Spirited Woman Blogger Team

Make 'em Laugh

Yeah, I admit it. My outlook on life is a bit skewed.

I definitely see the absurdity and hilarity in everyday situations, and I can very often make people (sometimes even total strangers) laugh - sometimes laugh so hard that they turn away to regain their composure. Some would say it's a gift, to make people laugh like that. All I know is, that's the way I've always been.

I come by my somewhat skeptical take on things naturally. My mother could walk into a room of somber-faced people and, a half-hour later, they would all be laughing at her mischievous antics; mother's favorite sweater sported a hand-embroidered clown.

Then, maybe my humorousness can be attributed to the fact that I'm half-Jewish (my mother). I mean, really, just look at all the famous Jewish comedians -- everyone from Jon Stewart, Jerry Seinfeld, and Ben Stiller to George Burns and Jack Benny, Danny Kaye, Joan Rivers, the Marx Brothers, Robin Williams, Mel Blanc, Gilda Radner, Woody Allen, Sid Caesar and Mel Brooks.

Whatever the reason for my humorous perspective, I'm kind of proud of some of the snappy rejoinders (sassy replies) I've come up with on occasion. I vividly recall going to a cousin's bar mitzvah years ago at a fancy Philadelphia hotel. I walked up to the desk clerk to ask what room the event was in. He said to me, "Are you here for an affair?" (Back East, everything from a banquet to a bar mitzvah is called an affair.)

But for me, "an affair" meant the hotel-room tryst between young Benjamin and Mrs. Robinson in the movie The Graduate. I looked around the hotel lobby at the single men; not one of them appealed to me as a prospective partner in an affair. So I said to the desk clerk, "No, I'm not here for an affair. I'm here to attend my cousin's bar mitzvah." And then I laughed, and so did he.

As Groucho used to say, "Hello...I must be going."

Linda Jay Geldens, www.LindaJayGeldens.com
Click here for more of Linda's posts.                         

A Spirited Woman Unintentionally Powers Off and Discovers the Beauty in Quiet

It seemed like just another normal morning as my fingers clicked on the computer keyboard. But just when I thought life was moving along just as it should … poof! The power shut off.

The house became eerily quiet. I sat quietly with my hands in my lap, momentarily stunned. What would I do? I make my living as a freelance writer who works from home. I snapped my fingers. Why didn’t I think of it before? I’d leave and head to the library to work. I traipsed upstairs to open the garage door. I pushed the button. Nothing. What was I thinking? I couldn’t open the door without electricity. I felt my breathing quicken. I couldn’t do anything without electricity! I stood paralyzed.

Without the whir of electric appliances, gadgets, and the television, every noise both inside and outside the house was magnified. The garbage can lid blew in the wind. A squirrel chattered in the backyard. An airplane flew overhead. The dog panted in the next room. The kitchen faucet dripped. My stomach growled.

I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I did something I never do. I stared out the window. Had the tree in the backyard always slanted to the right? Had the privacy fence always had a slat missing? Had I always had a ringing in my ears like I was experiencing now? The quiet smothered me like a blanket.

Luckily for me, my active imagination kept me busy. I envisioned myself washing clothes for a family of four on a rock by a river. I imagined chopping wood for a fire. I pictured myself cooking without a microwave, electric stove, or a refrigerator. I visualized myself only being able to take a bath once a week in the same lukewarm bath water as my teenagers. I shuddered. No wonder those pioneer women died young. Who would want to live under such miserable conditions?

I rubbed my arms vigorously. Without electricity, my furnace was useless. I decided to do something I hadn’t done in twenty years. I filled the sink with hot sudsy water and hand-washed my dishes. I quietly hummed to myself. As I stared out the window and wondered how birds could perch so precariously on the bird feeder and eat at the same time, I suddenly realized that without all the distractions of modern day conveniences, I had time to think.

So I did. I thought about writing; I thought about vacations; I thought about my bank account balance; and I thought about what life was really like during a time when the only modern convenience was a hot water bottle. I smiled as I dried the dishes and put them away. A warm, peaceful feeling enveloped me. I embraced the quiet. My ears stopped ringing. My breathing slowed. The moment in time that I initially rebelled against had all of a sudden become mine—and I reveled in it.

