A Circle of Words with Friends

No, this is not a post about Words with Friends. I was just trying to think of a clever headline.

In fact, Words with Friends is a sensitive subject for me. My friend Kajone, our web developer at work, kicked my ass multiple times in Words with Friends. And he was as nice as he could be about it. He's like, "Becky you've really got to watch those triple word spots." I'm like, "Kajone, I really can't talk to you about this." 

Because I'm supposed to be the expert in Words. And you're 26.

Once again, I woke up this morning from a series of vivid dreams. I had a very weird dream that an old guy friend from high school was married to a man (he's not), who sort of had the head of my friend Sylvie's Staffordshire Bull Terrier named Nina. It was weird. So I decided to do my homework for a new project I'm starting thanks to another friend from high school.

I'm really excited about this project because it's about writing, something near and dear to my heart. I was reading all the background materials and one of the pieces was an article about Salman Khan who founded the Khan Academy. I think I first heard about Khan Academy from my dad who encouraged me to show the tool to my son as a way to understand concepts in math. It's a pretty amazing story and very inspiring for me. I sat there reading and thought, "Hey I'm finally going to learn something about physics using Khan Academy." 

Then I read that Khan grew up in Metarie, Louisiana outside of New Orleans. Because I went to Tulane in New Orleans, I'm familiar with Metairie and some of the other surrounding cities like Houma, Algiers and Slidell. I mispronounced all of them when I first arrived in New Orleans, but you learn their ways over time. Like Houma is pronounced Ho-ma, not Hu-ma. 

Then I was thinking about another old friend who gave me a copy of Lucinda Williams' album Car Wheels on a Gravel Road. One of the songs on that album that she wrote is called Joy. In my humble opinion, this is genius: 


I don't want you anymore
Cause you took my joy
I don't want you anymore
You took my joy

I'm gonna go to Slidell and look for my joy
Go to Slidell and look for my joy
Maybe in Slidell I'll find my joy
Maybe in Slidell I'll find my joy
 
The contrast of finding joy in small town Slidell, Louisiana strikes me as pretty cool and a sly turn of phrase. Keep writing Lucinda. Keep writing.

This blog is thanks to many friends who keep me thinking, keep me writing and keep kicking my butt in Words with Friends.

NB: Okay this is weird but while researching images for this blog, I realized the Words with Friends logo appears to include a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. Check it out.

I Dream Of Dali

Almost every night, I have these vivid, weird dreams that I feel no one else can understand. For example, last night I dreamt Daisy was a puppy again, and she was trying to catch a baby turtle. But I was trying to stop her from catching the baby turtle because it was a baby, and because I thought it would just generally be a bad idea for a dog to eat a turtle.

And then I saw Hashim who is one of the boys from Kolfe Orphanage in Ethiopia. He's the boy who came to stay with us I think two summers ago. My mom would remember. He was grown up and looked stronger and healthier. He also seemed happy, which for a kid like Hashim was something big. The first time I saw Hashim smile was when Daisy the dog jumped up on his bed to wake him. Also when he learned to ride a bike. He smiled then.

There was one other time he smiled. I was taking him to meet Mary Beth, co-founder of Operation Hearts and Home, and the woman who organized the trip for the kids from Addis. We agreed to meet at the SUNY Purchase campus in Westchester. While we were waiting for Mary to arrive, I took Hashim into the student center. There was this super fancy Coke vending machine with a robotic arm that flew around locating your drink selection and dispensing it. He actually laughed out loud.

Maybe I have such strange dreams because my mind tends to wander, even in the daytime, as evidenced by the total tangent I just took on Hashim. 

My mom sent me an article last week about dreaming. It was written by Gina Barreca, a columnist for the Hartford Courant in nearby Hartford, CT, though my mom lives and reads her paper in Savannah, GA. I thought this bit was brilliant:

Men don't want to hear about dreams. When somebody says, "I was playing Barbies with Madeleine Albright and we were either in a circus or a brothel when suddenly I started to cut my hair with manicure scissors and Albright says, 'Shouldn't a priest read you your rights before he hears your confession?' which is what she always says in the dream but this time I answered, 'These are not my walls, but my paintings are on them,'" the natural question is, "What do you think it means?" And a lot of men don't like to analyze things.

Read more here: http://www.adn.com/2014/02/20/3338495/gina-barreca-women-unravel-dreams.html#storylink=cpy

Read more here: http://www.adn.com/2014/02/20/3338495/gina-barreca-women-unravel-dreams.html#storylink=cpy

It just occurred to me what my dream might mean. I've been thinking of a book about Daisy for over a year now and done almost nothing. The turtle is symbolic of the slow traveler. Maybe Daisy was trying to eat the turtle in me. Because Daisy never dawdles. She goes for what she wants. Like socks. She really loves to destroy socks.

A Short Blog About Responsibility at 15

Our neighbors and dear friends have two younger boys and we have an older boy. There was a a time when they were all sort of closer in age, but now that Will is 15 and they are still in elementary, the gap widens. For the most part, I think their kids have always viewed Will as a playmate or possibly a horse. Definitely not an authority figure. 

