My Grandmother's Secrets to Life

Hopefully my grandmother is not moved to a heart attack at reading this article. This is purely an account of what I love about her. And today is her birthday, so even the slightest discomfort is out of the question.

My grandmother is 50 years older than I am, which I always found handy for figuring her age. People call her a spit-fire. But, she makes-up in quick wit what she lacks in height.

My grandmother taught me to dance the polka. She would put Whoopee John Wilfahrt on the record player and dance me across the danceable rectangle of her living room, careful not to knock me into the coffee table or her pair of upholstered chairs. I noticed how our footprints would make their way around the carpet as we did, over and over and I just knew, she would probably need to vacuum when my visit was through.

My grandmother used to make pies on the weekends, for the parties she would have. Dental students and neighbors were her main muse but I liked to think that I was her favorite.

My grandmother could make soup from a bone; seeing now that that is how anyone makes stock from scratch, I have moved from the pity camp into being in cahoots with her.

My grandmother has had a lot to do with bones, in and out of the kitchen. She worked in radiology at the big dental school in Oregon for over 30 years but in the beginning, her stories led me to believe, she could have been anywhere, like in the forensics department. 

Once she was actually sent to forensics to x-ray a skull (because it had some teeth?) and arrived in time to watch it, and the entire human body it was attached to, being cranked out of a vat of oil. From this I learned that being prepared for anything can save you from getting sick in the presence of a cadaver.

My grandmother can cut things so so fine. She takes the tiniest knife and cuts toward her thumb. Any formal cooking instruction will direct you to do the opposite but she says this is the way she has always done it. On the one hand, she does things in her own unique way and on the other, she is open to taking an x-ray of a cadaver skull. Some people call this being flexible, I call it magic.

Spending the night at my grandmother's house has been the best experience I have ever had away from home. For starters, I could fit into any of her shoes—topping 40 pairs. High heels, kitty heals, slipper heals, espadrilles, flats, sandals, cowboy boots, riding boots, she probably didn't own sneakers then. Which brings me to pajama sets. She would always set an ensemble of hers aside for me, complete with a pair of open-toed slippers and a silk robe. It still amazes me that she could outfit me at night as well as she outfitted herself. It felt as if I was supposed to be there.

Just before bed, she and I would stand in the dark kitchen, each in our pajama ensembles. She would slice-up all kinds of fruit for a sundae and I would drizzle Hershey's Syrup from a can. She would make my sundae and I would take-off with it to the living room, and wait for her to join me, in front of the TV. 

I liked to unfold the TV tray and catch a whiff of the plastic and metal as it snapped into place. If I missed it the first time, I would smell it upon opening a second tray. Snap. Our staple shows were 20/20, Inside Edition, and Jeopardy. She would leave the remote to me and I turned to what I thought she would like best, because even then, I was certain she knew better than anyone.

While I preferred to sleep with her, she let me choose by setting-up the small sofa in her bedroom into a mini-bed of sorts, with layers of blankets both under and above the sheets. Princess and the Pea comes to mind, and I figured then that the author might have had a similar experience to my own, to be so motivated to write about the layers in bedding, with only a princess feeling that something is not right. Surely the most comfortable place for a sleeping princess is in bed with her grandmother!

A couple memories of sleeping at my grandmother's house stand out. Once, she had neighbors that shared a ceiling/floor. She was not a fan of the general arrangement, which is the sentiment that I suspect launched her from our bed in the middle of the night, reaching for the broom so she could stab it into the ceiling repeatedly until the noise stopped. From this, I learned cause and effect.

Another time, my grandmother was roused in her sleep by someone who apparently farted. She declared it so and then hustled down the hallway to open all the windows. We had a good laugh about it in the morning because she didn't remember any of it. I was glad she believed me. From this I learned two things: 1) sleep walking is real and 2) always take responsibility for something that someone is willing to laugh about.

My grandmother has broken both of her arms and one of her legs and has let me be her "nurse". She never took the pieces of Bubble Yum I prescribed but to her credit she used the bell I gave her to ring for me. I have never been more delighted to run at the sound of a bell. She would put-on her most sickly voice and call me Nurse! It was one of the first times in my life I felt needed and it felt great.

My grandmother has had open heart surgery and even watched the post-op video of how it was done. She has had breast cancer and coincidentally, so had her brother. She has been in a car accident and continues to ride in cars, even with the person that was driving then. She has all of her own teeth and encourages me to take the gold fillings that she has when she dies. She speaks Norwegian. She goes to a gym 4 days a week because, she says, her doctor won't let her go 5 days. She believes going with the flow is the best policy (although, by default, not going with the flow is the second best policy).

