appeared to be almost everything. Old photos and greeting cards, her stuffed animals and old dolls, a porcelain piggy bank from Tiffany’s (a baby gift from a good friend) and all her books including yearbooks.

    I was startled when I saw the yearbooks in the recycling bin.

    “Why would you get rid of your yearbooks?” I asked

    “I never look at them,” she answered.

    “Don’t you think one day you’ll want to look at them, just to remember middle school?”

    “No,” she answered, looking at me like I just asked the stupidest question ever. And maybe it was.

    While my husband admired and cheered on her ruthlessness I could help but feel a little sad. The cold and swift removal of so many icons from her childhood was something that was hard for me as her mother to not take a little personally. So in the aftermath I admit, I went to our curbside trash bin in order to rescue a few things. The piggy bank, photos that were still pinned to a pink sequined framed bulletin board, and one lime green, big eyed-stuffed dinosaur. It was a stuffed animal that still “brought joy” to me at least, because it had been the very first toy I bought for my baby on the day I had an ultrasound and learned I would be having a human girl.

    End note:

    Perhaps I should be thankful for the stowaway. Two weeks into our move to Soldatna, AK and my son’s puppet is still his only friend.

    Puppet
    Do you promise we will be very best friends forever?
    Yes. Do you?
    Yes.
  • The Art of Seduction

    The Art of Seduction

    For sale: Rare! One of a kind sexy portrait of me. 1989. Artist unknown. 

    While packing up the garage, I came across this old portrait of myself. As I stared into my eyes I asked the me who was smirking back, “do you spark joy?” Keep only what does is one of the main rules in Marie Condo’s book https://www.amazon.com/Life-Changing-Magic-Tidying-Decluttering-Organizing-ebook/dp/B00KK0PICK but this was a tough one.

    It was 1989 and I had just returned from visiting my brother in the peace corps in Mauritania, Africa. During my days with my brother’s host tribe, I spent less time learning about the irrigation system he was building and more time consumed by fever, dysentery, and severe dehydration. I just remember being curled up in fetal position in the lap of a medicine woman who occasionally spat on me to cool me down. But, this is a whole other story.

    When I returned home my mom, who is always one to “strike while the iron is hot,” raced to find a photographer to shoot my portrait while I was still 10lbs down. Then I’m guessing she raced to the set of “Dynasty” to find this impressively shoulder padded and beaded dress. I was reluctant to participate but my mom insisted I do it for her “after all the things she has done for me” – like laundry, and all my take home math tests (still mad at her for only getting us a B- in Geometry) The other half of her argument was that I should want to photograph myself now because, as she assured me over and over, I will never ever be so skinny again.

    And so I squeezed into that dress (“See Xenia, you have only been home a week and already this is fitting tighter”) and I sat for a make-up artist who made sure I looked 40-years-older, and then we met up with the photographer. Unfortunately, I do not have his name to give credit where it is due. I am sure, however, that my mom had hired only the best out of all the Denver area middle-aged male photographers who take photos of young girls in the basement of their hard-of-hearing mother’s home.

    For months afterwards, I didn’t see any results from the shoot. I went off to college and forgot all about it. And so, I was taken off guard when I returned for winter break and there “she” was in all her glory, hanging above my parents dining room table. “She” being me, perched effortlessly on a velvet love seat in the foyer of the town’s best brothel. Sized at 18×20 inches without the frame, my portrait had soundly replaced a collection of Dutch inspired collectible plates as if they had never existed on QVC.

    My parents lived and still live in a modest split level home in Boulder. The ceiling isn’t high so it took up most of the wall space, really you couldn’t not look at it. For many years “she” taunted unsuspecting dinner guests; every time one reached for the salad bowl, or passed the salt, or simply looked up to answer a question, there “she” was daring you to blink first while smiling that mysterious Mona Lisa smile.

    About a decade ago I hijacked the portrait from my mom’s house while she was repainting the dining room as I figured it had had its time to shine. Now, here it was again after years of facing a wall in our garage. I was left with a tough decision on what to do given our move to Alaska. I mean, it didn’t spark joy and so I wasn’t going to pay to move it to Alaska, but I couldn’t just toss it out either. Even Marie Condo could agree there are exceptions to the rule, right?

