A friend once told me the first thing she did upon visiting a potential living place, was look for all all the free community publications she could find. In her opinion, it gave an accurate impression of local happenings, community involvement, and the overall liberal artsy-ness. I did the same when we were shopping for neighborhoods, and it proved effective at answering questions I didn’t realize I had.

Sixteen months later, I still skim these publications, for community news. One is a weekly, I retrieve from under the Mister’s car each Wednesday, and the other is a quarterly that arrives the same time as the water bill. Generally the quarterly is a recycled version of the weekly. I suspect it is an aging retiree’s pet project that allows him to write albeit with an absence of imagination, and showcase his watercolor paintings to the community.

Though informative, this publication is typically dull and laden with numerous “articles” in which varies civic organizations and elected leaders exchange thanks to one another in hopes of soliciting empty praise for themselves. It might make a person wonder why I bother opening the pages before tossing it in the recycling bin, but it supplies insight on zoning ordinances (sewer and livestock related), recycling, and hiking trails, even if the front page always reads like the minutes from a 4-H> meeting.

Imagine my astonishment when I discovered this excerpt in the town council article:

I read about the shooting last month, but the article in the respectable subscription based paper failed to mention the motive was exorcism. Gotta wonder what those kids were thinking as they waited in the car. We know what the shooter was thinking, or rather that she wasn’t.

The police responded in three minutes. While commendable, it seems the Mayor neglected to also recognize the chiropractor’s own chutzpa in this. If he hadn’t jumped on the shooter, there may have been little order for the police to restore…..unless the demons had actually escaped.

My body is limber. Limber for a woman my age, who doesn’t practice yoga with any degree of commitment. Which I’m pretty sure negates results. I can bend forward and palm the floor with my hands., yet my body lacks is the inherent ability to coordinate movements between limbs. Throwing, catching, returning a tennis ball? Short of enlisting FedUp to contract the service, its going to be ugly.

My shins? Typically, the skin tones are shades of blue gray or brownish yellow, signature trait of bananas left lounging on the kitchen counter too long. Thighs? Frequently used bumpers to protect the pelvis from bone to stationary contact. Yet in spite of this lack of grace, I manage to function with the daily assistance of ibuprofen. Muddling through life with the same sense of purpose shared by people less pampered than myself. Functionality magnified by a single mindedness to get things done.

My partner is the opposite. Lean body, sharp reflexes and the ability to coordinate complex series of movements. Not exactly step aerobics, but a natural athleticism accentuated by long limbs and unshakeable confidence, moving both deliberately and unhurriedly.

In a world that favors self-confidence, there are moments when it isn’t good to be him. This weekend he has an unusual run of bad luck.

Friday, I bit him getting out of the shower. I was wringing the last of the water out of my hair, when he handed me a towel, which I didn’t have a free hand to grasp. Reflexively, I opened my mouth to take the towel from him. He extended it to me, and I promptly bit his thumb, which I couldn’t see wrapped wrapped between the fabric layers. Oops.

That afternoon, playing a console game and he managed to torque his back driving a virtual golf ball on the eighteenth green. This after six months of a pain free back. That evening in the bar, a man seated next to him found him to be quite pretty, in a happy three beer I need someone to talk to about anything kind of way.

Saturday evening, tore it. I asked him to pick up a bottle of wine, while I completed dinner preparation. I didn’t anticipate he might return with an entire case. Bent over, yelling into the front door, “Can you help me with this?” Humbling, at least for him. He doesn’t ask for help, he gets defensive when you don’t anticipate he needs it.

This morning I heard him use the plunger handle to lift the lid, because bending at the waist is a non-starter. He’s going to have a long week, and by association, so will I.

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Pictures from the Yosemite trip can be found here.

Like most ungrateful grown middle aged children, I found myself combing through aisles of cards at the deep discount retail operation everyone loves to hate. What can I say? The store is conveniently located and it’s replaced the manufacturing sector as the blue collar employment opportunity of the masses. At least until the economy recovers. No I didn’t type that with a straight face, even though I wish it were true.

Most of the time, I don’t bother getting a card for Mother’s Day, but I wanted something more formal to hold the photos I took. Commercial cards aren’t my thing. They express emotions I don’t feel, use words not in my vocabulary, and shellac raw emotion in artificial carcinogenic sweetness. I don’t want to exchange currency for contrived sentiment mass produced on non-recycled velum layered, uv coated paper, that’s designed to appeal to millions of other consumers shopping at the last minute. I’m not polished or well presented, just succinct and honest in an extremely unfortunate way.

I settled on simple card cloaked in sarcasm and brevity. I want to be certain my Mom knows I read the card before I purchased it. Nothing is as embarrassing as receiving the OMG, you didn’t read this because YOU would never use words this sappy and sentimental to show appreciation. Your idea of showing love means trimming the hedge or hauling away tree limbs after a wind storm eye-roll and sigh.

I know her and she knows me, pretending to be different people in glorification of a commercially castrated holiday, only serves to insult both of us. Of course if she really longed for a sappy card, I’d be more than happy to have my husband select one for her, it is after all her day, and he is better at choosing sentimental cards than I am.

So, I’m not mawkish, but I do pay attention to what my mom likes. Birds. She feeds them year around. She even refers to a certain ruby throated migratory bird as a sexual euphemism that can get you arrested in most southern states, but I think I’ll wait until she’s older to explain what a hummer really is.

People have tendency to broad brush because it strengthens their arguments. In reality, issues are seldom black and white, and people exhibit ranges of behavior, rather than single facets. It doesn’t make for good copy, and besides that, who really has time to learn about an entire person, much less a group?

