Fin.

Driving home from celebrating my Mother-in-Law's birthday today*, I started to convince myself that yesterday was actually supposed to be my final post for the year. Which would have been great. It would make sense to end on that note. But, no, a quick calendar check brought me back to reality. It is today. Which is more fitting, as it completes a theme that has been recurrent over the last 364 days: I have absolutely nothing on my mind to write about.

I envisioned that, when this day eventually came, I would have some ground-breaking, grand finale of a post. But that would have required me to think ahead. Hmmm.

So, right now, I'm doing what I did many nights during my sentence: I'm just going to keep writing words, one in front of the next, until something happens. At this point, I warn you to proceed knowing that it might not.

In thinking about the past 12 months, it's a little surprising that this day is here. A year is a long time, but so much of what I am looking back on seems still so recent.

Like last summer's brush with death that endured long enough that it cannot be called a brush at all. More like, maybe, a pummeling. Of course, I wasn't even close to walking toward that bright light, but I didn't know that at the time.

Or how we ended up with the same number of cats in the house on day one as we did on day 365, but not without an unexpected shuffling of the cards that brought us both joy and deep sadness.

Then there was my unexplained, but thankfully temporary, obsession with both Lawrence Welk and the Masons. Not at the same time, at least.  

And, a lot of deep soul searching that led me to make some big changes. Some short lived, some still in the works, some achieved.

Writing every day for a year was a huge pain in the ass, and many times I cursed myself for making such a difficult commitment. But it forced me to experiment, it demanded me to think and think some more, and it required me to abide by an obligation. I did what I set out to do when I started this blog:

Eat.

Think.
 

And be daring.

And, write a lot of silliness in between, of course.

That's it. This is...

~The End~



*No, we did not choose her over my Dad on Father's Day; actually, my parents are in Iowa doing...you know what? I'm not certain what they're doing...hmmm...I never am.

The Best of My Love.

A couple of years ago, sometime around that year's end, a co-worker & I were discussing doing a "best of" post for our company's blog. She asked me to pick my favorites, but instead of doing that, I countered that we shouldn't list our favorites, we should list our readers' favorites. Otherwise, it would be too self-serving, I explained. Not one to ever win a disagreement with this person, I ended up giving her my favorites, but because I can be petty when I'm losing, I gave her a list of only my entries. In fairness, it was true.

Here I am at the penultimate (that word's for you, Ben!) post for this blog, and I've decided I should create my own "best of" post. As I only have 15 followers and a fraction of that of actual readers, there is little data for me to base any kind of readers' choice on, so they'll have to be mine. Here they are: 

1. On music: No Lifeboat Needed.
2. Creative writing exercise: Fallen.
3. Use of the F word: #%@&!.
4. Stupidest: a tie between Art is Fart and Don't Read This.<also an F word contender.
5. On food: Oh, Crap.
6. Most personal: I Will Never Know.
7. Attempt at sharing wisdom: Take My Advice.
8. Self reflection/improvement: Today is Tomorrow's Yesterday.
9. A little ranting: Look it Up.  
10. Promises, promises: Tough Love.

Huh, tomorrow is the last day... I think I'm gonna miss this...

Don't just be a friend. Be a friend.

One of the cool things about facebook is that you can know pretty much how all of your friends are doing, without ever picking up the phone or messaging them directly. (Man, do I hate talking on the phone...) This is especially nice for those friends whom you never would, but still like or know enough to care what they're up to these days. (On the flip side of that, a friend of mine and I refused for a long time to be facebook friends because we saw each other almost every day and wanted to actually talk about what's happening in our lives without knowing it already, in an almost weird telepathic kind of way. We gave in when she decided she wouldn't be seeing me or any of my coworkers with the same frequency anymore.)

Anyway, the downside of all this is that it's easy, when their news is scrolling past your eyes in a never ending feed, to forget to check in on those people you do care a lot about. My dear friend in Turkey is witnessing some crazy shit right now. But I know she is OK because she is updating all of us constantly with new posts. Whew, right?

