Posted on by jsmith

The day I went to court in my pajamas

It was the day before I was due to go to Bella Voce.  It was, for lack of better phrasing, the day before The Most Glamorous Day of My Life.

In other words, it was today.

Let me explain how it happened.  We got home from a long and lovely weekend in Seattle late Monday night, and Tuesday morning hit us all hard.  We were tired and grumpy and not ready to face Life yet, but face it we did.  And for me, that meant sifting through a huge stack of mail, school papers, church stuff, and trying to morph nineteen separate pieces of scribbled-on paper and post-its into one Master To-Do List.  (At least then I’d have only one list to ignore.)

The prior week had been hectic so my inbox was already suffering before skipping town for four days.  So Tuesday morning, after shooing the chicks out of the nest, I stared down my mountain of papers, mountain of dishes, mountain of laundry, and did the only thing I could do:  locked the door behind me and went shopping.

Oh, stop judging me—in forty-eight hours, I was going to Bella Voce to meet Geraldine Brooks!  What, you think I’m gonna show up in my twenty-dollar Forever 21 dress?  (Wait.  That’s the cutest thing I own.  Crap.)  I needed something subtle, sophisticated and, above all, something that made me look smart.  (Once you hit forty, the heavy-rimmed fashionista glasses don’t work anymore; everyone knows you actually need them to see.)  So I scrambled through every women’s clothing shop in the greater Kennewick area–all three of them–and after searching and sorting and trying and tussling, came back with exactly two pairs of jeans.  (Hey, I needed them for spring.)

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By the time I returned from my non-shopping spree, it was time to pick up the kids from school and start the standard violin/volleyball/basketball routine.  By the time I returned from that, it was time to get the kids settled and start the standard Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire routine.  And by the time I returned from that, it was time for me to lie in my bed and make a conscientious decision to leave the Pile Of Important Papers for the next morning.  First thing, I promised myself as I dozed off.  First thing…

Fast forward eight hours.  I woke up late, got the kids up late, shuffled everyone to school kinda-on-time-ish.  I came home, still in my pajamas (sweatsuit that doubles as pjs, I swear nobody can tell) and sat down to tackle The Pile, figuring I would shower and shine a little later on.  Under The Pile lay my big family calendar which, though heavily lettered, did not have anything on it for this particular Wednesday morning.  Which was good, because I really needed this particular Wednesday morning to go through The Pile and get myself organized.  Shuffling through the papers and pulling out the calendar, I sighed and thought, good thing this morning was clear.  Crystal clear.  But…wait.  What was that I was seeing scrawled across  Wednesday, February 18?

Oh.  Wait.

Yes, Wednesday morning was clear–except for that little cursived note at the top ‘o the day, in my own handwriting, reminding me that I was DUE IN COURT.  At nine 0’clock.

I glanced at my phone.  It was eight fifty-five.

My mind reeled back to three weeks earlier when, while zooming my son from guitar to basketball practice, a rather disagreeable state trooper pulled me over for having a bit too much zoom in my zoom.  (I told him I thought it was 65 mph, not 60, which would have rendered my 71 virtually harmless, but my pleas went unheard.  Men.)  He wrote me the first ticket I’ve had in ten years (men!) and a few days later, I received a notice in the mail stating the time for me to appear in court and also stating–in an unnecessarily frightening tone, I thought–that “failure to appear” would result in the suspension of my license.

In other words, I had five minutes to get from my couch to the car to the courthouse to the judge or I would  not be able, the following day, to drive through the Gorge and meet Geraldine Brooks.  At least not legally.

All I could think was:  thank goodness I’d brushed my teeth.  See?  I wasn’t a loser.

I grabbed my purse, flew out the door and flew down the street, fully aware that I was risking a speeding ticket on the way to pay for a speeding ticket.  I flew into the courthouse parking lot which was, providentially, a mere five minutes away.  (I love you, small town.)  I parked the car, flew out, flew across the lot, flew through the front door, flew through security, and flew down the hall to Courtroom Number Four.  I flew through the double doors, then came to a sudden and complete stop.  The courtroom was silent, with only a single person standing before a scowling judge.   I could see the slumped back of the accused and the dismal face of the accuser.  Mercy.