Society is evolving. We don’t have time for block parties, we twitter. We don’t write letters, we send e-mail, sans punctuation. We are busier than our parents generations and yet we seem to accomplish less, and have fewer meaningful relationships. Life changes, but not always for the better. Advancing technology is not the same as progress.

I’m hardheaded, and a little stubborn. I have my own ideas about things, but who doesn’t? I’m not so stubborn that I won’t listen to an opposing view. I don’t feel the need to sell you my view and convert you. I agree to disagree, and it doesn’t keep me awake at night.

I’ve noticed a trend with some of the “stubborn” people in my life that I find amusing. They (four of them to precise) consider their own stubbornness to be an asset, and a testament to their character. In their defense, being obstinate can be a good thing, especially when paired with tenaciousness and perseverance. These people get things done. Ironically, when they find themselves facing off against other stubborn people, they tend to be contemptuous about it as if the other person’s stubborn streak is NOT an asset. Which makes me consider that stubbornness is not the issue at all, and being perceived as right and controlling a situation is.

And so it frequently goes, life is balanced with equal parts sadness and joy. Mysteriously, I seldom notice the balance, and tend to struggle beneath the weight of powerlessness. I suspect we tend to be mentally programmed strongly towards either happiness or sadness, not in terms of optimism or pessimism but regard to memory and the vividness with which recall the passing of our lives.I don’t view myself as an optimist or a pessimist, but a pragmatist, and perhaps an observer.

Today I received two shocking, unrelated pieces of news.

My sister’s husband, will undergo quadruple bypass surgery Thursday. He’s not even fifty. He has been under a great deal of stress the past three years. He has a potentially explosive temper (though I feel compelled to mention he is NOT a violent man). He has high blood pressure. And though I love her, he IS married to my sister (She is lovable, and exceedingly adept at button pushing. We shared a bathroom for eleven years, I know her. I am not judging her.)

The other shocking news; my husbands youngest brother taught my niece to ride a bicycle. It sounds tame, but this is big. My niece is twenty, and there were a few months of non-communication last year. No judgement on my part. It’s hard to be in between adulthood, and it has never been easy to be a parent. Period. So she wanted to learn to ride now because of a boy. No surprise. It isn’t pretty, but she can stay upright.

Tonight. I can appreciate the sadness and the joy for what they are, not some happenstance passive aggressive wormhole karmic fuck job. Clarity maybe? No that’s too much credit.

I’ve been hashing over the information about my Sister and her family and trying to guess who they need me to be and where I need to be for their benefit. I hate the hospital clusterfuck, but my decision will not be based on personal phobias. I know bypass surgery isn’t the same beast it was when my father endured it, but I also know its scary when your partner is lying in a surgical bed with bland sheets.

I won’t know who I need to be, until I talk to her tomorrow. Here’s hoping I read her correctly…. I’m also hoping my husband’s brother will read the bicycle lesson correctly as well, or at least recognize it as an opportunity to re-enter his daughter’s life.

Two days ago it was sunny and 84 degrees, today we are having snow flurries. Is mother nature going through the change?

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My spouse is in the midst of a nine day business trip. Bleh! In this economic climate, I’m not so blasé as to take job security for granted, but nine days is a bit extreme for his profession. I’m sure there are service wives out there thinking, “Nine days? Suck it up, sister! Nine days is nothing compared to a twelve month, (or longer) deployment.” And they would be correct, but I don’t miss him any less.

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In his absence, I completed numerous tedious tasks he will take for granted once he returns. Some of the tasks were important to me, most were important for us, all were thankless. I don’t need validation, but I find myself resenting the aspect of him that is praise-driven. Why is praise required for something you should be doing in the first place (picking up clothes off the floor, or cleaning dirty dishes?). Bleh, such is life.

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What compels us to pity strangers? I was shopping and noticed an older woman in the pet food aisle. She had a curvature of the upper spine common in women with osteoporosis and she was obsessing over cat treats, while wheeling around a thirty pound container of kitty litter. She could be perfectly content, yet I assumed she should be pitied because she represented what I don’t want for myself. Old. Arthritic. Alone. Crazy. Cat. Rancher.

Technically it’s spring, but in reality it feels like a preamble. A mysterious pre-season gap yielding a glimpse of better things to come. The oak trees haven’t leafed out, though the red buds and bradford pears look majestic. The backyard is reflecting the diversity one would expect from living in a bird sanctuary; woodpeckers, cardinals, wrens, tufted titmouse, juncos and others. The red tail hawk’s nest should be visible another month, until the trees leaf out.

The lawnvarious miniature organic growths are transforming into lush shades of green. The earth is saturated with moisture and the temperature teases of possible days in short sleeves and sunglasses. However, the single potted impatiens I nursed through the winter months, me of brown thumbs, has promptly died because my husband placed it outdoors prematurely. Two gorgeous days in a row, and the eager beaver is convinced that mother nature wouldn’t possibly betray our trust now…of course he probably wouldn’t place as much faith in her if had his own period to deal contend with. His heart was in the right place, and now the plant’s rightful place will be the compost bin.

I’m not really bitter about the plant, mostly amused. She of brown thumbs and terrible nurturing instincts, as if I could be anyone else?

I’m floating between blah and whatever. By no means is it debilitating, intoxicating, or boring, but it lacks the feeling of purpose. So I will return to the scribblings of my todo list, inconsequential as the tasks might be, until I forget purpose and simply become.