saturday

30 days, 30 pages with words on them. That's the deal.

7.

There’s nobody better

     at just being You,

There’s no one who does 

     everything that you do.

There’s no one who walks 

     just the way that you walk,

There’s no one who says 

     what you say when you talk. 

There’s no one whose eyeballs 

     give just the same view,

There’s nobody’s story 

     precisely as true.

There’s no one alive 

     who has been where you’ve been,

So wake up tomorrow 

     and be you again!

You have just one life, just one day,

     just one minute -

You've got to be present,  

     you've got to stay in it!

Now set your alarm, 

     get yourself out of bed,

Start moving your body, 

     start using your head!

You can't give it away 

     'til you get it yourself,

So fill up your storage 

     and stock up your shelf.

You deserve every measure 

     of love you can give,

Let the life that you love 

     be the way that you live.

You are more than enough, 

     you have goodness to spare!

If you love yourself first, 

     there is plenty to share.

friday

30 days, 30 pages with writing on them. That's the deal.

6.
 
"All I want for Valentine's day is a new washing machine."

"I thought you wanted a weekend getaway?"

"That was yesterday. Things change. Today, I want clean clothes."

"To take on your weekend getaway?"

"No, to wear to the grocery store."

"That's not very romantic. You should ask for a vacuum cleaner. At least you can dance with a vacuum cleaner."

"Romance is for people who have functioning washing machines."

"Yes, the heart of a woman is a fickle thing. No wonder men get confused."

 

thursday

30 days, 30 pages with words on them. That's the deal.

5.

I picked up my new teeth this morning. It's been a long few weeks with a clunky, dull chunk of temporary plastic strung like a crooked gate across my mouth. I've not been allowed to bite since mid-January. 

The temps also gave me a part-time whistle accompanied by a full-time lisp. All my S's flirted with H's. I was worried it might be permanent.

If you decide to have your front teeth filed down and covered with veneers, do the research after they've already done the filing. Otherwise, you'll read a thousand testimonials by people who developed lisps and whistles and the unsavory habit of spitting when they talk. And you might decide to keep your original equipment.

In the interest of maximum self-improvement, I opted for in-office whitening for the rest of my teeth before we chose the color for the new ones. I was also glad I didn't practice due diligence for this procedure until after it was over. 

Instead, later that afternoon I nervously researched "crippling shooting pains after teeth whitening" and found all the information I needed. Like the scientific name for the pain, which is "Zingers." Also that people who experience them are "probably not good candidates for whitening." This is why online medical research isn't all that helpful. Under these guidelines, how can I know whether I'm a good candidate or not until I've been Zinged? 

It's a disconcerting thing when you're in the chair and your tongue discovers what your brain already fears--that the actors in the leading roles of your smile have all been reduced to stubs. They're wise enough not to hand you a mirror at that point, but they don't need to. By the time you're 50, you've seen enough Halloween costumes and backwater Floridians to know exactly what that must look like.

Suddenly your dentist becomes a god. And your fate is in his hands.

Luckily, it appears that mine turned out to know what he was doing. I'm new and improved!

But I'll miss my old teeth a little. They were honest. They were experienced. They knew their way around the alphabet, maneuvering even the trickiest consonants with ease. They were with me for my first kiss, and they've participated in every smile (and cheeseburger) since.
 
I'm not dumb enough to think that newer is always better. And I don't want the rest of my body to get any ideas about undergoing similar updates. But when another of my teeth painfully announced its retirement last month, I decided maybe it was time to spring for a matched set. I've always wanted one, and I somehow forgot to get braces back when all my friends thought it was the rage.

Anyway, I'm happy looking like my only-slightly-less-old self. As a show of good faith, I'm keeping my gray hair.

wednesday

30 days, 30 pages with words on them. That's the deal.

4.

"And you?"

"My ideal valentine would definitely not come from the jewelry store, or the florist, or the lingerie department.''

"Gee, I'd take any of those things."

"But you said ideal. Anyway, if there were such a thing in the world as a True, One-and-Only Soul Mate, he would show up in my office with a vintage pink Royal typewriter. Complete with the original carrying case. And maybe a cheeseburger. Honest to goodness, that combination might just get him sex right there on the desk."

"After you ate."

"Of course."

"That'd require dropping a fairly detailed hint. I'd like to see you make that happen."

"But I wouldn't have to."

"Good point."

Exhibit A.

tuesday

30 days, 30 pages with words on them. That's the deal.

3.

My orders usually come with instructions which I think of more like rules than guidelines. When I can, I am sorry to admit, I also include additional suggestions.