Except she doesn't know that I am relieved that she is OK. She doesn't know that I've read every post and done my best to understand through the translation what is happening. She doesn't know that I click on every link of hers and everyone else's that have to do with the riots and chapulling going on in Istanbul's Taksim Square. Only I know that. And that was a thoughtless mistake on my part. I should have checked in. Not because I needed me to know, but because she did.

For those of you who want a synopsis of what's going on, here's a pretty informative article (sent to me by you know who...)

Üzgünüm. Seni sevdiğimi biliyorsun. 

Do-Over #2.

Last summer, on July 17, I wrote another post that I didn't want to share. Considering what I've shared since then, it seems pretty benign. But I was incredibly fragile at that time, and I know that the stress I was feeling was making me a little crazy. A lot crazy. Off the map crazy. Here it is, with only a couple of deletes. 

"I just arrived home with my new prescription and sat down to read the indications and cautions. Yes, the rash that I thought I had fought off is lingering on and this is the latest treatment in response to yet another, different diagnosis.

The problem is, having done my reading, I am now afraid to take this medication. Not only will I be on it for as many as 12 weeks, I also won’t know for quite awhile if it is working. And considering the record of accuracy so far, you might say I am losing my trust.

I would just try it anyway, but this drug has possible side effects. Some serious, some just troubling: like the potential loss of smell and taste that could be permanent. I quite like these two senses, and the fact that they are my two highest functioning makes me feel a certain attachment to them as my last connections with the world of experiences.

This probably sounds a little crazy, but I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt so anxious and panicked. I am so hyper-aware of how wrong I feel that I’m actually freaking out about freaking out."

That was pretty much it. It is difficult now to even remember what I was feeling at that time. Being nine months free of the condition (although not cured), I've forgotten what was like to be so ill and to have no one know why.

I do recall at one point telling Ben that I felt no joy in my life anymore. This made us both feel terrible, but for completely different reasons, I suspect. It took great effort and some much needed hope to become myself again. But, what it illuminated for me, and clearly, I am in danger of forgetting that, is that so many people suffer. They have illnesses that can't be cured or controlled. They must still find a way to live and appreciate the time and the moments they do have. And that's pretty humbling to think about.  
 

Trust Me.

What I've been thinking about over the last several days is how little I've been thinking about this NSA call collecting business. And my complacency is not because I am dim-witted, or too wrapped up in my daily trivialities (which, by the way, are strikingly few compared to the average person) to get it.

I might be guilty of naiveté, but, I really don't feel threatened or concerned by this at all. In my mind, I am an insignificant person whose private moments are just as I am: insignificant. It feels to me a bit silly that so many people are in an uproar over this. They strike me as having an incongruent measure of their own importance.

Whether we're important or not should not decide whether we have a right to privacy, I know. And just because they've been doing this for the last seven years and we've just now taken note of it doesn't make it any more right or wrong either.

Yet, still, I have felt for a long time, I suppose specifically since I started engaging with the digital age, that this is a consequence of our modern times. When we made the choice to engage in a web of practically unlimited interconnectedness, we surrendered, in my mind, our expectation that we could not be seen, known, heard, or tracked.

Note, I did not say our right, but our expectation. And those are two entirely different concepts. So, now, I ask: who are the ones being naive?    

Recycled.

At work, I've been writing about the same concepts for four and a half years, which greatly increases the risk of self plagiarizing. I've more than once actually written the same sentence, or, worse, an entire paragraph that is damn near verbatim of a piece I've already written.

I'm always kind of surprised when it happens, wondering how I could not remember that I've already extracted that thought. In defense, I do write a great deal of copy that never gets used, and it is hard to keep track of what does and what doesn't. It's really too bad that the brain doesn't have some sort of flush function. How great if I could just evacuate any used combination of words with the push of a button. (I'm thinking like one of those pneumatic vacuums they have for airplane toilets...)