A few minutes later, the power was restored. The refrigerator hummed. The dryer started up again. The clock on the stove blinked. Life was back to normal. As I headed back into my home office to begin working again, I pledged to make it a priority in my life to turn everything off at least once a day. Being power-less that morning had made me realize that having quiet time to reflect on my life was entirely more important to my everyday survival than having modern conveniences at my fingertips. That revelation, my friends, was a lesson that all the courageous, strong, and spirited women who had come before me had already mastered. It was truly a power-full moment.

A quiet mind cureth all. - Robert Burton

- Vicky De Coster - www.wackywomanhood.com
Click here for more of Vicky's posts. 

She's baaaack ... and badder than ever! A former member of the original Spirited Woman Blogger Team, Vicky DeCoster is an award-winning humor writer and the author of "From Diapers to Dorkville," "Husbands, Hot Flashes, and All That Hullabaloo!""and "The Wacky World of Womanhood." She has been published in over 60 magazines, books, and on several web sites. Vicky lives in Nebraska with her husband and two children.

From Root Beer Flavored Lip Gloss to the Meaning of True Love

This is the final post in Vicky's three-part series on her childhood lessons.

Shaun Cassidy was lucky enough to be dreamy enough to be my first teen idol crush. To me, he was the hottest thing since sliced bread—the epitome of cool. With his skin-tight pants, feathered hair, and sultry brown eyes, he was absolute perfection. Whenever he sang on television, I sweated so much I had to stuff toilet paper under my armpits so I wouldn’t have to change shirts halfway through his performance on American Bandstand.

I wrote “I love Shaun” on all my school notebooks, books, and bathroom walls. Every night before I went to sleep, Shaun stared lovingly at me from the poster I thumb-tacked on the wall across from my bed. Shirtless under a black zippered leather jacket, he took my breath away. Somehow I just knew deep inside that if he only knew how much I loved him, he’d give up all his fame and fortune - just to have me in his arms forever. In the dark as I quietly sang, “The stars are dancin’ like diamonds in the moonlight, and we could never find a better time to be in love,” and yet I wondered how Shaun would ever find out about my feelings for him if I didn’t tell him.

Somehow I found an address for his fan club. One evening when the house was quiet, I sat at my desk, applied my root beer flavored lip gloss, stuffed toilet paper under my armpits, and began writing a letter to Shaun I felt certain he would never forget. I began with what I felt was a terrific lead-in line: “I love you with all my heart” followed by “Shaun + Vicky 4-Ever.” I then liberally applied my mother’s neon orange lipstick on top of my root beer flavored lip gloss and carefully left an imprint of my luscious lips at the bottom of the letter. As I folded the paper and addressed the envelope, I wondered how long it would take before Shaun showed up at my door to whisk me away forever.

For weeks, I ran to the mailbox after school and searched for a letter from Shaun. I talked to his poster face every night before I went to sleep. “Shaun, please answer my letter. I love you and I’m a lonely girl.”

How a Little Girl and Her Grandmother Discovered a Hidden Message under a Mountain of Lima Beans

This is the second post in Vicky's three-part series on her childhood lessons.

When I was growing up, it was a well-known fact around my house that my grandmother strongly believed that all humans should live off the land in their suburban backyards, even if there was a grocery store with a well-stocked produce section right down the street. Consequently, day after day, my grandmother would toil in her garden—hoeing, weeding, and fertilizing row after row of beets, cabbage, and lima beans—just so she could torture me one week every summer when I visited her in Iowa.

Dinnertime at my grandmother’s house always consisted of well-balanced meals created with only a cast-iron skillet, a few grains of salt, and a lot of frugality. As a result, every afternoon as my grandmother began dinner preparations, I would silently pray that just once my plate would not be filled to the brim with vegetables I had never even heard of, let alone eaten.

One evening, my worst fears were confirmed. Alongside the dry pork chop and a hard roll sat a mountain of lima beans. I stabbed one of the lima beans with my fork and stared at it. It looked strangely like I did at six weeks gestation. I sniffed the bean and then touched my tongue to it. I made a face.

I slowly moved the fork and lima bean closer to my mouth. I took a tiny bite. My grandmother peered over her glasses at me. And then she said the worst possible thing you can say to a child who is contemplating running away and joining the circus just so she doesn’t have to eat her dinner, “Eat your beans. They’re full of vitamins.”