For instance, when I order an omelet and bagel, I request that you please put the bagel (toasted but not too) on a separate plate and please put the cream cheese (light only!) on the side. I can't possibly eat a bagel with regular cream cheese troweled on a half inch thick, and have you ever tried to remove cream cheese with a plastic knife?

And also I'd appreciate it if you'd try to drain some of the liquid off the plate because if I order tomatoes in the omelet (which I don't always, but sometimes tomatoes sound good) it arrives swimming in liquid.

And I'm pretty sure that it's tomato liquid, but it also has a vague oily sheen that makes me suspect that I'm eating an omelet that was cooked in too much grease. Which makes me feel worse about having the bagel and the cream cheese, even if it is light cream cheese I applied myself and with proper restraint.

Just so you know, this unpredictable puddle of omelet liquid is the reason for requiring an extra plate for the bagel. It’s not that I’m trying to be difficult. Because it's one thing to have your omelet floating, but quite another to have your bagel wet too. I'll still eat it even if I have to dry the plate and the bagel off myself, and it doesn't put a damper on my entire day or even necessarily my breakfast. But it does make me feel bad about my rate of napkin use.

I'm not my Aunt Lillie, after all, crying real tears every time her sandwich would show up with mayonnaise on it even though she'd requested that they leave it off. I don't even sulk, much, unless it's something I really don't like.

Like Dijon mustard. The kind they put on my ham sandwich last time I ordered one. The menu didn’t specify Dijon. It just said mustard. And you can't scrape off a taste. It's too late.

Dijon belongs to the non-scrapable category of foods. Once it touches bread, the damage is done. I scraped the ham sandwich and ate it anyway, sure, but in hindsight I may have been less pleasant lunch company than I might have been if my order had been mustard compliant.

I have a dream. Someday I hope to just step up to a counter and order a cheeseburger. Without another word. I've seen people do it. I’m not sure how they get them cooked correctly and without any pink. I can take off onions myself. Onions, unlike Dijon mustard, do not cause immediate and unpleasant taste transference. In fact, I often like the taste of something after I have removed the onions. Depending on the color of the onions. 

This works best with red onions, of course, which if they are sliced thinly enough, it is possible I can eat without picking off at all.

But a cheeseburger could be problematic because there is always going to be an underlying tension surrounding doneness. So perhaps my dream would be more realistic if I focused on something that does not require cooking. Like a ham sandwich. But see?

This is the reason the world needs rules. It just makes eating out easier.

On a separate but related note, I am a generous tipper. I hope it helps.

monday

I've taken on a creativity challenge to write a piece every day for 30 days. 
So here's another:

2.

I attended a university dance recital the other night and truly enjoyed it. I don't often have the opportunity to watch dance, or rather I don't often take that opportunity. It's not something I grew up doing, even though we had the ballet almost in our back yard. My parents weren't really interested in dance, nor in the symphony. And sometimes old habits stick. 

As a result, I'm ashamed to admit I can rarely identify a piece of classical music. But I can pick up just about any Broadway show tune from the 1960's anywhere in the middle and finish it off for you, complete with words and orchestration. Which tells you a lot about my childhood.

It could also explain why dance has always felt slightly elusive to me. Many of my childhood friends danced. I wanted to, but was directed toward writing and music instead. By the time I got old enough to insist on trying some classes, I was too old to really excel. The other girls my age already had a decade head start.

Anyway, now whenever I get lucky and smart enough to take the opportunity to watch dance, I still find myself thinking, "Ah...dance! As an art form! Why didn't I think of that?"

Anyway, at this particular recital we got a few numbers into the program when a piece began that suddenly had me under its spell. It pulled me in completely and I couldn't look away. The costumes, the staging, the movement, the music, all combined to create a story I felt I'd read before. Or thought of. Or dreamed about. 

Or lived.  

After a few minutes my sister, who was sitting next to me, leaned over and whispered, "What was this one called?" And I said, "That's exactly what I was just trying to remember."

Because I was. I'd looked at the program at the beginning, but I didn't remember the name of this piece even though it was the one that had brought us to the recital in the first place. We knew the choreographer and had come both to support her and to experience her work.

I somehow got the impression my sister wondered about the title because she had the feeling the piece was about her. Meanwhile, I was thinking it was all about Me.

I saw things in it that I recognized. Things that felt true. There were places where I imagined I could have climbed up on stage and moved in the same ways, stepping seamlessly into the narrative sway as if I'd been dancing those steps all my life.

