B*tch!

Someone called me a name this morning. It caught me off guard on this sunny, happy day, when I was headed to the gym for a quick visit and then back to my home office. Parking is scarce, so on my third trip around the lot I saw someone leaving, rolled yoga mat in one hand, keys in the other. I followed her and waited with my blinker on for her to pull out...and another driver, coming from the opposite direction in full view of me and my peppy little turn signal indicating "that's mine, mine, mine," sped up and tucked herself into my space. Just. Like. That.

I don't engage with mean people - it's not worth it, especially these days, when anyone can be a "gun enthusiast." (Yes, there are quotes around it for a reason.) But I was annoyed, and I waited for the parking-space-thief to get out of her car, and said, reasonably, "You know, that wasn't very nice - you saw me waiting for that space." And she, totally understanding my even tone and the practicality of my statement, said, "I'm so sorry. You're right. Let me move my car."

Nah, that's not what happened. When I gave her my "wasn't very nice" line, she screwed up her face and hurled "B*TCH!" at me, and walked off.  There are a few things that went through my head:
- How can someone be that mad and mean early in the morning?  
- How can they blatantly take something meant for someone else?
- If I see her in the gym and say something else to her, will she beat me up?

First I seethed, then I settled. It's too bad that we can be feeling great and loving the entire universe, and one person can change the mood in a second or two. But releasing some endorphins helped. So did my trip to Target afterward, where I was filling a prescription and was told I had to wait 30 minutes, and I'm pretty sure I heard the pharmacist say, "Go get some new makeup." So I did, and then I retrieved my prescription, and when I got home I tried out my new cosmetics, and I must say that after I took a look at myself, I really AM quite the b*tch today.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

The Talking Stick

My sisters and I used a talking stick this weekend to have a chat with our aging dad. Oh, it wasn't as pretty as this picture. In fact, it looked a lot like a cell phone with the speaker function turned on.

Talking sticks were often passed around in tribal circles, so that everyone present had a chance to speak. One description I read also noted that it was particularly helpful for "those who may be shy." (Not an issue with me and my sisters - most of the time, we're all speaking at once. If you translate the word "speaking" generously. We're Italian, after all.)

Three of us were with our father in the tiny dining room of his Maryland house, and one was in California. We agreed that for this important talk, we weren't going to interrupt each other, so whoever was holding the talking stick/phone would have the floor, and we looped in the sister on the phone with each round.

We're worried about our father lately. He's always been remarkably able, even as he's grown older, even after surviving bladder cancer, losing that organ, and having his kidneys fail so that he undergoes dialysis three times a week. But we're seeing some changes, and we want him to consider living with my oldest sister in Phoenix. That means selling his house and giving up driving (even though he's a steady, careful driver who's never had an accident, and I, on the other hand...well, let's not go there). It means letting go of even more of the independence he's lost through aging and widower-hood.

We can see how painful it is to him that we view him this way, our strong, smart dad. The dad who was so handsome when we were young he would turn heads. The dad who worked so hard to keep his five kids safe, but lost his only son in a moment he was helpless to prevent. The dad who has spent some focused time in the last few years clearing out and repairing his home, documenting his accounts, and planning his funeral, to save us from those tasks. I can't visit him these days without tears sneaking up on me. If he does move to Arizona, I won't see him much, making the 20-minute drive I have to his home now seem like an instant.

Damn that talking stick. We had to say things, however lovingly, that hurt my father. We just want to keep him safe. And better a small hurt now than a big one later. But it doesn't feel very good, no matter how noble our intentions. And when we finished, he said, head low, "I'll think about it." It's a start.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

In Praise of Small Hardware Stores

Christopher's in Olney, MD.

I have always loved hardware stores, and there's something about a mom and pop establishment that brings out the handyman (uh, rather, handywoman) in me. Sure, the big stores are great for buying grills and outdoor furniture sets and circular saws, but give me a compact, family-run store every time for the small stuff.

I like walking in the door and smelling something earthy. (Peat moss? Do they still have peat moss?) I like the fact that the aisles are short, and you don't have to scan a mile's worth of five million kinds of doodads to get the one thing you need. I like knowing that at least some of the fresh-faced and very friendly workers are part of the family behind the name on the sign.

Even though all I needed today was a $5.00 flapper for my toilet, I was treated like a valued guest. Which made me buy two sets of chargers for my iPhone at the checkout. And some Dubble Bubble gum out of a big glass jar. And ensured that, like Arnold Schwarzenegger long before he got all creepy and we found out he had a secret kid, I'll be back.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Talk to the Hand

I'm having therapy. Not the kind you bare your soul over: this is all about the hand, man. Every Tuesday and Thursday since this month began, and for a couple more weeks, I visit a rehab center and spend an hour with Mike. I'm fine, really - just a numb ring finger and pinky on my left hand that isn't, as I first thought, CTS (Carpel Tunnel Syndrome). Nope. Mine is special. Luckily, it never interfered with this thing I'm doing now. (You know, writing.)