The clock on the wall ticked loudly. I ate my pork chop and my roll. My grandmother scraped her plate clean and then turned to look at me. “No dessert until you finish those lima beans,” she announced as she stood up to rinse her plate.

I waited patiently until she stood at the sink with her back to me, and then I made my move. I plugged my nose, filled my mouth with ice-cold lima beans, and muttered, “I have to go to the bathroom.” I scampered down the hallway, locked the door behind me, promptly spit all the lima beans into the toilet, and flushed..

Bicycle Accident Provides New Perspective

This is the first post in Vicky's three-part series on her childhood lessons.

Just like any other girl my age, I was absolutely thrilled when my parents wheeled a sparkling new ten-speed bicycle out in front of me on Christmas morning. Just a few weeks earlier, I had happily cast my training wheels aside with the help of my older sister who taught me the proper way to deal with the insecurities that accompanied moving from four wheels to two—to firmly grip the bicycle handlebars and pray.

A few months later after the snow and ice had melted off the driveway, my father met me in the garage. My new bicycle was propped against the wall next to him. As he tightly held the handlebars, I hoisted my leg over the seat. With my feet firmly on the pedals, my father pushed me out of the garage and onto the driveway. Unfortunately, neither of us had thought to check first to see if my feet could reach the pavement.

As he held the seat and ran behind me, I pedaled furiously as we circled the driveway. The bike wobbled back and forth. Sweat ran into my eyes as my father yelled from behind me, “I’m going to let go now!”

What? He had to be kidding. I was completely inexperienced. I didn’t have a learner’s permit, insurance, or license plates. I had no idea how to change a flat tire, grease the chain, or tighten the brakes. Wait a minute. No one told me about the brakes. Where were the brakes? I pedaled backward. Nothing but air. I pedaled forward. Nothing. I stared at the handlebars. What were those silver things?

But there was no time for contemplation. It was like I was behind the wheel of a runaway semi-truck on a steep mountain road. I completely lost control of the bicycle as I zigzagged down the sidewalk. Neighborhood children flung their tiny bodies out of the way as I picked up speed. Suddenly, I noticed my best friend and her cousin standing in the middle of the sidewalk, just ahead of me—frozen with fear.

The seat was too high, my legs too short, and luck was apparently on someone else’s side that day. My best friend leapt out of the way just in time, but her cousin stood there—her feet firmly planted on the ground. She wasn’t going anywhere. Her mouth opened as she attempted to scream, but she didn’t need to worry—I screamed enough for both of us.

A Porch Light Guides a Weary Traveler

It wasn’t really what I had in mind when I planned our vacation months ago —stuck in a hotel lobby with one stale, half-melted granola bar to split among four people and a broken down rental car in the parking lot. But there we were, with a car that wouldn’t start and still 500 miles from our destination—a 2,800-acre cattle ranch outside Lander, Wyoming.

I picked up the phone to call Beverly, the ranch owner, to let her know we would be late. “I just put a pie in the oven for the ranch hands,” she told me, “But don’t worry about being late. I’ll wait up and I’ll leave the porch light on.” I wanted to cry. It sounded so relaxing and fabulous there. And I wanted a piece of that pie. Beverly and I had only exchanged emails up to that point, but her voice immediately comforted me during a time when I had already seriously considered pulling every hair out of my head.

Eight hours later, we were finally on our way again. As we carefully navigated winding mountain roads in pitch black darkness, I quietly wondered what we had gotten ourselves into (mostly to distract myself from the fact that my fingernails were now stuck in the dashboard). But then a few minutes later, I saw it. The porch light gleamed in the distance. Beverly had stayed true to her word and I felt like I had just come home. 

And so began a fabulous week with one of the most spirited women I’ve ever met. A few years ago, Beverly and her husband decided to build two cabins on their ranch, to house people from all over the world who wanted to experience what it was like to live at the base of the Wind River Mountains. To date, people have visited from England, Holland, Switzerland, Scotland, and all over the United States.

