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Just Do It!

Procrastination is defined as “To put off from day to day; to delay; to defer to a future time.” (New Webster’s Dictionary, College Edition). I procrastinate. It has defined me for most of my life. In fact, barring death and major crimes, most of the bad things that have happened to me in my life has stemmed from me not doing something when I’m supposed to.

It’s a curse.

The thing that always gets me when I finally do something that I’ve been putting off is that it normally takes such little time and effort.

For example, I bought a very large container of kitty litter that I absolutely hated. The cat didn’t seem fond of it either, so I stopped using it. I managed to get it out of the basement and out to the carport–no easy deed as it was about 40 pounds of cat gravel. My thinking was that I could keep it in my trunk in case I ever got stuck in the snow. That was last winter.

Yesterday, I put the litter into my trunk. Took me about 20 seconds. I’d been moving that damn bucket of cat dirt out of my way for almost a year! Twenty seconds.

It made me think a lot about how inconvenient I make my life by delaying doing things. Little things when left undone somehow turn into projects. Dishes, for another example. When I do the dishes right after dirtying them, they clean easily and it takes me just minutes. But I hate to do dishes so I put it off. Then simple easily rinsed food residue turns into hard, cement-like and very icky stuff that needs to be soaked and scrubbed.

So why do I procrastinate? I don’t know. Back in my 20’s when I was seeing a shrink, he said I was still waiting for my mother to pick up after me. I don’t think that’s valid anymore seeing as how she’s been gone now for more than 50 years.

So I really don’t know. Maybe  part of me doesn’t think that anything is worth doing unless it’s hard.

I remember years ago a grandkid told me in a rather exasperated tone of voice, “Just do it and then it’s done!” I’m sure she was parroting my daughter who is one of those go getter types who never puts anything off and files her taxes the day after she gets her W2. An annoying woman. Still, I’ve never forgotten those words coming out of the mouth of a 5 year old.

I will always have the tendency to delay and defer. But at least I’m aware of it. I’m getting better. I pay my taxes on time without the last minute extension. I no longer let the trash overflow before taking it out. I make my bed–usually–every day.

It’s a journey, right? I can’t be the only person who has let procrastination rule them. What are your stories, and what have you done to combat it? I’d like to know I’m not alone.

 

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From the Alley It Came; To the Alley It Goes

I am not a hoarder. Not quite. And neither was my husband, exactly. What we were was enthusiastic. We each had our enthusiasms and each of those came with equipment, supplies and components.

For example, I like the thought of doing crafts. I used to watch craft shows back when HGTV programming consisted of more than real estate. Carol Duvall was my patron saint. In the course of the 35 years since I first moved into this house, I’ve gotten enthused about polymer clay, paper making, scrapbooking, card making, quilling, quilting, doll making, painting, and rubber stamping. I needlepoint, embroider, do crewel and make pillows.

Recently, I’ve been trying to get realistic about what it is I really enjoy doing and what, of all the STUFF I have to do all this with, I’m going to keep. It’s slow going because, for instance,  I really, really like all the neat things you can make with polymer clay. What I didn’t like, I found out, was the tedium of working with it. The same with paper making. I was going to recycle all my mail, making sheets of paper with which I’d do…what? Never did figure that out. What I did figure out was that it bored me.

So I got rid of all the stuff associated with both polymer clay and paper making. I sold all my polymer clay, molds, pressure sheets and the clay conditioner (pasta maker). I dismantled the screens I used with the paper and shredded, then recycled, all the bills and mail I’d been saving for what seemed like eons. It was actually quite freeing.

Every time I make a pass through my craft items, more stuff goes. I’m getting there.

But then there’s Dear Hubby’s enthusiasms. When DH was alive, he wouldn’t let me get rid of anything. Moldy, scratched and broken record albums stayed because someday he’d do something with them. The 8-track tapes stayed even though we’d never owned an 8-track player.

He owned every tool known to man, I think, many of them brand new and still in the box. Many of them mysterious, their purpose unknown.

He also was a picker. He picked things up from job sites, from junk stores but especially from the alley. From the alley he brought in wooden chairs, file cabinets, a rattan shelving unit,  church pew,  fireplace screen, silicone caulking and wood stain.

I’m very slowly, a little bit at a time, going through his stuff, too, and getting rid of things. Some stuff goes back into the alley and in a few days, it’s gone. Like magic! I thank God for the alley. The alley giveth and the alley taketh away.

 

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Boundaries, or Just Say “No”

“No” is a complete sentence.–Anne Lamott

One of the hardest things that I had to learn to do as an adult was to set boundaries. It wasn’t easy. I’m a people pleaser so when someone asks me to do something or to give them something, my hard-wired instinct is to immediately accommodate.

My coping mechanisms when I was younger went the passive-aggressive route. Maybe if I was really lousy at something, people would stop asking me to do things. It worked, after a fashion, but it also made folks think I was incompetent and that would come back to bite me in the butt when there was something that I wanted to do. It would’ve been so much better in the long run to have just said “no, thanks” or “not interested” in the first place.

Hard lessons to learn.

When I first started Grandma Friday and was actively pursuing paying gigs, a woman approached me about driving her to the airport. I didn’t want to do this. Airport driving wasn’t on my list of things I do. I hate to drive. I don’t drive highways. I especially don’t drive other people around when I can help it.

I didn’t know this woman but I didn’t want her to think ill of me so I said sure. This wasn’t an area of business I’d ever researched, so I had no idea what to charge her. I gave her a way-too-low price. She countered with since I wouldn’t drive the highway, she should get a discount. I ended up driving her to and from Denver’s way out of the way airport for less money than I spent in gas.

Then I had to factor in the restless nights spent worrying about driving. It was a nightmare and possibly the longest couple of weeks of my life.

That was the beginning of my learning to say “no” and to set boundaries. This has come in especially handy with some friends and family members.

I can still see the face of one of my (grown) grandkids the first time I told her “no.” Her mother said later that she couldn’t believe I’d refused to do whatever it was she’d asked of me. I don’t even remember what it was now, but she obviously survived.

There was this attitude when I first retired that I would need something to do with my time, such as baby sit. That was another incentive to learn to say “no.” I helped raise my stepchildren. I helped raise their children. I’m done raising children.

As psychologist Asa Don Brown states, “Boundaries are, in simple terms, the recognition of personal space.”

This is my time and this is my space. And while “no” still does not come naturally to me, each time I say it is a tad bit easier than the last time.

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Polite Conversation

When I was growing up, my father always said that in polite conversation, one never talks about politics or religion. Never talking about sex was understood. My father could never comfortably say the word, sex.

Today, that’s mostly what people talk about, polite or otherwise. If we’re not talking politics or discussing the ins and outs of God, we’re talking about sex.

We talk about having sex (or not), when we last had sex, when we hope to have sex again. We argue about what exactly is sex. Is it this, that and that other thing or just this and that? If so, what exactly is that other thing then?

We talk about who’s having sex with whom, or what. And how many or how often.

When we’re younger, we worry if we’re doing it right. At a slightly older age, we worry about whether he’ll do it right. At an older age, we wonder if we can stay awake for it.

I scandalized a grandchild—who was 23 at the time—when I stated publicly that I was grateful for the occasional orgasm. Not sure what she was shocked about, that I have orgasms and am grateful for them or that at this point in my life, they’re occasional? This from a woman who has no problem with posting explicit booty shots of herself on Facebook.

Sex in the 70s was adventurous. Then it became dangerous. Now it just seems horribly complex. His condoms or hers? Ribbed or lubricated? Do we double bind or trust just one? And don’t even get me started on lubricants! Who knew you shouldn’t use Vaseline?

I enjoyed my years of sexual excess at the perfect time: after the pill and before AIDS. Now, my God! You need a medical release form and a resume

It’s still fun to talk about sex. Makes me happy to know I still got it. Yup, even at my ripe old age I can still shock the kids.

 

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It’s Not 1980 Anymore

Back in the early 80’s, I–with a friend–bought a duplex. Each side has two bedrooms and a basement. The previous owners left a large metal desk in the front bedroom of my side of the duplex, so that became my office/craft studio. It was great. No more card tables in the corner of the living room for me. I had an actual office.

Over the years, that office/studio was moved from the bedroom to the basement and back again. More than once.

One would think that with all the moving back and forth that I’d been clearing out clutter and unused items, but that was not the case. Until now.

Now, as I move things from the basement back up into the studio, I’m doing my best to be realistic about what it is I really want to do with my time.

So realistically, here’s what I do in this studio of mine: I pay bills. I write. Once I get it all set up and useful, I also want to start scrapbooking again. And making Christmas and birthday cards. One day, I’d like to make a quilt. I also enjoy embroidery and some crewel. I’ve done a little bit of needlepoint and enjoyed it.