Writing every day for this blog is no different. Most times I'm suspicious and have to google my own work when a cautionary flare goes off. But, tonight, I was feeling pretty sure that I had a point to make that I've not made yet in the past 360 days.

I would love to share that with you, but it's awfully late.

Maybe tomorrow.

I Like Love.

I've been listening to a lot of Bollywood music lately, and I've been hearing a specific word sung so frequently, I figured it must be a pretty important one in the Hindi language. The word is ishq. I never got around to looking it up until today, when I recalled that the Turkish word aşk means love. And I now know that ishq does, too. Duh. Not just an important word, but the ultimate word.

Being a bit of an etymology nerd, I was delighted to learn this from Wikipedia: 

"The word is derived from ‘ashiqah, a vine: the common belief is that when love takes its root in the heart of a lover, everything other than God is effaced."

I like that.

I also like that this word has its own wiki page, which should not be surprising. But, still, not every word in every language does. Just the special ones.

Think. Just Think.

It's too bad more people don't read this blog, not just for the sake of my ego, but because maybe if they did, they'd have caught the post from February 19 and let #9 sink in. (I think I've referenced #9 at least once since, and there's a good reason for it.)

Every once in a while if I feel like being really pissed off, I'll read the comments on an NPR article posted on facebook. One of today's was a whopper, and, as I read each contribution, I was dumbfounded by all the dumbness.

First of all, if one person other than you has already expressed the same opinion (let alone, say, 50 others), then why leave yours? You aren't sharing anything new, you're just, what, letting the rest of the world know you had a thought, too?

Second, if you're dead set on sharing your comment, anyway, then at least check your work before you hit post. Vomiting is involuntary. Stuff comes out before you have time to stop it. Not true with the ideas in your head. If you are so careless that you would type an indecipherable message that could be made decipherable by reviewing it first, you've not only achieved nothing, you've just proclaimed to a far-reaching audience that you are a sloppy idiot. (Yes, we all make mistakes. That's why they gave us a delete button.)

And, finally, back to my introductory point: all of this arguing is pointless. Especially with strangers. And even more especially with people whose beliefs are of so little consequence to themselves that they can't even give them the attention to detail they require.

No matter how valid your evidence, or how persuasive your argument, you rarely, if ever, can change another person's mind. 

Onward, But Not Upward.

There's a house that I drive past frequently in a more affluent part of our city that's on my way to here, there, and everywhere it seems. The property and gardens are meticulously manicured, including two shrubs out front near the drive that are always dressed (yeah, I said dressed) for the season. It's part charming and part eccentric, but I can't fault the person for getting down to the details.

I always assumed that the homeowner (a woman I've seen from time to time) had a lot of free time to work with. A lot. It never entered my mind that she had help, until the other day when I noticed a golf cart outside the home and an elderly Hispanic man crouched down plucking, primping, and pruning anything that was sprouting or blooming.

As I passed him, I thought: he is exactly who I want to talk to. One of the small people behind the big people. One of the ones who is moving and shaking in a completely different way than those celebrated as leaders in our community.

As I go in to my last week of writing for this blog, this new project is on my mind. I can't wait to get started, but that is in the future and I am in the now.

This Is Not Normal.

We just returned from Festival of the Arts in downtown GR. We go almost every year, despite the crazy crowds and questionable entertainment. It's the 25+ food tents that entice us, and while much of it is pretty tasty, it's not really the ideal way to have a meal: on foot, with paper-thin napkins, and ill-behaved humans of all ages stepping on our feet and elbowing us in the plates we're trying to not to spill.

Of course, the people watching is prime, if not somewhat disturbing. I know I'm weird. And most of my friends and loved ones are weird. But the weird we see in this crowd is in a different family of weird. I can't help but think: who are these weirdos and where did they come from? I don't know any of them, and yet Grand Rapids is not a big city. Do they hibernate all year and only come out for the first weekend in June?