As the week progressed, Beverly would often stop at our cabin as we sat on the porch and enjoyed the fabulous view. Our conversations were lively as we all were curious about life on the ranch. Beverly entertained us with stories about the rattlesnakes that hide in the irrigation ditches, the cougar and her four babies that live on the ridge just above her ranch, the legend that four outlaws are buried on her ranch (one was thought to be Butch Cassidy, but he was later found alive and well), and what it is like to herd angus cattle up the side of a mountain to graze.

Where is Your Happy Place?

“Go to your happy place!” I encouraged my daughter one recent afternoon while she was making a rather poor attempt to not itch a mosquito bite. In a last desperate effort to quell her uncontrollable need to scratch, she sat on her hands, closed her eyes, and smiled. Curious, I asked her, “Where are you right now?

“In Cheetos Land,” she replied. “It’s a special island where everything is made of Cheetos. The furniture, the roads, and even my teachers are made of Cheetos.” She sighed with pleasure as she murmured, “It is crunchy deliciousness.” With one look at her face, I knew she had truly arrived in her happy place. For a brief moment, the itchy mosquito bite was forgotten and so were all of her troubles. Truthfully, who wouldn’t be happy in Cheeto Land?

My happy place is anywhere by water. Throughout the years, sometimes that has meant sitting by a blow-up baby pool or next to the bird bath in the backyard, but more often it has meant riding my bike to the ocean to watch the sunset when I lived in California or vacationing on the shore of Lake Superior with my young family. Whether I am listening to waves lap against the shore, feeling cold water on my toes, or watching the color of the water change with the time of day, it is being close to water where I find the most inner-peace and happiness. I choose not to ask why, but instead choose to embrace that this is the place where I feel I most belong.

Sometimes life is challenging, sad, and leaves more questions than answers. Yet for all of us, happiness still waits at our doorstep. It is up to each one of us if we choose to let it in. Happiness doesn’t need to be pursued like a criminal on the run with our purse, but instead, it should be encouraged to quietly tiptoe into our lives just like a mother who wants to kiss her baby good-night without waking her. Happiness can arrive with the simplest of wishes or daydreams—whether it is to dip our toes in the water or to eat our way from one end of Cheeto Land to another.

Happiness is not about what kind of car you drive, how big your house is, or how much money you have in the bank. Happiness is about right now—this very moment—and whether your spirit is joyfully dancing. So the next time you hear a quiet knocking at your door, open it up. It might just be happiness waiting to come in.

If you want to be happy, be. -- Leo Tolstoy

- Vicky De Coster - www.wackywomanhood.com
Click here for more of Vicky's posts. 

She's baaaack ... and badder than ever! A former member of the original Spirited Woman Blogger Team, Vicky DeCoster is an award-winning humor writer and the author of Husbands, Hot Flashes, and All That Hullabaloo! and The Wacky World of Womanhood. She has been published in over 60 magazines, books, and on several web sites. Vicky lives in Nebraska with her hu

 

Celebrate Life Every Day

There is only one way in and one way out of my suburban neighborhood. Sounds like the opening line to a gripping thriller, doesn’t it? Truthfully, every day I must travel up a road to a stoplight to a main road that leads me to wherever my heart desires. I've spent a lot of time sitting at that stoplight, thinking about where I need to go, what I need to do, and who I need to take care of. But one day a few years ago, everything changed when a house was erected catty-corner from that stoplight. Piece by piece, the house slowly rose to the sky. Each day, I watched the builder’s progress as I waited for the light to turn green and secretly wondered who in their right mind would be happy living amid such a busy intersection.

Shortly before Christmas that year, someone moved in. One cold, snowy morning, I drove up the road, sat at the stoplight, and noticed something different. The residents had decorated the windows facing the street with snowflakes. The trees in their backyard were adorned with sparkling lights. An angel sat on their rooftop. Suddenly, it was as if someone switched on a light inside my head. I smiled. I forgot my “to-do” list. I hummed Christmas carols quietly as I thought of family, celebrations, and warm cookies in the oven. For several weeks, I enjoyed the happy feeling that overcame me when I sat at the stoplight and enjoyed their decorations. But then Christmas was over, the decorations disappeared, and my “to-do” list reappeared in my mind every time I waited for the light to turn green.