My grandmother has single-handedly outfitted me in underwear and dish towels. As simple as it is, having fresh underwear and dish towels, I have learned, is one of the secrets to life. I am so lucky to have my grandmother to share some of what she knows with me. And today I thank her for all of the delightful experiences we have shared. Grandma, I love you as much as Whoopee John's name is silly.

Fur Pillow Dream Becomes Reality

In the odd hours of the morning and at irregular lulls during the work day, you will find me attempting to master design concepts and identifying the key fundamentals of bargain shopping. Amid the plethora of failed attempts, there are very few gems. Here is one such sparkly, O sparkly gem I found this week:

Mongolian Fur Pillow at Anthropology ($188)  versus  Mongolian Fur Pillow on Etsy ($89)

What I have learned: Go to the store or any place for inspiration. Let the physical sensations wash over you. Let you fingertips run along everything. Let your eyes feast on the middle space, the ceiling, the floor. Let the dust and other material smells rise to your unconscious mind and leave whatever creative mark they might. Time will sort out the posers from those things that serve and express your authentic self, which is why I think most of us that like to collect stuff, choose to in the first place.

The more observant you are, the luckier you will be in this phase of mastering design concepts and identifying the key fundamentals of bargain shopping. Do not spend any money to do this, unless there is some sort of cover charge to play. Then, go home and search online until you cannot stand it any longer. Then wait and wait. Wait longer. Shop online again. Maybe wait longer. Let a couple months pass. Still want it? Now would be the time to splurge or just let it go altogether; or better yet, find a bargain.

The ultimate bargain happens when you give more than you are getting. That's right, give more. For example, shopping at stores that support a charity. The Bargain Boutique here on Bainbridge Island gives 100% of the proceeds go to the Seattle Children's Hospital so I can say It's for the children! and not be lying in the slightest. Believe me, I have been looking for a fur pillow at the Bargain Boutique for several seasons. Either these fur pillows never get tiresome to be donated or they breakdown enough to be edible or compostable and so they never see the fluorescent light of a thrift shop.

Update: As it turns out, the fur pillows at Anthropology were supplied by this very Etsy shop. Cool.

Pure Joy Holiday Card Theme

"It's a super jet blast. And mommy dancing." ~ Jack, Age 4

The inside of the holiday card would read May the delight of this holiday season inspire you to look for pure joy in all things.

On the off chance that I cannot locate a large scanner, that is connected to a person, that knows how to make copies of the painting above into a bunch of greeting cards, all while holding my writhing toddler and juggling for my inquisitive preschooler, well then....there is always the instant gratification of my blog!

Consider yourself holiday carded.

Now, to get my grandmother's cookies to you. I would like to pound out the recipe, send it to India tonight, and have a plate with pure joy in cookie form on your desk by morning. If there is an App for this, I imagine the inventors are suffering pure joy from the sheer profits of it, never mind the sugar.

Got to go. I am on fire. It is what happens when you dance like a super jet blast.

How To: Rid Yourself Of Guilt

Guilt is the lazy asshole of emotions. Why? When you try to focus it into cooperation, it shrugs and slumps back into your emotional couch, turning it's head to burp on compassion and leaning onto one cheek to let fart particles fly on empathy. See, you own the couch and nobody is paying rent; so who are you going to let spread out in such dire real estate? That's right, your friendlier emotions.

The holidays have a way of decking everything in microscopes and amplifiers, so now is the best time to choose the kind of experience you want to have. Decide what emotions you want to roll with and which emotions you want to cut loose. The secret is being honest with yourself about the sucky things like guilt, things you know you should get rid of but can't. These are the emotions to which you are addicted. Addicted is a strong word that I think we should get more used to, like vagina. If we can't say the word, we can't talk about it; boring! If you would rather let guilt hangout and bully your besties over saying the word addict or vagina then I cannot help you. Stop reading this blog now, guilt needs your attention.

Here is how to kick guilt to the curb, in a few steps:

1.) Find a way to truly believe you deserve emotional greatness. That you are deserving of compassion and love and empathy; deserving of these friendlier emotions coursing through your body each moment of the day. Believing is the first step in actualizing any reality.

2.) Become the scientist of your existence. When you experience a shit storm of emotion, take time to run it under your microscope of scrutiny, careful to take responsibility for all your actions and feelings. Do your actions and feelings represent the collective reality you want to experience? (Resist the urge to blame someone else for why your emotional reality is not what you want it to be. More on this in the next step.) See, it doesn't matter what other people do, it matters only how you orchestrate yourself. Safety in numbers and the buddy system works only for moments in time. If you are lucky, there are many moments in time you can share, in cahoots with another person.

3.) Adjust your expectations. Step 3 should probably be moved to Step 1 because doing this step alone would give guilt serious hesitations about staying on your emotional couch. Creating conflict for resident shit emotions is always a good thing.