At intermission, I begged the choreographer to tell me everything. I had to know what that dance was actually about, what had inspired her to tell my story. 

She was a bit taken aback, I think. She hadn't expected me to react to it on the level I did. But then in my creative experience, I've learned that it's hard for an artist to anticipate the ways in which her work will connect, or fail to do so, while she's creating it. 

We just fling it out into the world and hope that someone--anyone--throws something back.

I learned that the piece was about her older sister who had died during their childhood. Specifically about the moment when her father called to tell the siblings of the death. 

It was about a moment at a kitchen table. With her family. A specific, awful moment she could never forget because it changed everything that came before, and after. 

Of course.

So it was about me after all. And probably you.

The whole experience reminded me that art, real Art, is pretty easy to recognize. It is that thing living behind whatever story an artist is busy telling. I'm not sure the artist can put it there, they can only build something and hope Art shows up and decides to move in, bringing the thing that, when we see it or hear it or read it or experience it, needs no further explanation. The thing that makes us say, "Me too."

sunday

I've taken on a creativity challenge to write a piece of some kind every day for 30 days. So here's where I'm going to start...
 

1.

My kids often seem to remember things wrong. I understand how it happens, I'm almost certainly guilty of it myself. After all, our memories are a story we tell ourselves, and why wouldn't we make that story as close to what we want to hear as we can make it? With repeated telling, the details are bound to get nudged a bit in our favor. 

Besides that, it's all complicated by the fact that everyone is entitled to his or her own reality. So the way I saw it looking out my bedroom window may be completely different from the view you had on the swing set in the backyard. Family stories in particular are subject to a host of variables. Our age, experience, place in the pecking order, and whether or not we were up all night at a slumber party the night before can all influence the way we perceive events, and how we file them away for future reference. 

We only get to live our own experiences, at which we arrive lugging individual suitcases. We pack up the souvenirs we're handed whether we want them or not, and then on we go.

The only thing I don't like about this tendency to mis-remember is that it's a stinging indictment against my own childhood memories. If everything didn't happen the way I remember it, is my whole life built on a story I've told myself rather than on actual events? And if it is, why didn't I tell it better?

All of this makes me think I need to worry less about the memoir I'd like to write. First of all, there's no such thing as a true memoir. I always think it's funny when it comes out that someone has lied in their memoir. The minute we set out to tell a story, we're running it through a filter of some kind. "Just the facts, ma'am," is an impossible request to make of anyone.

In my family, storytelling was valued, and I figured that out as a youngster. There was nothing more rewarding than getting a good laugh from the crowd at the Sunday dinner table. I think I brought up my children the same way. Not that I set out to raise liars, but the habit of embellishing was probably picked up if only as a result of spending 9 months hearing my voice continually while in the womb.

We enjoy laughing together, giving each other a little grief where it's warranted, laying out our bits of shared history and rearranging them again and again. Our stories are our most valuable family possessions, the common pieces to which we all lay claim, whether they happened to us or whether we own them only because of the number of times we've heard them served up with dessert. 

I'd love to tell you about my day, but you can know it won't be until I've picked over it a bit, sorted out the best moments and polished them up a little. It's not something I do consciously, or with the intent to deceive. It's just that part of being me is telling my story. (You'll have to come up with your own.)
 
And if you don't agree it happened the way I tell it today, wait until tomorrow. I'm sure I'll have come up with something better by the next time you hear it.

friday

Panama Diary Chapter 3...Part 3

The new Museum of Biodiversity, with Panama City in the background. 

The fascinating Frank Gehry building is said to look like a giant bird from the air.

Last weekend we drove over to get a look at the Museum of Biodiversity, a colorful, multi-faceted jewel of a building by Frank Gehry, beckoning across the water since we arrived but to which we’d never yet figured out exactly how to drive. It’s perched on the Amador Causeway, a beautiful strip located at the Pacific entrance of the canal. They’ll rent you all kinds of wheeled contraptions for enjoying the scenery along the waterfront. It looks like there is a splendid museum for local crafts, designed in the style of the lovely old buildings of Casco Viejo, being built in the area as well. 

The whole thing will be really swell, if it ever gets finished. Getting things finished seems to be kind of a problem here though.

For all the skyscrapers going up, there may be an equal number that are stuck midway and going nowhere at all. We walked past a site that we thought was active the other day and noticed that all the materials on the site were actually covered with vines. To be fair, that might have happened within the past week. If you fall down in Panama, you’re likely to be covered with vines before someone can help you up. If the ants haven’t carted you home first.