A month later, my husband and I drove up the hill. “Look!” he said excitedly as he pointed to the house, “They are celebrating Valentine’s Day!” Sure enough, a neon heart glowed in the window. Cupid sat on the roof. And I felt nothing but love.

Month after month, my husband and I became almost obsessed over what the residents in the house on the corner would do next. When St. Patrick’s Day loomed in the near future, I said to my husband one evening as we sat at the intersection, “Don’t get excited. I bet they won’t decorate for that holiday.” But they did. Four-leaf clovers adorned the windows. A leprechaun perched on the roof. Green beads garnished the trees. One morning as we sat at the intersection together, I said to my husband, “Why do you suppose they decorate so much?”

Are You Paralyzed By Your Choices?

On a recent afternoon in the warm greenhouse at a local nursery, I turned to my husband, grabbed him by his shoulders, and cried, “I don’t know what we should plant in the flower garden this year—astilbes or cora bells!” While my husband secretly wondered whether I had consumed too much coffee earlier that day, I quietly contemplated why I had begun to let my choices—no matter how minor—paralyze me lately. Short of relying on the children’s rhyme “eeny, meeny, miny, moe” to help me make all future decisions, I knew I needed to dig deep in order to determine why I had suddenly become so indecisive. Choosing the right plant was not a matter of life or death (at least not for me—for the plant, however, it may have been).

As we drove home, plant-less, I thought back to the night I first met my husband. On a hot summer evening nearly twenty years ago, we happened to lay our blankets on the grass next to each other at a weekly outdoor jazz concert. Despite the fact that I was wearing Spandex and he was wearing pink shorts, the mutual attraction was instantaneous. We talked throughout the entire concert, but by the time the musicians packed up their instruments, I thought he liked my friend and he thought I had a boyfriend. He never asked for my phone number. I never asked for his. We parted ways, never knowing if we would see each other again. The next week, we both made the choice to return—hoping the other would be there. He was; I was. And the rest is history as they say.

What would have happened if I hadn’t made the choice to return that next week? I would have moved to Arizona three months later, as originally planned, and he would have moved to Iowa to attend graduate school. We never would have been married, given birth to a son, and held our beautiful daughter in our arms after she traveled twenty-three hours by plane from South Korea to become a part of our family. Our hermit crabs, two rats, two birds, and dog would have been adopted by another family who surely wouldn’t have loved them as much as we do. I reached for my husband’s hand. He turned to look at me and smiled. What would my life have been like had we both not decided to return to the jazz concert the next week? I couldn’t imagine.

Is this a Good Story for the Nursing Home?

Call me a Pollyanna if you want, but I think about nursing homes differently than most people. Everyone who knows me knows I am a storyteller—tried and true. As a result, when I picture myself as a nursing home resident, I don’t imagine myself rocking alone in a corner waiting for someone to come visit. In fact, I envision the opposite. I imagine myself sitting on the edge of a chair with a group of residents around me, enthralled with my retellings of my life adventures. Because of my outlook, a few years ago I began basing my choices in life around one question: Will this be a good story for the nursing home?

My husband called me recently from work. He had just heard Wynton Marsalis was coming to town with his fifteen-piece jazz orchestra. The tickets were expensive, but regardless, he wanted to take our sixteen-year-old son—a drummer who usually tries to pretend he does not have parents. My practical inner-voice shouted, “Don’t even think about it!  All your socks have holes, your nightgown looks like it’s been through the shredder, and the lawn needs to be reseeded.” But I knew better. So, I asked myself the same question I always do: Will this be a good story for the nursing home? The answer was obvious. Life is all about experiences, not things. Wynton Marsalis was one of the best jazz musicians in the world. My husband bought the tickets.

A few weeks later, we walked into the performing arts center—our son a few steps behind us—still pretending he had never seen us before in his life. As I handed my ticket to the usher, she gasped. “Oh, you have wonderful seats,” she exclaimed, “We opened up the choir loft for the first time ever.” I turned to look at my husband who shrugged. He had bought three of the last seats, but had no idea where they were located. As we trudged up the stairs, I imagined us sitting behind the orchestra, with no view of Wynton or any of his band members. When we reached the door of the choir loft, this time, it was me who gasped. Our seats were literally fifteen feet from where Marsalis would sit. I could hardly contain myself.