I have a whole series of exercises to do so my fingers will get with the program. Like throw a Kleenex up in the air and catch it between my thumb and my "problem fingers." (Don't try this at home - it's very important that you have a physical therapist observe you to make sure you're doing it right. And after you're done, if you have a cold, you don't have to return the Kleenex. Score! Free tissues!) Then there's the one where I have to stretch and mold putty in one hand without help from the other (it's harder than it sounds, and you don't get to take the putty home).

And there's more! There's a gripper thing - the Digiflex - with finger pads that feels like I'm an ice cream truck driver making change with it. And let's not forget the "arm bike," which is pretty much like a stationary bike, only ten times more boring, if that's possible. But my favorite, hands down (sorry about that), is the one where I get to shoot marbles. Yes, alleys and swirls and cat's eyes! Mike sets up a barrier with a towel and I fire those bad boys right down the center. I'm getting pretty good at it.

Today I noticed that the numbness is almost gone, but I didn't tell Mike yet, because I want another shot at those marbles next week.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

I'm a Bad Mom, and I Must Be Punished

It's very risky to put a picture of a feline up anywhere on social media, lest one inadvertently be labeled a Cat Lady. I'm not. I happen to have one, but as a previous post (Cat Fight) has attested, mine is anything but warm and fuzzy. I take that back - she IS fuzzy. But she will never win Miss Congeniality, even if she's the only contender.

I'm a good provider. My cat—Peaches—gets fed well and sleeps 23.5 hours a day without disruption, has a nice home and clean "loo-box," and when she will condescend to let me pet her (which is practically never), she gets some sweet attention. I thought I was a good influence in her life. Until today, when I took her in for a dental cleaning and got a call from my vet. Who proceeded to tell me in a reproachful voice that he had to extract three molars and a canine tooth and that she had an abscess in her gums, and she must have been in a lot of pain from these bad teeth. And he guesses I just didn't see them? And then waited as I stammered through an answer, me feeling horribly guilty that I didn't pry open her mouth to check for suspicious-looking teeth (three of them in the way-way back) and faulty gums. And run an X-ray so that I could have figured out she had cavities. (Please don't tell me you all check your pets' mouths on a regular basis. I might have to bite you.) 

Of course I'm ready to be especially nice to my cat, because the vet thinks I'm a Bad Mom. I picked her up, paid the vet bill that was the price of a two-day-advance plane ticket to California, and brought her home. I haven't seen her for hours, so—full disclosure—the cat pictured here, though a virtual twin, is not mine. Mine, I'm sure, is busy looking for pliers, so I'm about to lock myself in my bedroom and I'm going to try not to doze off tonight. Just in case. Paybacks are hell, you know.



© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Heatis Envy: Don't Be a Hater

I just rolled in this morning after a red-eye back from California. I was there for a family issue (not vacation), but it didn't hurt that I inadvertently picked the one week where my home town had at least a cumulative 12 inches of snow, with temperatures so fah-rrrrreeeezing people were whimpering as they ran from their parked cars into the grocery store and back.

And as much as I've hated it when friends or family down south or to the west taunt me with their lazy, hazy, crazy summer-like temperatures during our coldest days, I must confess I fell right into the trap. I bragged. I was obnoxious with my superior heat. I reveled in the knowledge that I was wearing sandals and sunning on a terrace when I knew that my pals in the east were shivering, booted, padded, gloved and hatted. I liked knowing that we could - think of it! - jump in the car in the morning without defrosting the windows.

But know this: I got my comeuppance. While I was enjoying the warm kiss of San Francisco climes, a pipe burst in my house in Maryland. Yep. That's one of those things that offer perfect "gotcha" symmetry, and in my youth such a cosmic smack-down would have been met with my mother's standard phrase: "God is punishing you." I am chastened by the experience, and I swear I won't show anyone my tan lines this week, lest more pestilence rain down on me. But if you want to see my daily pictures of the 70+ temp on the outdoor thermometer, just let me know. What could possibly happen?

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Bless Me, Father... and Could Ya Hurry it Up?

I'm what I call a recovering Catholic. Don't ask. Just know that I fully appreciate the tradition with which my younger years were shaped, I'm glad I was initiated into the important early rites of the religion, and I sure benefited from all the memorized catechism and lengthy sermons when I became an English major and was able to find the Trinity symbolism in record time in all the major works of literature.

So because I'm a bit of a fallen-away type, please excuse me if I'm coming late to this ashes-to-go phenomenon. I'm amazed! Tomorrow's Ash Wednesday, and if I want to go Episcopalian (known as "Catholic Lite – same rituals, half the guilt!") I can find a drive-through where I can get ashes and free coffee (a bona fide ash-'n-dash) and still get to my destination without missing a beat! Does that mean that we can soon compress confession into a McDonald's-type lineup, where we speak our sins into a receiver and by the time we get up to the window, we are handed our penance and just drive on out? Will they have "value confessions" we can pick from posted as we weave through the line, so if we don't have our thoughts together, or we don't like the sins we came with, we can just pick a set that seem like a fit?

I'm going to give that some thought while I'm waiting for my hot coffee and ashes. (I sure hope that adjective is in the proper place, or I'll have to write another post from the emergency room.)

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie