Today, I drove home to meet a friend with five-gallon containers in her hands to replenish my oil tank, our means for heat, with drips of deisel fuel paid for by my leaking bank account. Ten gallons at $3.40 a pop to tide me over until the imminent hundreds of gallons and dollars to warm our home beyond a night.
Stopping to make a quick CVS run, I dropped $2 in the can of a shivering, homeless man in a wheelchair, who said as we parted, "nice car". His missing extremities challenge my belief (and that of my Mom), that my well-worn, dented car with 185,000 miles and a ceiling secured (a false sense of secured perhaps) with painters' tape is on its "last leg". I thanked the man for his sincerity, a sentiment that could easily be interpreted as sarcasm by those who have graced the stained, crumb-filled passenger seat, smelling soured, spilled milk and remarking on the frequent gas or engine light or hole in the floorboard from my occasional leadfoot. I got in the car and, once again, quickly accelerated my thoughts to my financial strains, my house that hasn't yet sold, the location of my warmest blankets, rising interest rates and the current crisis in Egypt. Lots of RPM (ruminations per minute)!
Life's temporary mishaps and inconveniences can lend a narrow focus to what seems to be falling apart, leaking, breaking, disappointing or pissing us off in the moment. Perspective goes out the window, now wide open to a tendency to dwell on the misfortune and everything else that seems bad, wait for the next disaster or borrow trouble through misdirected attempts to take control. In my case, I waged the battle of my furnace burning oil (an untested theory created through rumination), by burning bridges with my oil company with assertiveness that ventured into anxiety and pushiness. The price of oil can do that (It couldn't just be me - ha), and I am hopeful that the customer service representative's training extends to handling difficult customers as oil prices soar and temperatures drop.
My friend arrived with an empty stomach, roast in the oven, and full hands to come to my aid. Her 13-year old nephew graciously accepted chocolate cupcakes and my coat, despite his likely desire to be anywhere else, while my friend gently replenished my oil and my spirit. The reset button on the furnace worked, and I am comforted by the familiar creaks of the radiator that scare my daughter, and tonight will keep me warm.
Now, it's time to reset my perspective. The man on the street hit the button with a poignant reminder (and $2 therapy session) to be grateful for what I have, and it is now up to me to restart. Tomorrow's a new beginning, and I will listen more intently to the lone robin signaling spring from my window before I move too quickly to tackle the day. I will thank my nice car for running, overlook the crumbs, smell the dated 7-11 air freshener dangling from my mirror and perhaps even invest in some duct tape for the ceiling as I try to see more clearly.
P.S. Mom, I am okay. Standing strong and learning. Thanks Pamela, Curtis and the man on the street!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Push Thru It! Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures – Selling a Home
My dog, Emmet, spent the day in my car yesterday with an unexpected showing of my house. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and the need to “declutter” has made my already well-lived in car the source of an array of items – my jewelry box, a food processor, a scarecrow from Halloween and spices from more ambitious cooking days that I aspire to use in new digs, yet extend beyond spice and spacesaving basics of salt and pepper to season food, now served on paper plates.
I made a night-before, sweet-potato juice crusted baking sheet “stash” in my laundry basket before I did the daycare “dash” of my girl, wiping her face and the sink of blue toothpaste. I covered a hole from my dryer hook-up with a dustpan, still well-placed in the laundry room and, now, a sturdy, plastic barrier to any gusts of wind as potential buyers breeze through my mud room, more like “sludge” room, following a recent clean of my furnace. Luckily, I had Clorox wipes on hand, and I was able to put the laundry basket in front of the smeared black soot until I could get home for a more detailed bleach job. Thank you, PBS, for the 5 p.m. Sesame Street! I picked up the final dust balls which roll around the house like the twister havoc of Dorothy and Kansas.