    I came to a decision. Store it for now, but eventually when I find time I will place it for auction with Sotheby’s. I wonder, should I offer it up as a pre-auction opportunity before it goes public? Hmm no, I don’t want to incite any fights among friends or family. I’ll figure it all out later, for now “Contact Sotheby’s” is yet one more item on my long to-do list.

  • Is Death a Bad Omen?

    Is Death a Bad Omen?

    Signs are everywhere. Signs that can be interpreted as good or bad, depending on who is doing the interpreting.

    As we move through our daily routines we don’t often notice signs. Within our comfort zones we are just less likely to look for them. But, when we are feeling vulnerable we become hypersensitive and aware. At these times signs suddenly appear out of the woodwork, or in this case, out of the woods.

    It was day one of our new life on the last frontier. It had been a long journey to up and move here from “the lower 48” not just in terms of distance, but financially. For example, a smallish box filled with half used but still good bottles of conditioner, body lotion, and gentle exfoliating face scrub to help brighten a dull complexion costs over $50 to ship. That’s almost enough to accept a spouse’s suggestion that those items should be tossed or given away. Almost.

    It was a long journey emotionally as well. There were the countless sleepless nights. There were even more numerous rants from my daughter about how we were going to “ruin her childhood.” There were all the “maybe we shouldn’t move” gatherings with friends. And there were the bittersweet dinners with my parents and my husband’s parents where they showed up looking old, and then continued to age at an accelerated speed throughout the evening.

    Whatever the obstacles, we decided to come anyway. We had made the trip, and we were just unloading our car in Soldotna, our new home on the Kenai peninsula. We were finally here, but nothing was settled. I was desperate for signs that we had made the right decision.

    Because I embrace all that is cliché I rented a classic “Alaskan-style” cabin for our first month in Alaska. Just as the photos promised, the cabin was charming, clean, and had stunning lake views. This was definitely a good sign. And, bonus good sign, the owner left us a canoe to use. I shoved my husband Mark, and my daughter Tatum, towards it and got ready to take a thousand and one post-worthy pics.

    Moments later, I was getting what I wanted. The jagged snowcapped mountain peaks in the distance. The mirror like surface of a lake surrounded by trees that doubled in height standing on the shoulders of their own reflections. Sunshine and blue skies, and occasionally, one of those cute little floater planes crossing overhead. And there was my husband and daughter bonding (as in my wildest dreams) as together they steered the canoe. I mean, come on, when it comes to living “the Alaskan dream” it couldn’t get any better than this. Or could it?

    Cue the moose.

    From the corner of my eye I spot him stepping out into the sunlight from the shadows of the forest. A moose sighting on day one! And the moose was headed our way to give us closer look! Good signs galore.

    Foaming at the mouth, I darted around trying to get a shot of my family in the canoe in the same frame as the moose who was now walking along the water, his long thin legs looking too delicate to carry the rest of him. And, indeed his legs did seem a little wobbly.

    I thought the moose would walk past at a safe distance, but instead he stopped right in front of our dock, just under the deck to our cabin. It was prime viewing from my spot as well as from the canoe. The three of us watched him standing there.

    “I’m ready to get out,” says Tatum.

    “We need to wait until he’s gone,” Mark tells her, “moose can be aggressive.”

    “But I want to get out now.”

    “That moose could kill you!” responds Mark in his classic 0 to 60 style, “do you want to die!?”

    Tatum starts paddling forward, Mark starts paddling backwards.

    “Stop it!” She whines

    “No, you stop it!”

    “He’ll move on in a second,” I assure everyone.

    The moose sits down.

    He starts to nibble on the leaves of a nearby bush, but it seems to me to be more out of habit than hunger. He stops nibbling, and sits there breathing very heavily. I have never seen a moose this close, but there is something wrong with this one. He seems to be struggling to hold his head up.

    After a moment he lays the rest of his body down, his head flat against the grass and face looking up towards me. I would say he is looking directly at me but his pupils have engulfed the white of his eyes. Hard to know what he is focused on, if anything. He snorts in despair.

    Crap, I think this moose is dying.

    Seeing it too, my husband and daughter have called a paddle truce and are now sitting quietly in a slow spin.

    “I don’t think you have to worry about the moose,” I tell Mark, “you can come in.”