4.) Launch a gratitude war. This requires that you get all huffy about manifesting friendlier emotions despite provocation to do otherwise. Random acts of kindness is a play on the same thing except with less provocation and huff. So the gratitude war is the ultimate in drama, and when one is wining in an ultimate drama, one experiences the flow of emotions so satisfactory, guilt can't stand the smell of it for miles.

Let me know how it goes, we are all in this emotional business together.

Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox

Death. We should talk about this more. It happens everyday and few creative lifestyle blogs write about it. Death sucks for the living. There, Death has been written about in at least one creative lifestyle blog. For the living, our role is to get off our duffs and over our fear of vulnerability for the split second it takes to be present for someone who is experiencing loss in an incredible, fundamental way. As members of the living, we are capable of doing something. Some ideas are:

• Write a note 
• Cook a meal 
• Sing a song
• Send flowers
• Give a hug
• Make a banner: "life is a gift" or "one moment at a time"
• Stay near, close enough to hold the hair of someone who might vomits for feelings of loss
• Stop by, help yourself to a load of laundry, a weed in the yard, a pile of dishes

Whatever you do, do not stay away. If you hear a little voice inside you say that "you are not close enough to do anything" tell that little voice to go to hell. If a stranger were to show-up at your door tonight with a home-cooked meal, loss or not, they would be your new best friend, eventually. Be there for someone when it counts and it counts when someone dies or when something especially hard happens. Set an auto-reminder for follow-ups because being there is not a one-time event. Be inspired to do something by the fact that someday you too will be in need of the momentary reprieve that small acts of kindness from other people can provide. Being present in the presence of others is one of the things we are here to do.

Ode to the Commode

Ah, the commode. If you are seeing too much of it or not enough--it is news--just as sure as the weather.

Toilets having varying flush power, which you will be in a position to appreciate if ever one plugs on you. Okay, if you ever plug a toilet, here is what you do: Have no fear because a) new toilets will cease to overflow* no matter the times you try to deny the plugging, and b) cheap, flimsy plungers will do the trick. Unplugging (un-plaguing?) a toilet is a less than graceful task until you have done it 20 times, so try to avoid spectators until that point.

Now, be bold. Approach the hole with the plunger full-on, as if you are not afraid to catch the spray of the plunge and I swear, it is the fearlessness in the motion that wards off the unsavory spray. Place the rubber part into the hole as best you can and plunge, plunge, plunge! Let that toilet hole know no reprieve. Keep the water in the bowl, for godsake! Flush again if there is not enough water to cushion the plunging so you get a real sucking sound. The toilet water might begin to return on its own or need another flush to remember its place in the bowl, either way, you need not be afraid of an unsuccessful flush in the future.

Plunging a toilet is a handy motion that you will be able to put to good use and if you have mastered it, plugged toilets will eventually find you. Go forth! And restore flow to toilets everywhere!

*I have a very prominent memory of a childhood friend who flushed, no doubt many times, an old toilet in my childhood house. There was no plunger and her large turd ended-up in our entryway. The end. Mysteriously, that friendship went bottoms-up. Well, it bobbled around for awhile, maybe floundered, and then finally sucked without any fanfare or toilet paper streamers.

Remember: If you flush once, and then twice--to test the flush handle--and there is still no toilet flow, resolve yourself immediately to telling the host "Excuse me, it seems I have plugged your toilet. [Pause for emphasis]. Do you have a plunger handy?" If they are a good host, they will have a plunger handy. If plugging toilets has happened to you at least once, consider keeping a plunger in your car.

I once saw a plunger fastened with rubber-bands to the steering wheel of a car, my best guess is that the car affiliates were trying to achieve the ever-popular, steering-wheel lock look. While this unique fashion for a plunger might detour a thief in the night, it has better chances of plunging the ailing toilet, despite the day or night or weather.

Pillow Talk

Hello throw pillow. We have met before. I drunk-texted your Etsy listing at least twice. Is there a support group for throw pillow addicts? If not, I am currently looking for throw pillow enablers or codependents. The first step is awareness. The second step is finding support for or against your habit. I fancy myself a glass-half-full kind of person so I will start with Support For and then judge myself from there by judging others first, of course.

Everyone has something their addicted to, which occurred to me when I ran into two monks coming out of my favorite thrift store. One said to me "Sorry, you are too late. We bought the whole place out." And I was like "You, too huh. God, is there no hope?" And then I consoled myself, as I often resort to doing, by thinking that the path is to indulge and then let go of the guilt, or just let go of the indulgence all together. I have no idea what actual monks think. I can imagine what they think and it is this: consumerism is just the state of things so accept it (buy it) and let go (to Goodwill).