I don't know the answer, but I'm definitely a little weirded out right now. 

The old guy dancing up front? He's good weird. The rest of you? Hmmm.

Ave Marie.

Today we heard the news that a loved figure in our community died. Because I didn't know her personally, I was a bit surprised by how profoundly sad I felt about it all day. I fought tears several times and choked on my words when I tried to talk with others about her.

She owned Marie Catrib's restaurant where she created inspired dishes made from fresh, whole, locally grown & raised "everything." Like everyone else in town, I never minded waiting for a seat, which was pretty much every time. 

But the food will live on, so why such sadness over a near stranger?

The thing was, she treated everyone she met like a dear friend. She remembered each individual. She connected with her customers personally at every spare moment. And, once, she was remarkably kind to us when our lunchmates' child went into a frenetic meltdown. 

She was special. And, I'm telling you, we could taste her heart and soul in every item on the menu, even if she didn't cook it herself.

Those of us who are so moved by her passing are so because she made us want to be better humans. Want to be motivated from a place of love and compassion, instead of all those other emotions. 

Yeah, I'm making a pretty big deal about her, but that's because she was.

Farewella!

Tonight we had a goodbye celebration for a co-worker whom I love in real life, but am not all that sad to see go in my other real life known as work. I won't go into the gory details; it's enough to say that I had an extra reason to give cheers tonight than the rest of my colleagues (as far as I know). In all fairness, I suspect the feeling is mutual.

For her final farewell tomorrow, I made a Nutella fondue, which turned out spectacular enough to share. Here is the recipe:

1 cup of heavy cream
8 oz. 70-80% cacao dark chocolate, chopped
1 cup of Nutella

In a medium saucepot, heat the cream on low heat until steaming but not boiling. Remove from heat and add the chocolate and Nutella. Let sit for a few minutes, then whisk until smooth. Transfer to a fondue pot set on low and serve. As far as I know this will  keep overnight and can be reheated the next day.

That was easy, but it's still about all I can handle this evening.

Nighty-night!

Do-Over #1.

In my final days of this year of blogging, I thought I might go back and request a few of do-overs. My first blunder happened on July 10, when the hour turned late and, after losing time floundering over the content of my post, I finally decided to confess that I had nothing satisfactory to share.

This is the offending post, with a few edits:

In class tonight, my instructor pronounced for me the Arabic names of the 22 countries in the Arab League. I giggled when she got to Palestine, as it is more enunciated: phelisteen. I thought, thankfully not aloud, hehe, 
f­ucking philistines.

In my house, this is a favorite way to express disgust for the artistically, culturally, and intellectually bankrupt. I also like knuckle draggers and mouth breathers. Sometimes in combination, depending on the severity of the case; always with that same modifier.

I couldn’t wait to get home and see if I could find the connection between Palestine, Philistia, and Philistinism and learn whether my insult had its founding in racial bigotry. Not because wanted it to, but so that I might figure out where its roots came from, and stop using it if I discovered it evolved from an ancient ethnic slur.

I’m not entirely sure what I’ve concluded after reading this, this, and this.

I'm inclined to believe that it was originally born out of groundless intolerance. Which is a damn shame because my use of it is entirely justified.

**6/17/2013 update**

Aggg. I just re-read this post in the light of day and, despite my efforts, it still sounds a bit to me like I'm saying something horrible about Palestinians. Palestinians are fine, as far as I know. Remarkably, I have two friends from Gaza: one who lives here in Michigan now and one who is over there. I like them. But I dislike philistines.    

Buzzed.

Last night I undid the tight bun my hair was twisted into (a look reserved for Sunday trips to the grocery store and the occasional weekday when I've snoozed an extra 20 minutes too long) and started finger-brushing through the snarls and curls. As I tried to tame the serpentine mass, a thought popped into my head: maybe I could shave it all off...?

