Browsing the classifieds

Every now and then I browse through the classified ads. (I’m not looking for a job or a new house. I think it’s just an excuse to sit with another cup of coffee.) These expeditions beyond the borders of my own little life inevitably prove that there is no available job for which I’m qualified, and no real estate I can afford, at least not anywhere I’m willing to live.

Today I took it a step further and leafed through an ad supplement that was tucked in with the morning paper. A thorough perusal of those shiny pages reassured me that not only is there nothing I need, there’s nothing (no thing) that I want, at least not from that store.

A career in the arts rarely leads to fortune or, for that matter,  more than moderate fame. If I worked in another field – you know, like if I had a real job - I might have more money. But I have enough money, so what would be the point? I am what I want to be when I grow up, with sufficient music and writing projects to keep me busy for at least another lifetime.

Looking past the obvious - that I have no marketable skills and not a ton of money -  I take these periodic revelations as evidence that, despite repeated attempts to sabotage my own life, I am doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. (I know, that sounds kind of new-agey but it does seem to be the case.)

As for a house, I have one. There’s a roof over my head and a floor under my feet.  It’s no mansion but it’s mine.  And I am living exactly where I’m supposed to be living.  If I ever moved, I’d have to clean.

yet more signage

I spent the weekend with a group of music friends (more on that later). A few additional contributions to the growing collection of dubiously worded signs:
Spotted on the east side of Cleveland - "Free Art for Sale."
From a joint on the eastern shore of Maryland - "Crabs and Oysters Dance Tonight." I'd pay real money to see that, wouldn't you? (I wonder if the legless oysters just sort of act as castanets, a sort of  rhythm section for the dancing crabs . . )

(if youdidn't see it, back up to the post that started it all - "Say What?"  posted April 28)

Live as if today were your last?

In the whole self-helping, psychobabbling, Dr. Philosophizing of our pop culture, the worst piece of advice I've ever heard is, "Live each day as if it were your last." This is not a good plan, people.

What would I do if I knew today to be my last day in this life? Well, I can tell you what I wouldn't do. The dishes. Or the laundry. Why bother? I'm not going to the gym either. Or shopping, even though I'm out of coffee. I loathe shopping every bit as much as I loathe going to the gym. And I could just skip getting yet another estimate for the repair of my car's rattling exhaust system. Passing the E-check would fall right off the "important stuff to do" list, if, indeed, this were the last day of my life.

So what would I do? I think I'd fly - first class, of course - to someplace where the water is clear and warm, and kayak in and out of the mangroves until sunset. (I'd take as many friends and family members as care to come along. So what if I max out my credit cards?) After a good day's paddle, I'd dine on vast quantities of perfectly prepared, well-buttered seafood, drink too much wine, and eat as many chocolate desserts as possible. (Of course I'd pick up the tab for everyone. As noted, so what if I explode the plastic?)

Right. But what if  today is not the last day of my life, which it likely is not? I'd wake up tomorrow hung over, in debt, out of clean socks and a good bit closer to a coronary. With a muffler that still rattles. I told you, people, this just is not a good plan. Oh yeah . . .  and I'd have to face a dirty kitchen first thing in the morning with no coffee. Now there's a recipe for a mental health crisis.

Eating for two

Yesterday eve, four bitchin' babes - that would be me and three of my babe friends - went to see and hear the Four Bitchin' Babes, the uppercase FBBs. From "Oh, no . . .I'm looking for my glasses again . ." to an impassioned musical ode to chocolate, there was much to relate to. Somewhere between the beginning and the end of the show, one of the uppercase FBBs stated, "I'm eating for two. No, I'm not pregnant - I'm just eating for two. I have no idea who this other person is but we're going to have words."

I understand. I've been eating for two for decades but recently that other person, whoever she is, stopped picking up her share of the tab, leaving me to metabolize all of her calories along with my own. Somewhere around the start of the new millennium I noticed she was slacking off a bit. But about four or five years ago, she simply plopped her backside into a recliner somewhere and has flatly refused to burn up even one bit of the ice cream, almond croissants or tater tots that we've been eating. I don't know how I'm going to get  her up and doing her part again. Seems to be no matter what I do, she will not budge. I'm on my own here, people.

more signage

From the east side of town, a friend reports an establishment advertising "wood burning pizzas." And I recall a restaurant in Rocky River with "No shoes. No shirt. No tank top. No service" emphatically posted at the door. I am sure that I was served there any number of times when I was not wearing a tank top . . . 'tis a puzzlement.

Say what?

A few days ago I went to the UPS store to ship a package. While standing around waiting for the clerk to figure out what size box he needed, I read the list of services offered, posted high on the wall opposite the counter like a fast food menu. The options beneath “packaging services” included “crating” and “cartonizing.” Cartonizing – so maybe that’s what was taking the kid so long; he was looking for a box . . .

At my Y there is a sign by the drinking fountain that reads, “Please do not spit in the water fountain.” (No, I am not making this up.) The assumption here is that someone who would spit in a drinking fountain can read. I think that’s a pretty big leap. On the bulletin board in the hallway are listed “upcoming events.” As opposed to what? Downcoming events? Why not just “coming events?”

Among my favorite repetitive redundancies, a category of language abuse dear to my heart, is “free gift.” Well, yeah  . . .  if you had to pay for it, it wouldn’t be a gift. Another big DUH is “supplies are limited.” Of course they are. We live in a finite world, people.

Turning to entertainment, I remember when an R in a TV listing let you know that the episode was a rerun. Now, we assume the program’s been aired before unless there’s an N there. As for on-air promotion, why do the networks trumpet a coming show as “all-new”? Next week! All-new NCIS! I find this totally bizarre. Are they implying that they sometimes air a “part-new” episode? Maybe they occasionally rewrite just half the script and hope people won’t notice.

Among my favorite signs is one I saw on the door of a shop in Aukland, New Zealand: “No children without parents.” Eh? In the west of  Ireland, I spotted a notice stating, “Opening hours: 10-5 daily, except when not.” I love that one. But the most succinct and best-ever business sign I’ve seen was right here in my own neighborhood, a hand-lettered signboard propped in front of a near-by tavern - “Open ‘til closed.” I’m so glad they clarified that.

My beautiful friend calls

My beautiful friend calls late in the evening. Her voice tells me from the first word that something is wrong. Her father died. This passing is a relief. He's been very ill for some time. Still, even when it's expected, even when death puts suffering to rest, it upends us.

When it is a parent who dies, the very earth shifts and you no longer stand where you were. The death of a parent irrevocably alters a key part of who you are, of who you have been your entire life. Until now. Whether you register it consciously or not, you know this to be a marker. You know this to be the end of yet another phase of your life. And you grieve that loss as well.