Of late, our boy Will is thinking constantly about making money to save up for games and sports stuff and a car. When I was 15, I made my money babysitting. Quite a good bit of money, less the stuff my bother "borrowed" from me. I don't know though, boy babysitters have a much harder time. You would probably leave your kids with a girl just because she's a girl. I mean she could have like a side job on the reality series Teen Mom, and you will still feel a little bit safer leaving your kids with a girl. I actually had a boy babysitter as a kid and he was kind of creepy. Plus his name was Skipper.

Anyway, our neighbors asked us one day for the number of the teenaged girl down the street. I had to ask Will for it because I didn't have it. He gave it to me and asked why. I said I think for babysitting the boys next door. At first he was sort of like what? I can do this. 

Eventually he texted me the number. I texted back, "Sorry bud." He replied, "It's okay. She'd be better at it than me." I thought that was some responsible shit. And honestly, I think he's right.

Update: My awesome neighbor read this blog and had no idea Will was interested in babysitting and he got his first job with her. There you go. 

Snow is a Microcosm

As I sit here with my trusty bag of frozen kale pressed against my lower back, praying it keeps me in alignment and out of traction, I am contemplating all the snow today. It occurred to me that living here in the Northeast may not be as visibly difficult as other places in the world, but it is difficult. Today we had over a foot of snow on the coast which means inland they were bombarded. I just checked the forecast and they are predicting more snow and something called a thunder snowstorm which I think may be not good. 

When you live in a dense neighborhood like ours, it's tough to ignore your neighbor. We know a lot about each other, whether we know each other or not.  Like I know the guy who NEVER said hi to me until recently is a writer - figures - and his son, who is nice as can be, went to Tulane like me, and was also my son's camp counselor.

I know my neighbors next door, one a widower, one whose husband is not in the best shape with his back. Our younger neighbors on the other side -- he has a bad shoulder. I know all these things and then I know my own frailties, aka 50 aka bad back and when snow comes I have to weigh my options. We try to never stop at just shoveling our house. We try to do at least the two neighbors who are older. But today was a monster and here I sit with my frozen kale.

Deciding who to help is a really tough decision. I honestly don't know how people who work at non-profits don't drive themselves crazy. When you are coping with weather like we are having, you start resenting your dog. Like crap I have to take her out again? Not to mention, how far will I go to help others? How many neighbors can I shovel out?

I almost always think about my neighbor Ray and his gardening mantra..."Just do a little at a time." Then there's one of my all time favorite books "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamott.  Same principle -- don't get bogged down in doing it all. You actually can't do it all. I mean me. I actually can't do it all. What the hell? I can't do it all? What a let down.

Today we had a new neighbor to help. Old neighbor, but new to our help. They have a snow blower and a guy who plows. But the other day the ambulance was at their house for the husband. I think I know why. It doesn't matter anyway. Now the wife and son need help, and we need to try.

This is a big lesson. That I am trying to learn. And it's only taken me 50 years. And counting. How do you friend, help, support, abide people you don't necessarily like?  I don't have the answer. I guess sometimes it helps to have the cover of snow around you.

On a positive note, shoveling snow apparently allows you to eat anything you freaking want and not gain weight. 

NB I just noticed my last post was a lot more cheery. See. Perfect example of what a long New England winter can do to you. 

#26Acts of Kindness

On December 14th I intentionally avoided the news, the radio even Google news because that day marked the first anniversary of the Newtown school shooting at Sandy Hook. The reminders are everywhere here in Connecticut. I did however go on the twitter as I do most weeks and found something that was new to me called #26acts. Newscaster Ann Curry started this idea in the aftermath of December 14, 2012, but I had never heard of it. Ann invited her twitter followers to join her in performing 26 acts of random kindness to honor the children and adults killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School. So a year later, I'm joining the movement.

On December 15th, I bought the guy next to me lunch. I've seen him around town. He sits in the library for hours. He walks everywhere. Something is not quite right. But he's a nice fellow, says hello and smiles. When he sat next to us at Andros Diner, I thought, "I'm doing this. I'm going to secretly buy him lunch." He literally ate $11 worth of mashed potatoes and gravy. This plate would've fed four other people but he's skinny as a rail. I hope he was happy that someone bought him lunch. I hope I didn't insult him. I didn't wait to see his reaction. Now I know his name is Jimmy, like my dad.

Sometimes I forget I've made this commitment and then I'll remember and it makes me smile. Like this morning, I held the door for a man and his daughter at Billy's Bakery. They were loaded down and looked like they needed an assist. And he said, "Well aren't you sweet. Thank you and Merry Christmas." Because I held the door. That's how tough it is out there.

I'm counting everything by the way. I finally decided to be civil again to a co-worker that I literally thought I was going to strangle last week. But I put it away. I am doing my #26acts. I put a little extra in the tip jar at Firehouse Deli for those college kids working their tails off. The tip jar says something like, "For school and other dreams." I mean who puts their faith and dreams in a tip jar? Those kids at Firehouse do, so what the hell am I thinking by not believing as well. Give the dog some of that $9.99 Boar's Head sliced chicken that she loves. You bet. That counts.