I believe the Biomuseo is finally open, despite not being finished. It’s been on a rolling delay for years.  An article I read about it described it like this: “…the architect has had to come to terms with the local limitations and adjust expectations. And the effects of the tropical climate, which would slow down even the most energetic worker, cannot be underestimated. ‘Panama has a different expectation of construction practices and procedures,’ acknowledges Gehry’s office. ‘This naturally leads to a slower cadence.’”

They do stuff their own way down here. Plus, if you sit down, there’s the problem that things start growing on you.

I think that’s basically what Gehry’s people were saying, although not expressly, don’t you? But then that’s probably part of what makes Panama the place for a biodiversity museum to begin with.

The country is home to over 10,444 different plant species, 1200 of which are orchids. In addition, there are 678 types of ferns and 1500 kinds of trees. There are also 255 species of mammals and 972 different indigenous birds. I wrote previously about the remarkable and energetic growth of Panama City, but it turns out that Mother Nature is also remarkably alive and kicking up a storm. The whole place is bursting with itself. I’m in love.

We experienced a bit of trouble getting stuff done just this week, however, when notices went up in the building that the city had scheduled work on the main valve and we’d be without water the next day from 8:00am to 7:00pm. We were urged to take necessary steps to ensure that we would have adequate water for our needs, so we did. We filled up all the glasses, because the only other container in the apartment was the blender which had already been called into use to hold a bouquet of flowers on the table. We had some bottled water for drinking, but I wanted to have a bit to at least wash my hands, even if I wasn’t going to be able to flush the toilets.

Then we made sure we were up and dressed with the dishes washed before the appointed time…and at 8:00 nothing happened. We had water all day long.

About 8:15 am the internet went out for awhile, but then we never get an announcement about that, it just happens. Ditto the electricity. The water flowed without a hitch. The only reason that worried me is that the fact they didn’t show up to do the work doesn’t necessarily tell me they’re never coming, it just tells me they haven’t come yet. One of these days, I’ll surely get my hair full of shampoo 15 seconds before the city reports to turn the water off for twelve hours. So for the time being, we have a lot of glasses of water around.

That’s almost the kind of Panamanian pragmatism that I’ve come to love and appreciate, however. The motto seems to be, just do what you need to do. 

You certainly see it in the driving. There’s no road rage going on. A person merely assesses where they need to go, and then takes the steps necessary to get there. Other drivers on the road seem to respect the fact that the guy in the next car needed to turn left despite being in the right lane, and they give a honk that is basically as menacing as a shrug and let him go. It’s quite refreshing.

Taxicabs don't have meters. You just tell them how much you want to pay, and they tell you whether or not they'll take you where you're going.

They have figured out that everyone needs health care, so they provide it. You can buy more expensive insurance if you like, but if you don’t, you’ll have a basic plan. 

Everyone in the country gets 4 weeks of vacation. You don’t earn more, you just get 4 weeks allotted the first day you report for work. They seem to understand that a worker at McDonald’s needs a vacation as much or more than the CEO does, so they make it happen. 

Every worker in the country gets paid once a month, but everyone also gets paid for 13 months. The 13th month’s salary is divided into three equal payments that are given at different points during the year. These coincide with things like Carnival and Christmas – times when they seem to understand that everyone could use a bonus. I think there’s something to be said for that kind of thinking.

But for an American, Panamanian thinking does not necessarily come naturally. 

Russ had been trying to find a place to buy a tennis racquet for months. Every sporting goods store we tried directed us to another store, but none of them seemed to carry anything for tennis. Finally, he asked his instructor, who told him that we would find them at La Nota and gave us directions. When we pulled up in front of the store, we could see that there was a large treble clef on the sign. Also an advertisement for music lessons. That, in conjunction with the name of the place, made me think we’d been sent on a wild goose chase yet again. And a strange one.

When we got inside, we found a beautiful music store, packed to the rafters with instruments of every kind. 

And yes, also tennis racquets and golf clubs and swimsuits. Next to a grand piano, there was a punching bag. The saxophones were hung on a post they shared with a kayak. It may be the oddest, most unexpected thing I’ve seen in Panama so far. But as I’ve thought about it, I suppose sports and music are both hobbies. We like both things too. Makes perfect Panamanian sense.

And just like Frank Gehry, it’s really good for me to be forced to come to terms with local limitations and adjust my expectations. It also gives me a renewed appreciation of some of my significant personal limitations. I'm not a person who "just rolls" with any kind of ease at all. But the fact that I don’t yet know enough Spanish to order my meat well done or my dressing on the side requires me to put away some of my thousands of rules for daily living and just get along with whatever they bring me. And I manage to survive, and even thrive. Which makes all the personal stretching feel worthwhile. 