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There are two things you should know at this point:

1)  I was fifteen minutes late.

2)  I was, in fact, still wearing my pajamas (“sweats”), thick fuzzy pink socks with brown leather mules (so the heels of the socks showed and no I’m not kidding), no makeup and, tragically, no bra.  (Going bra-less in a baggy sweatshirt isn’t usually an issue for me.  But it did seem rather poor form in court.)  My hair hung in a flat, greasy sheaf against my ruddy and large-pored cheeks, and I’d thrown the heavy brown coat that my entire family hates over the whole mess, hoping to strike a sympathetic note somewhere between impoverished and ignorant.  I slowed my pace, bent my head, and stooped to the last bench in the back.  If I couldn’t look pretty, I could at least look penitent.

Sitting small and alone on that pew, swathed in my own morning smell while I waited for the formidable justice to apprehend me, I could think only one thing:  thank goodness I’d brushed my teeth.

The judge dismissed Convict Number One and cast his disapproving eyes on Number Two.  He didn’t ask my name, but rather the one question I dreaded:

“What time is your court appointment for?”

“Nine.”  I squeaked it out.  “I’m sorry.  I’m really late.”  (see:  “ignorant”)

“Well, come up.”  He waved me forward and I sighed with relief.  The judge would see me!  I wouldn’t lose my license after all!  I would meet Geraldine Brooks–legally!  I almost burst out this last one, so happy did it make me, but then met the judge’s eye and thought better of it.  He looked mad.  Or maybe just old and unattractive like the rest of us.  He frowned down at me.

“Do you have anything you want to say for yourself?”

“Well, um, I was going 71 in a 60, but I was just sure it was 65, so though I was speeding, I didn’t realize the extent of my speeding…”

“If you were going 65, he wouldn’t have pulled you over.”

“Yes, yes, I know.  I shouldn’t have been going that fast.  See, I was rushing to get my son from guitar to basketball on time, and…”

“Well, it didn’t work.”  He seemed pleased with this statement.  I half-smiled, hoping he would notice my brushed teeth.

“I know.”  He kept glaring.  So I kept talking.

“Um.  Yes.  I know.”  Steady glare.  Was he looking at my pasty hair?  Or did my big brown coat anger in him as it did my family?  For perhaps the first time in  my life, I could not interpret an older man’s stare as an admiration of my beauty.  He finally spoke:

“Sometimes you have to accept that you’re going to be late.”  The irony of his statement was not lost on me as I stood before him in my pajamas and pink socks.  He scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me.  “I can get you down to ninety dollars.  Pay at the cashier.  Good bye.”  And just like that, it was over.  I flew down the hall to the cashier’s window and happily signed off my check for ninety dollars.  What was ninety dollars in the wake of Pulitzer-Prize winning authors?  I was suddenly Jane Eyre roaming the sunny countryside, calling out to my beloved Mr. Rochester.  “I’m coming, Bella Voce…I’m coming!”

Mama always said things would work out.  And the best part was, I didn’t waste good shampoo, body wash, or make up on the whole dastardly affair.  But I couldn’t help wonder:  if I had exercised any amount of personal hygiene this morning, could I have gotten him down to less than ninety bucks?  Hmm.  That is a question I’d rather not ask these days.  I am forty-one; perhaps I should stick with the impoverished and ignorant angle from now on.  At least when I’m staring down the law.

But not when I go to meet Geraldine Brooks.  Tomorrow, when I meet Geraldine Brooks!, it will be all class and enlightenment and brilliance and style.  (Okay, it will be my white blouse and fake silk scarf.  But I tried, Geraldine.  I tried.)  And at least I’ll be wearing a bra.  Of one kind or another.

 

Posted on by jsmith

Envy

Oh, Envy.

You are such an unwelcome guest at my table, yet it is I who keep inviting you to sit down.