Driving, oh so gently, so as not to spill Emmet’s water on Helen Catherine’s mounting artwork - we are not the paperless poster family - I stayed calm, cool and collected, giving away only a bit of my frenzy in a co-worker’s quiet tip that I had buttoned my shirt wrong. Teaching my girl the meaning of “sacrifice” over recent weeks, she and I rocked to Sherry Lewis and Lambchop, when Ms. Lewis must have been aspiring to the disco circuit and contemplating a change from puppeteer to party girl. I kissed my girl goodbye and frantically searched for my work cell phone, buried under dirty gym clothes in the passenger seat as I aspire to up my serotonin levels and keep my composure.
Emmet was well-hydrated and enjoyed the company of co-workers, who busted out from cubicles to accompany us on walks. He likely prompted smiles from workers buried in blackberries making the daily trudge or calls to Animal Cruelty from those who saw only a black, cute snapshot of my life looking at them with big brown eyes, wet nose peering from a cracked window. Like any best friend, he will welcome me at the end of the day. I take flexibility and forgiveness where I can get it.
As I heated my soup, I noticed a black hair on the back of my lidless Tupperware, which likely made its way from my house to my car to my lunch. I graciously removed it as I made small talk with my old boss, with whom I keep a polished and professional appearance. She once told me I needed to ditch open toed shoes and wear pantyhose so I am cautious, using a napkin to remove likely parsley from my teeth. She follows a boss who told me I dressed like Laura on “Little House on the Prairie” – perhaps my own Sherry Lewis metamorphosis.
At the end of the day, I click my mouse and my heels and, do I really want to go home? Yes - need to get my girl and my dog and my tarragon for a chicken dinner I will cook tonight. Realtor, post showing, said my house also needs a good cleaning and dusting.
I made a night-before, sweet-potato juice crusted baking sheet “stash” in my laundry basket before I did the daycare “dash” of my girl, wiping her face and the sink of blue toothpaste. I covered a hole from my dryer hook-up with a dustpan, still well-placed in the laundry room and, now, a sturdy, plastic barrier to any gusts of wind as potential buyers breeze through my mud room, more like “sludge” room, following a recent clean of my furnace. Luckily, I had Clorox wipes on hand, and I was able to put the laundry basket in front of the smeared black soot until I could get home for a more detailed bleach job. Thank you, PBS, for the 5 p.m. Sesame Street! I picked up the final dust balls which roll around the house like the twister havoc of Dorothy and Kansas.
Driving, oh so gently, so as not to spill Emmet’s water on Helen Catherine’s mounting artwork - we are not the paperless poster family - I stayed calm, cool and collected, giving away only a bit of my frenzy in a co-worker’s quiet tip that I had buttoned my shirt wrong. Teaching my girl the meaning of “sacrifice” over recent weeks, she and I rocked to Sherry Lewis and Lambchop, when Ms. Lewis must have been aspiring to the disco circuit and contemplating a change from puppeteer to party girl. I kissed my girl goodbye and frantically searched for my work cell phone, buried under dirty gym clothes in the passenger seat as I aspire to up my serotonin levels and keep my composure.
Emmet was well-hydrated and enjoyed the company of co-workers, who busted out from cubicles to accompany us on walks. He likely prompted smiles from workers buried in blackberries making the daily trudge or calls to Animal Cruelty from those who saw only a black, cute snapshot of my life looking at them with big brown eyes, wet nose peering from a cracked window. Like any best friend, he will welcome me at the end of the day. I take flexibility and forgiveness where I can get it.
As I heated my soup, I noticed a black hair on the back of my lidless Tupperware, which likely made its way from my house to my car to my lunch. I graciously removed it as I made small talk with my old boss, with whom I keep a polished and professional appearance. She once told me I needed to ditch open toed shoes and wear pantyhose so I am cautious, using a napkin to remove likely parsley from my teeth. She follows a boss who told me I dressed like Laura on “Little House on the Prairie” – perhaps my own Sherry Lewis metamorphosis.
At the end of the day, I click my mouse and my heels and, do I really want to go home? Yes - need to get my girl and my dog and my tarragon for a chicken dinner I will cook tonight. Realtor, post showing, said my house also needs a good cleaning and dusting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)