    “What’s wrong with him mom?”

    I text the owner of the cabin who happens to be in fire and rescue, “I think there is a moose dying next to the cabin.” He suggests that the moose is probably just resting. I text him a photo. He tells me he will be right over.

    “Did someone shoot him?!” Tatum asks. She is against anyone owning much less using a gun, and that includes hunters. Post-Parkland shooting she was active in the “Never Again” movement, participating in her school walk out. She went to a rally in Denver, marching with her homemade sign that read, “Help, we are hostages of the NRA!” I expect that her views of gun ownership will help to shape the ongoing debate concerning all the injustices recently heaped upon her. Not only has she been forced to switch schools in her sophomore year, she has been forced to move to a particularly gun-friendly state.

    “I don’t think he was shot,” I quickly say, “maybe he’s sick.”

    “Plus moose hunting season hasn’t started yet,” Mark says, “And, it is illegal to shoot such a young moose, look at his antlers, the antlers need to at least have three prongs on each end.”

    I’ve stopped asking myself how my husband knows anything he knows.

    The canoe is now docked and Mark and Tatum walk past the moose who doesn’t even lift his head. Tatum stops and stares at him sadly. She knows.

    “Come on Tatum,” Mark says, “let’s go to the grocery store.”

    Tatum doesn’t move.

    “You can get Cheez-its.”

    The word “Cheez-its” turns out to be the word that cracks her frozen horror. “Okay,” she says and escapes up the stairs.

    “Who knows how long he was walking, probably got hit by a car,” I suggest.

    “Maybe,” Mark says, “but if it’s not that and he’s sick, no one should eat the meat.”

    (Note: there is actually a call list one can sign up for to get free moose road kill meat https://pokingthebear.org/the-roadkill-list/)

    I waited on the deck for the homeowner. The moose didn’t have long, his breaths were much more shallow now. Ugh.

    I suspect most would say seeing death on your first day in a new home is a bad omen, but I couldn’t afford to agree. Not for myself, and not for my daughter who was going to come back with all kinds of new reasons as to why we should go back to Boulder. I needed to turn this around somehow. If this couldn’t be manipulated into a good sign I was at least going to make it into a meaningful sign, and meaningful is better than good anyway. Right? Right.

    So, let’s break it down. Given my vulnerable state, why did the universe send me such beautiful creature only for it to die at my feet? What was the take away supposed to be? I looked into the moose’s huge black eyes for answers but all I got back was a vibe that read, “Um, this isn’t about you.” Which wasn’t helpful at all.

    Then it came to me! It was a lesson I learned years ago when I was dealt a bad card, literally. I was 14-years-old and accompanying my dad on his business trip to New Orleans. Not able to partake in any of the adult fun, I wandered the streets looking for something to do. I turned down one alley and saw a sign that read, “Tarot Reader.” I was intrigued. Soon I was sitting at a kitchen table across from a woman who surprised me by looking less like a Big Easy mystic and more like a suburban soccer mom. Belted jeans and I think a tucked-in polo shirt. Anyway, we were in the middle of what was a fantastic reading: it turns out I would be rich and famous and find great love! But then, I was dealt the Death card.

    Flipping over a tarot card and seeing the word DEATH below the image of a skeleton is unnerving even if you don’t believe in any of it, but soccer mom was quick to comfort me. She explained the card wasn’t necessarily bad, it just meant that there will be transition. Death marks the end of one chapter, and the beginning of another. Death can be very good, in fact. I remember her telling me something like how I was about to embark on an amazing adventure. In any case, I walked away feeling that my $30, a lot of money for a teenager in the 80s, had been very well spent. That soccer mom was good.

    The eyes of the moose were becoming duller, his breathing very shallow. I didn’t know if it was more inappropriate to stay or leave, neither felt right. I decided no creature deserves to go out on the image of my exhausted and bloated-from-air travel face. So, I said a little prayer, then retreated back across the deck far enough to where I could only see his hind legs. After about thirty seconds, one leg suddenly kicked out and then kicked again. Then all was still. It was the end for him and a transition for both of us.

    If interested in knowing how the moose died, check out “What Happens to Hunters Who Break the Law?

    Also, unfortunately it was decided that the moose was inedible. https://pokingthebear.org/the-roadkill-list/