I read one woman's story of leaving a gift card in her favorite snack section of the grocery store and I thought it sounded kind of silly at first. How totally random is that? But that's the idea. Because like any act of kindness we do for others, it really makes us feel better for the doing.

I meant to send this as a letter to my family because it's often the ones closest to us who don't receive our acts of kindness. I wanted them to know how much I appreciate their support as I decided to transition back to being a freelancer. I'm out here on a limb and they keep saying, "No go further. Get really out there on that limb. We will catch you if you fall."

Now how kind is that? After all these years and all the times I haven't been kind, they'll catch me if I fall. I hope my family reads this. I hope others do too. I want to spread the good will I feel doing my #26acts.

#26acts peeps. Give it a try. Merry Christmas to all! Love, Beck

The Inanity of PR aka I Really Miss Buzzwhack

In a land far away called Raleigh, I used to be a PR person for some pretty big technology companies aka Cisco Systems, IBM, etc. PR is really not for the faint of heart. Sure it sounds glamorous, with all that crisis communications and those paradigm shifts. But you're still pitching and slogging and duking it out with clients or journalists.

The worst of it though, in my opinion, is the language we're required to use to describe something simple. For example, a tech reporter might say, "Oh so it's a new version of their existing software. Why would I care about that?"

And my client would require me to say, "Well it's much more than version 3.2.1 of our current OS. It's a paradigm shift that will create new revenue streams for VARs and VADs alike."

You see my point? Buzzwhack was this great site that tracked and poked fun of all this jargon and PR nonsense. I don't know what happened to Buzzwhack but it appears to be no more. Perhaps gone the way of the other dot coms that faded into the woodwork.

I was talking with a friend on Friday and he had this great idea for a blog. What if I wrote about my personal life using PR speak? So I'm going to give it a whirl.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE 

Risher-Morton Family Debuts Next Gen Meatballs 

A Paradigm-Shifting, Game-Changing Experience for All

In today's tomorrow, I decided to teach my son how to make meatballs. The synergies that exist between the meats in the Stop & Shop meatball mixture, have led to my rapid adoption of a meatball addiction.

It's a truism that there are many brands of spaghetti sauce on the market, but I firmly stick by my favorite, an industry-leading blend of tomato, basil, olive oil and red pepper - Rao's Arrabiata sauce.

Having carefully selected my mission-critical ingredients, I put the next generation of Morton to work mushing meat, bread crumbs and an egg together. To somewhat dilute the total cost of ownership of Rao's tomato sauce, we also blended in a small can of store brand sauce.

With a state-of-the-art spatula, Will blended the cooking meatballs into the tomato sauce. Using superior cooking style, Will was able to tightly integrate the sauce and meatballs into a cohesive, strategic sauce.

"This experience empowers me to redefine the way food consumers manage the design and delivery of meatballs across disparate tomato-y landscapes," said Will Morton, teenager.

Forward-Looking Statements

This release contains forward-looking statements within the meaning of Section 27A of the Securities Act of 1933, as amended, and Section 21E of the Securities Exchange Act of 1934, as amended. All forward-looking statements are inherently uncertain as they are based on current expectations and assumptions concerning future events or future performance of the company or in this case family. Readers are cautioned not to place undue reliance on these forward-looking statements, which are only predictions and speak only as of the date hereof because we are too chicken shit to come out with actual predictions that might later become a PR nightmare should they prove to be untrue.

Compression Hose, Chin Hairs, Varicose Veins. Oh My!

Is this an homage to my husband's favorite ad?

No it's not.

Here's what really happened.

I was at my friend's parents' house. We were talking about all kinds of stuff. She's a 48 year-old new mom. I'm a 49 year-old mother of a teenager. Her sister was there, another mom to a teenager. Their older parents were there. My friend's vascular surgeon husband was there. So three middle-aged women, older parents and a doctor - really nothing was sacred in terms of discussion topics.

We were talking about things like facial hair (women's). We were talking about compression hose (had no idea). We were talking about pacifiers. 

That's how it was going. 

I confessed to the group that I had recently discovered a vein on my calf I wanted to have fixed. Hint, hint vascular surgeon. I so thought we could handle this "amongst friends" if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

See what happened was...one day...in the daylight...I saw this vein. 

Okay before that, let me say that I got lucky. My mom has good legs. My grandmas both had good legs. So I got lucky in the leg department. Like this summer I was walking through the mall and this older lady -- I'm going to say 80? -- said out loud to me, "You've got great legs." Of course I was by myself and there were no witnesses, but I swear she said it.

And I said, "Thanks doll!" Cuz that's what old broads call each other. Doll. Sugar. Hon.

But the thing is, I've only seen the front of my legs recently. Then I caught a glimpse of the back of my legs. And without my knowledge or consent, something had happened to one of my good parts. One of the parts I thought was still standing. 

This weird vein that's a dot - like the skin is smooth and then there's a dot of a vein about the size of a small pea - well that just appeared overnight. That's not right. That pea-sized vein dot is not right.

And I thought, "I have a what on my what what?"

What the hell?

Oh the horrors of getting old.