You eat ravenously–scrape my cupboards and my dishes bare—but you are never satisfied.  You always want more.  You have disgusting manners; you gorge and belch, stay too long then leave a mess when you go.  And when I’ve finally cleaned up after you, when I finally get you out of my house and my head, when I get busy and happy and forget you were ever here, you pop back up on my doorstep—in the form of someone else’s blog, or post, or picture.  Hungry, again.  Demanding to be fed.  Again.

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And feed you I do.  I can’t seem to help it.  The pushier you are, the more I give in; it’s like co-dependency gone wild.  I know you need my insecurities to survive, parasite that you are.  But I wonder:  do I need you?  Are you simply familiar?  Or even worse, empowering?  On some shameful level, am I motivated by you?  How often do you give me a fleeting sense of power over your victims?  Because when you bring them to me, I find a way to despise, rather than admire, them.  That’s what you do for me, Envy.  You help me dislike good people—or at least bring them down a notch, so they stand a little closer to me.  And I’ve gotten creative in the ways I feed your ravenous appetite:

I usually start with the obvious tactic of insulting the person who sent you to me, followed up by a “boost” to myself.

Example:  “I know she’s pretty, but I try to be kind.  We all have our strengths.”  I mean, obviously the girl can’t be pretty and kind and even if she is kind I, of course, am kinder.  That makes things fair.  To me.  (And envy is all about me.)

When that doesn’t work, I try a nastier method:  leaving myself out of the equation and simply inventing a “weakness” (by my definition) for her.

Example:  “She’s smart, sure, but her house is always a mess.”  This will certainly tip the scales in my favor—which is crucial, because I can only be more if she is less.

I’ve also tried to satisfy you by turning my own “weakness” (again, by my definition) into a sort of moral superiority over those who don’t share it.

Example:  “Her house is beautiful, but I’d rather spend that time on my kids.  I guess we just have different priorities.”  See what I just did there?  She’s a talented decorator—or photographer, or singer, or fashionista, or homemaker or businesswoman or PTA President or marathon runner—but only at the expense of what she really should be doing which is, of course, whatever I am doing.  Conclusion?  Her talent is the result of selfishness, my lack of  talent, the result of selflessness.  Works for me!  (And envy is all about me.)

And when insulting the person won’t do, I can always insult the talent.

Example:  “Um, yeah, I guess she’s like, really into dance?  I can’t even imagine being that into dance.”   (Or sewing/golf/scrapbooking/rock climbing/whatevertheheck I’m not good at).  I might then go on to say, “That’s so not interesting to me—all the hair and makeup, jumping around in front of everyone. I am just not a diva like that.  But I guess if she likes it…”  This is usually followed up by a poorly veiled eyeroll.  We’ve all seen it.  (We’ve all done it.)  Now I’ve rendered the talent itself beneath my notice, rather than admitting that I just don’t have the talent.

Or sometimes I’ll just pretend that certain accomplishments make a person unlikeable.  This approach is lazy but satisfying.

Example:  “Yeah, she seems super spiritual and everything, but I don’t know…I just like people who are real.”  As though spiritual maturity (or compassion/intelligence/creativity/great clothes/great hair/whatevertheheck I wish I had more of) somehow makes a person less “real.”  As though it’s up to me to decide what “real” is.  As though “keeping it real” is more admirable than trying to do better.

And finally, dear Envy, if none of the above please your palate, we come to my favorite way to feed you:  good old-fashioned, sink-your-teeth-into-it martyrdom.  This one fits like a comfy old sweater and feels just as good.

Example:  “Sure, she’s a good mother, but I would be to if I had (pick one): a husband who helped more, a husband who interfered less, her privileged upbringing (she had good role models), her impoverished upbringing (she learned responsibility), had gotten married younger/older/to someone else, had more money (opportunities!), less money (priorities!), better kids (I’d thrive!), worse kids (I’d grow!)” and on and on, forever and ever amen.  Martydom is generous in its supply of all the ways I’ve been shortchanged; I could do whatever she is doing (probably better), if I hadn’t been dealt such a raw hand in life.  When praising someone else proves too much for my fragile ego to bear, I just pull on my Martyr Sweater and am instantly soothed.  And you, Envy, are fed.