But to be brutally realistic, here’s what I do not want to do in this studio of mine that I once thought I did: make soft toys to sell at the flea market, make bread dough Christmas ornaments, paint rocks, make paper, make paper mache fruit bowls, make fancy ornamental fruit with pins and sequins, make polymer clay ornaments and jewelry, macrame, and probably a ton of other stuff I bought books about and material for.

I know I paid good money for a lot of this stuff, but I’m over it. Well, over some of it anyway.

Last week, I gave away the beginnings of a blue jean quilt I started shortly after I moved here. I cut squares out of my jeans and jeans I’d gotten from my husband (then boyfriend), his kids, my neighbors and co-workers. I remember paying the kids (who are now both in their 40s) to trace and cut out the squares. I painstakingly sewed the squares together into strips. I bought a ton of blue plaid flannel to use for the backing. This was going to be a king-sized quilt we could take camping or keep in the car. It would be tough and useful. I think I broke the heavy-gauge sewing machine needle and never got around to buying another. The quilt never got done.

It did get moved from upstairs studio to downstairs studio multiple times. It stayed on my “Craft Projects to Finish” list until last week when I gave myself permission to give it up. It went to a lady who actually does this kind of thing.

I was just going to give her the strips to sew together. Then I decided to add the backing flannel because, realistically (there’s that word again) what was I going to do with it? Then I added two shoe boxes full of un-sewn together denim squares, in two different sizes because, again, what was I going to do with them? Really?

As soon as I hauled those bags of partially completed quilt out of the house, I felt relieved. Lighter.

Two days ago, sitting here looking at shelves still full of stuff, I decided to do the same with the large quantities of felt squares I’d bought for I-don’t-remember-what also back in the 80s. I think there was a sale of some kind involved. Anyway, I called a nearby community center that does lots of kid classes and offered it to them. They jumped, I delivered and another two bags of stuff I’d never gotten around to are out of my house.

Not everything I’ll probably get rid of is from the 80s. There’s the large shopping bag that’s full of my late husband’s shirts. I wanted to make a scrap quilt out of them (more squares). While I still love the idea of doing that, it’s been 8 years. If I really wanted to do this, wouldn’t I have done it already?

That one I have to think about some more. But there is one thing I’m sure of: It’s not 1980 anymore.

 

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Moms I Have Known

The last of the moms has died. Her name was Opal and she was 98 years old. She was a grand old dame, funny and feisty. She loved peacocks and geese and kept both. Have you ever eaten a peacock egg? Amazingly rich. She liked to travel and gamble and was good at both. She was instrumental in saving my home.

Back in the early 80’s, at the height of “creative financing,” my friend Angi and I bought a duplex with only a few dollars down and very little credit. She lives in one side of the duplex and I in the other. We had three mortgages, one a balloon that came due in five years. Five years went by. Our first two mortgages were paid ahead. We’d never missed a payment, nor had we ever been late. We couldn’t get that third mortgage refinanced. The bottom had dropped out of the housing market. Our home was doomed.

In stepped Opal, Angi’s mother-in-law. She loaned us what we weren’t able to scrape up from raping our 401Ks and mutual funds. We always had, she said, a place in her heart since we were the only people who had ever actually paid her back. We loved her. And now she’s gone.

Opal wasn’t the only great mom in my life, just the last. The first was my mom, Zana. Pretty and profane, she made sure that wherever we lived–and we lived in a lot of places–our house was the hub of the ‘hood. She didn’t mind a house full of hungry neighbor kids because then she always knew where I was. She died when I was 13 and I still miss her fried chicken. I wish I’d known her as a grown up.

In high school, my BFF’s mom was Evelyn. She got me through high school and saved, if not my life, then my sanity. Whenever I’d run away from home, I ran to her. I had a stormy adolescence, but there was always a place for me with Ev and her oh-so welcoming family. She and her husband, Jack, were the most in love people I’ve ever known. We’d stuff four kids–me and their three–in the front seat of a big white Chrysler and go cruising country roads while they sat in the back seat and necked. Ev made my graduation dress because my stepmother wouldn’t and my sewing sucked.

There was my Auntie Madeline, my mother’s sister. She cussed and drank and smoked. She taught me to play poker. Once my parents were both gone, she was the only family member who was unequivocally there for me. She loved my dog and insisted on feeding him ice cream. Her daughter was grown and away with her own family in California. Auntie and I (and Uncle Roger) became our own family. As she got old, she got mean. She made me crazy and I miss her.