I indulged for a few minutes in a fantasy in which I was not only bald and beautiful, but also sporting a different pair of earrings for every day of the year. I would need to invest in more sets, but that was a fixable problem.

When I felt sufficiently convinced that this was a brilliant idea, I interrupted Game of Thrones to ask, "Ben, would you still love me if I shaved my head?" And he replied, "Of course, I would love you just like a sister."

Though he was teasing, I suspected a hint of truth to it. But, then, he has stuck with me through other hair-related fiascoes, really bad eyeglass frame choices, and more than one drastic weight gain. I had a pretty good sense that he could handle it.

It's not like I need his permission, anyway, but I did feel like it would be fair to get some input from the person who wakes up next to me every day. Knowing he didn't really care was all I needed to put some more momentum behind my scheme.

But then I told facebook what I was thinking and (I should not be at all surprised) got an onslaught of opinions, including one not in favor emailed privately to me. What my friend said made a lot of sense, and I realized that shaving my head is not like changing my shade of lipstick. Does it need to be that extreme to be a liberating change? Probably not.

Of course, this morning, a friend who once had a star etched in the hair on the back of her head said she had been thinking about it for 10 years. We ended up talking for quite a while about why we would want to do it. And all that made sense, too.

Truth is, this is a big deal in my small world. But really it is just a pointless battle between embracing vanity and making a symbolic gesture to reject it. It is, in short, a silly thing to put so much brain power to. 

Good night, friends. 

Agreeing to Disagree.

Last night we went to see Bill Maher perform live. Being in arguably the most conservative city in Michigan, we wondered if we might be the only ones to show up. But the house was full and, at first, I felt comforted being surrounded by so many like-minded people. And, really, there are few instances when you can be more sure that you are with your kind than by choosing to be entertained by someone who has very specific, unwavering, and unapologetic opinions on politics, religion, sex, and social issues.

So, that was interesting for a few minutes until I remembered that liberals can be just as annoying as right-wingers. Well, almost. OK, not really even close. But they have their annoying moments. Like the couple in front of us who had possibly just returned from a sex therapy retreat and were still in the throes of their rekindled affection for one-another. That was a little uncomfortable.

The woman behind us had likely tipped back a few too many glasses of chardonnay, and had granted herself permission to burst out interchangeably in smug agreement and overzealous laughter.

I enjoyed the show immensely, but left it remembering that we can become complacent when sheltered in the arms of those we have no differences with. And in that safe place, we risk that we will stop growing and learning and seeking to form independent thoughts. And there's absolutely nothing progressive about that. 

 

Status Symbol.

The dreaded question for me whenever I meet new people is explaining what I do for a living. For starters, the name of my company is strange and usually has to be repeated more than once. By the third echo, we have to agree to move on, which is the point when I mention that our office is out by the airport. This has absolutely no significance, but it sometimes distracts the conversation from its original topic.

If it doesn't and I'm forced to persist, then it's time to explain what employee recognition is and what kind of copy I could possibly write for such an abstract concept. Couldn't we please talk politics instead? That would be so much less complicated!

People on the more senior end of my generation find it unnecessary. They believe that it's acknowledgement enough to get a paycheck and that they shouldn't be rewarded for showing up and doing their jobs as they're supposed to. This makes sense. Kind of. But if I believed that too much, I wouldn't be very good at what I do.

Feeling valued and appreciated is important to us as humans, not just workers. Factor in that the emerging workforce is filled will millennials who thrive on it in every aspect of their lives, and it becomes required practice.

Well, now that I feel like I'm trying to sell you a used car, let me get to my point. The other day we were having a conversation at work about how facebook has dramatically heightened our need for feedback. No matter what generation we're from, few of us can deny that likes are good. We like likes. The more likes we get, the more we feel clever, successful, resourceful, creative, beautiful...liked.

I started to type that this is probably a problem and why I think it is. But is it? If so, what is it that is created in us that is so wrong? Just wondering if anyone has any similar or differing thoughts on this...?