Envy is all about me.

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The problem is that none of these offerings keep you full for long.  You go away for awhile—maybe a week or even a month—and then the doorbell rings and there you are on my front porch again, hand outstretched. My meager scraps have only whet your appetite.

We can’t go on like this.  I’m too old, and tired, and sad.  After all we’ve been through together, I have to say goodbye.

So today, when I open the door and see you there, I will look down at you and shake my head.  I will look down at you and say,

Envy.  Oh, Envy.  Old, familiar friend.

I am sorry, but I will no longer be feeding you.  Because what I give you is never enough, I must stop giving you anything at all.

I have offered you a place at my table, but now I am throwing you out.  You’ve shown me no gratitude, given me nothing except a need to give you more, so it’s time to let someone else feed you.

The kitchen is closed; I will no longer toss scraps of judgment and arrogance onto your plate.  Instead of your fake criticism, I will give real compliments—out loud, even when I have to swallow hard to do it.  Even when they’re for people who don’t (seem to) need them because they (seem to) have everything already.  I will give credit to those who deserve it, not just to those who don’t threaten me.  I will stop hoarding my praise like a miser hoards his money because, unlike money, I can give praise to others without diminishing my own supply.

And I will stop denying that you exist.  Because the first step to solving a problem is admitting that you have one.  So when someone else flies high and I feel that old gnaw in the pit of my stomach, I will recognize you for who you are.  You are Envy.

and pride.

and fear.

and shame.

and loneliness.

and humanness.

and humanness.

and humanness.

And I will tell myself: it’s okay to feel you—for a moment.  Just not to invite you to stay.

It’s okay to feel my humanness.  But it’s not okay when I turn that humanness into meanness; when I exercise my envy on the person who, through no fault of her own, inspired it.

It’ s not okay when I turn my fear into judgment, my shame into anger.

It’ s not okay when I pretend my envy has something to do with anything—with anyone—other than me.  Because envy is all. about. me.

I may never fully purge myself of envy as a feeling, but I have great say in whether I translate that feeling into action.  I have great say in whether I entertain it.  I have great say in whether I feed it.  And therein lies my choice.  Therein lies my maturity.

Therein lies, not my humanness, but my humanity.

 

 

 

Posted on by jsmith

My own year of wonders

And if it’s any indicator, 2015 is looking good.

Forget family, fudge, and fa-la-las; the best part about Christmas break is staying up late to read.

And boy did I read—a few good books, in fact—but this is the one that kept me up til 2 am on several happy occasions.  My days may have been spent with a messy house and at-home kids, but my nights were spent with a throng of poor English villagers as we fought bravely against the Great Plague of 1665.

Doesn’t sound like a cozy holiday read?  Just wait, it gets better:  there’s fist-fighting, knife-fighting, evil-spirit-fighting, witch drowning, mining disasters, childbirth disasters, prayers to God, prayers to the Devil, betrayal, abuse, death, disease, poison, and poppies—the hallucinogen of choice for the Dark Ages.  (Plague victims have hard days, too.)

But there’s also compassion, courage, humility and hope.  There’s faith, fortitude, and a host of characters who are enchanting and evil and repulsive and relatable to our 21st century selves.  There’s romance and mother-love and the best of the best of friendships.  There’s ignorance and enlightenment, literacy and lunacy, regret and redemption.

And among all this there’s a housemaid named Anna who should (and will, I think) go down as one of the great heroines of modern literature.  (Did I say heroine?  Shoot: hero.  She’s that good.)

For the pleasure of meeting Anna—and reading this gorgeously gritty book—I am indebted to Ms. Geraldine Brooks, distinguished author and, of course, my future BFF once I meet her at Bella Voce this February.  And should you think, perchance, that my admiration for this book stems only from my anticipation in meeting its author, I invite you to read it yourself and give me a call.  We can then discuss Anna, her rector, his wife, their whole jacked-up situation, and how this book stands, dark and dignified, all on its own.

More importantly, you can tell me what to wear when I meet Geraldine.  It’s important, people.

Start your own year of wonders by reading this gorgeously gritty book.

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