I have been blessed with really good friends who had really great moms. Didn’t get to see much of Angi’s mom, Helen, since she lived in Illinois, but she never forgot me or our other friends at Christmas. There were always hand-made gifts for us. One year it was multi-racial mice angels, another brightly colored home-sewn underwear. During the Carter Administration–we’ve all been friends for a VERY LONG TIME–it was a pair of sexually explicit ceramic peanuts. The gifts were always thoughtful and funny and special.

Our friend, Eileen’s mom, Rose, was one of those German-from-Russia women who loved through food. It didn’t matter what time of the day or night that we’d show up, the first words out of her mouth were, “Have you eaten?” It didn’t matter what our answer was, because in just a few minutes there’d be a full, hot, sumptuous meal on the table. And that was in the days before microwaves! Even after Alzheimer’s destroyed most of her mind, she still tried to feed us. That never went away.

I still have friends whose moms are living, but these are the women who helped raise me and loved me and kept me on the straight and narrow, and Opal was the last of them. Guess that means we’re the moms now. Scary thought.

 

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Good Intentions

Summer sucks for me anymore. On July 5, 2009, my husband turned 60. On August 2, he died. It was sudden, unexpected. Devastating. Eight years later, I’m still reeling.

I also find myself using that time between July 5 and August 2 as an excuse to indulge. I indulge in sloth, in gluttony. I drink too much. I don’t exercise much. Projects go by the wayside. I let the plants die because I can’t bring myself to water them. I stop writing because I really don’t want to know what’s in my head.

It’s stupid. It’s self-destructive. It’s wrong. Wrong for me, anyway, and these days I’m trying hard to concentrate on what’s right and wrong for me. What’s good or what’s bad. What’s healthy or what’s not. I’m trying real hard to keep my judgments and advice focused on me.

At the same time, I’m trying to be more honest in my dealings with people, friends and family mostly. I’m trying to be truthful and not just say things they want to hear because it’s easier than stating what I think. I’ve always avoided confrontations. Now, not so much. My inner snark seems to have found a home front and center. And it dearly loves to come out and play.

It’s not to say I’ve become bitchy and mean. I hope I haven’t. I don’t want that. I think I’m bored. Bored of listening to the same whines about what Mom did or didn’t do and how mistreated everyone is. We’ve all been mistreated. We’ve all been mean. It’s time to get over it and move on. What I want is to be able to look myself in the mirror and say, “you told the truth.” And the first person I’m truthing is me.

I’m done using Jessie’s death as an excuse. There are too many wonderful things in the world. Why get mired down in sadness and self-indulgent excuses?

The pity party is over.

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My Life In Three Parts

If you read these pages with any regularity, you know that I’m in the process of going through all my crap, downsizing, getting rid of stuff and reevaluating where I want my life to go. It’s been interesting seeing how far I’ve come in some areas and how far I haven’t come in others.

Since I rarely throw anything out (until recently), I’ve come across lists of New Year’s Resolutions or Goals & Achievements going back decades. Sadly, there is a sameness to them.

Some of these have dated back to the seventies. There are three major themes running through these rather sad lists and with them, I can boil my need to improve life into three major categories: my health (weight), my finances and my clutter. Everything I feel I need to change or improve in my life falls under one of these three categories.

I could probably pare these down even more, since these all seem to be connected. But then everything in life is connected, isn’t it?

For example, I like to eat out and do it way more than I should for both my pocketbook and my waistline. One of the main reasons eating out is so desirous is that it’s too hard to fix something myself, because my kitchen is almost always a mess. My lack of housekeeping skills falls under “clutter” because I don’t know what I have, I have no clear counter space to prep food and I don’t know where things go, hence the crowded counters.

I buy things I don’t need, in and out of the kitchen, because I can’t find what I already have. I end up sitting and watching TV and snacking while I do it because I don’t have the cleared up space to work on art or craft projects. I have too many scrapbooking supplies to actually do any scrapbooking.

So what am I doing about it?

Slowly but steadily I am going through stuff, getting rid of stuff, and finding homes for stuff.

I’m making an effort to finish what I start, be it dishes and laundry or that hooked rug I started decades ago.

I’m getting off the couch more often, resulting in more exercise and less mess.

I’m really trying to be aware of what I’m doing, so less mindless eating, less binge buying, more seeing what’s around me.

Most importantly, I remind myself that this is a process and a journey. It took me 65 years to become this person, and most of her is pretty awesome. I’m working on the not-so-awesome stuff, three categories at a time.