Panama is making even me grow.

Thanks, Panama. I’ll miss you, but please leave the light (well, lights…and water) on for me. Because I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Luego.  

wednesday

Panama Diary...Chapter 3, Part 2

Summertime 

(pretty much year-round)

and the Livin' is Easy 

(for the most part)

There's a lot to love about our lifestyle in Panama. Our apartment is just a few blocks from Russ's office, so he walks to work. We meet for lunch in the middle of the day, and there's a wide and growing assortment of really good places to eat right on our street. The only drawback to this arrangement is that it's not always easy to navigate even the few blocks between here and there. With construction and traffic, one never knows what to expect. But one should always expect something.

One of the reasons I almost get killed on my run regularly is that I haven't really figured out the rules of the road. As a pedestrian at home, when I make eye contact with a driver before I venture into the street, it serves to reassure me that they see me and that they will observe the crosswalk. In Panama, when I make eye contact, I've come to realize that the driver is equally as likely to hit the gas as to hit the brake. This morning a courteous driver flashed her lights at me, which I took as a signal that she would remain stopped and I should proceed to cross. However, at lunchtime a driver flashed her lights at us as a signal that she was going to plow through the crosswalk and we'd best let her pass. You can see the problem.

It's equally difficult to understand the rules of social engagement. In an elevator, one should acknowledge all other passengers, both as they get on and as they get off. On the street, it seems one shouldn't acknowledge anyone, even if you see them every day. I've got as much to learn about the non-verbal communication here as I do about the actual language. It's all clear as the river outside my window, which when the tide goes out is basically a menacing ooze of smelly mud.

Russ has recently found a tennis academy where he plays weekly. Judging from the big-ticket vehicles and the beautiful high-rise buildings in Costa del Este, one might expect tennis here to be a swanky affair. One would be mistaken.

The great thing about the Academia de Tennis is that it has a roof over the court. Roofs matter in the rainy season. The scary thing about it is that staircase on the left that you have to climb to get to it.

He wasn't sure he could get in, because the roster was completely full. Then he learned that a lesson cost $20. By offering $25, he was able to magically secure a permanent spot during a very prime piece of weekend real-estate. I have a feeling this anecdote could have broader implications. 

For instance, people carry cash here. That's because apparently, car accidents cost $100. I'm not sure who set this agreed-upon price, but the prevailing wisdom is it's a good idea to always carry $100 because if you have an accident, that's what the other party is going to expect you to hand over to make them go away. These are the things they never print in guidebooks, but should. Especially because every time you don't get in a car accident in Panama, it's a pleasant surprise.

There is no test to qualify for a driver's license, you need merely request one. And it shows. (Side note: Florida did not require Driver's Ed, which explained a lot, but they did at least require a test. I believe my daughter passed it with her parking brake engaged, however....which come to think of it also explained a lot.) 

On the other hand, any written test of Panamanian road rules would only have one answer, so I can understand why they don't bother. To most any question, the correct answer appears to be, "Do whatever the hell you want or need to do to get where you're going."

The buses are mostly unofficial vehicles that appear to run without schedules or published routes. But that's probably okay, because there aren't really addresses. 

Yet somehow it works. 

Perhaps America needs to relax a little, and just enjoy more fresh pineapple.

The view from our hotel room at sunset. You can see ships lined up for the locks all along the horizon. They're there 24 hrs a day. Getting through the Panama Canal is actually a long process. 

To that end, we're doing our part. We spent the past weekend at one of the beautiful Pacific resorts on the other side of Panama City. It was only about 10 miles from our apartment, but seemed a world away. We saw an iguana that was a good 2.5 feet long, skulking around a lava flow after the tide went out. It was one of those moments where you have to keep reminding yourself you're not in an engineered habitat at the MN Zoo. You're just out for a Saturday morning walk on the beach. 

The rules for growth here seem to be just about the same as the rules of the road. Nature is neither disciplined nor polite.

It's also full of surprises! There are cacti, and in fact, there was an enormous one growing right on the beach. (Maybe you knew that, but I didn't.) This one grows right outside our apartment. I believe they've put it there to make me feel more at home, which was most kind of them. It's working.

Those moments happen a lot here, and it amazes me when I remember that I'm hanging out in Panama's "parlor"...the fancy part of the house where they entertain guests.

I'm eager to get a glimpse of some of the other rooms, parts of the house where Panama actually lives. I can't say for sure yet, but I have a hunch I'll find...it's a jungle out there.