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I’m Bored

Since I was a child, I’ve always had a fear of boredom. I’d take a typewriter–the big, black, weighs-a-ton type–on vacations. (My father, apparently, was very indulgent.) There was always something I wanted to write. Always another project I just had to start RIGHT NOW! Always another book to read.

Always something.

Maybe it was because I was an only child and learned to entertain myself at a very young age that I always had to have something to do. That and the fact that if I uttered the words, “I’m bored,” my mother would make me do something I really, really didn’t want to do (clean my room, for example).

As an adult, the only times I can recall being bored was at work when I didn’t have anything to do and wasn’t allowed to pull out a book to read. Or at a social function where I wasn’t comfortable, didn’t know anyone and couldn’t politely pull out a book to read.

I can sit still for long periods of time enjoying the images inside my head. I love the worlds in there. I love the people! They always say and do exactly what I want them to. It’s refreshing.

I people watch. People are a commodity I never run out of. It’s hard to avoid people. They’re everywhere! And they’re interesting, especially when I don’t have to talk to them and can just observe.

I’m not much of a talker myself, more fallout from only childhood. I’m the listener. Small talk may be an art form, but it’s not one I do well. I avoid it whenever I can. It goes hand in hand with avoiding most social functions.

Now that I’m retired, I’m much less apt to be bored than I was when I worked. There’s always something to do, most of it fun. I usually get to do what I want when I want. I’ve gotten over the guilt of not keeping house well (now that’s boring!) and pay someone to do it for me.

With all that being said, I find it troubling that so many young people seem to always be bored. I see it on Facebook all the time. Pleas from some twenty-something to their friends to come take them out, come entertain them.

I don’t get it. There’s always something to do. And it doesn’t have to cost anything. If you’re bored, go to a library. There, for free, you can check out books to read, movies to watch, music to listen to. Take a walk, that’s free, too. Find a park bench and sit, watching people or squirrels.

Volunteer somewhere. There’s nothing like helping someone or something to take you out of yourself. If you’re a talker, talk to someone you’ve never talked to before. Find out their story. Tell them yours.

Write. Draw. Color. Clean. Plant something. Weed something. Cook something.

I think my mother was right: Only boring people are bored.

Don’t be boring!

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It’s Not Easy Being Bad

I had an epiphany last night while standing in the front yard urging my dog to poop.

I really hate not being good at something.

On the surface, that sounds like a good thing, but it’s not. At least, not for me. In actuality, it’s paralyzing. If I’m not good on the first try, I tend not to keep trying. While some folks might use that hatred of not being good to improve: studying, practicing, learning, I huddle in misery, bemoaning the fact that I’ll never be able to do calligraphy, regardless of how much I spent on books and pens.

Because that’s what I tend to do. Some new I want to pops into my head, so I go out to whatever store there is to buy all the materials I’ll need, plus bunches of instruction books. I bring them home and look at them. They look back. I try them out, cringe, and put them back in their packages. There they sit, collecting dust, staring at me accusingly until, years later, I drop them in the donation box to go out with the next pick up.

What the hell, I wonder, is wrong with me?

I can’t be alone in this, can I? Surely I’m not the only person with 27 how to quilt books sitting on her shelf who’s never made a quilt. Surely not.

It’s the same with writing, although I’m getting better at putting words to paper. I’m a little more confident in my writing skills than in my sewing. Or drawing. Or gardening. Or dog training.

Famous journalist Gene Fowler once said that writing was easy. You just stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead. He wasn’t wrong.

Anne Lamott, a writer I adore, says the key to writing is to put your butt in the chair and write lousy first drafts (or words to that effect). Sounds easy, but it’s not.

It’s hard to be bad, to let myself be bad. I find myself focusing not on the words, but on their effect. I worry about what font the publisher will use, and if I’ll have lost weight in time for the television interviews. I have imaginary conversations with the actress who I know will be begging to play my protagonist on the big screen. I worry about which network will pick up the series.

Anything to not write that lousy first draft.

But hey! My poop-induced epiphany has given me hope. Now that I’m looking at my dysfunction, maybe I can change it. Maybe I can convince my self what my brain already knows: that if I keep trying at whatever it is I want to do whether it be writing or quilting, I’m likely to get better.

I may have to lock the doors and close the blinds to do it, but do it I will.

 

Gene Fowler is the author of Timberline. Anne Lamott’s newest book is Hallaluja Anyway.