Frequently, our gabfest is interrupted by fellow diners, friends and strangers alike, asking what we are celebrating. So Meg tells her story, all the while her smile beaming and her heart busting with pride. Chiseled down to two sentences (thanks to her editorial skills), the story has a great tooth, a happy ending and is well worth hearing:

One year ago today, I discovered that I had cancer. We are celebrating that I have spent the past year beating it.

I lose count of the story’s telling after about nine or ten, but hugs of congratulations and cheering wishes inevitably follow.

Dinner leads to coffee, and the restaurant owner brings out a cake he’s purchased just for the occasion. We offer it to those around us, many of whom have not yet heard the story. Each politely declines the cake, but then inquires about our celebration. And once they hear the story, everything changes: they all now want to partake in the festivities. I carve while Meg delivers the slices, each piece bringing new words of joy. A woman who’d initially turned down cake for digestive reasons insists on a small piece. I love the hope!  An older couple gratefully takes two slices. We’re so happy for you! A single man lights up with surprise. Such wonderful news!

When the last slice is delivered and the conversation wanes, we quietly reminisce about the past year and the more detailed version of her story. The raw, dark parts we keep for us.

Thankfully, the full-length cut of Meg’s Cancer Story also has a happy ending. But within it is a sad, dark sub plot.  Because the family she’d hoped would walk with her throughout her cancer journey did just the opposite: they abandoned her. Worse, two months into her treatments, they betrayed her by selling the house in which she was living right from under her cancer-ridden, toxin-filled body. With no home, no job (chemo brain makes it nearly impossible to effectively focus on professional writing) and months of treatments yet to come – not to mention an upcoming double mastectomy and two months of radiation almost immediately thereafter, Meg endured the grueling task of packing and storing her possessions in neighborhood barns and moving into the guest room of a friend.

Within weeks, my happy friend went from light to darkness.

Had I not seen for myself, I could never imagine one person being forced to fight two cruel battles at the same time, along two distinct fronts. While chemicals waged war against her cancer on the battlefield of her body, a full-force attack had been launched within her heart. And this second battle created deep, seeping wounds that caused far more anguish than the first.

I bore witness to both assaults, each occurring within weeks of each other. I watched her face anger, betrayal and hurt alongside hair loss, incessant nausea and physical exhaustion. I watched her endure months of appointments with oncologists and radiologists, balanced with masseuses and therapists. I watched her simultaneously move through emotional despair and physical pain. Truly, it was not easy to watch. But I did, with eyes fully open, sitting beside her for most treatments and appointments, holding her hand and soothing her soul whenever and however I could.  At the very least, she deserved a witness. And that’s what I would be.

I was not the only person assigned to the team we called Meg’s Warriors. Others provided care and support, both financially and emotionally, including the dearest and kindest of friends who opened their home and heart to Meg for the duration of her illness, feeding her, nurturing her, nursing her. A powerful lesson that the quantity of your friends matters not, when the quality of but a few is well beyond adequate. White knights in the sub plot, quick to the rescue on the darkest of days…

Six months into her treatment, on a snowy winter morning that was sandwiched between Thanksgiving and Christmas – days traditionally filled with family merriment and holiday cheer – we drove to the hospital. And at about the same moment in her life that Meg’s surgeon removed her breasts, Meg herself was removing the lion’s share of the anger and hurt that tore at her heart. Two days later on a brilliant, sunny afternoon, she left the hospital feeling lighter; emotionally, physically, spiritually.  Healing began that day and has since continued. The results have been a joy to behold.

From darkness back to light.

It is now May and nearly all treatment is over. With a clean bill of health and a smile that reflects the content and peace she is at last feeling, Meg and I are seated in that restaurant. Remembering it all… the lows, the highs, the darkness, and the blessings. We marvel at the journey and where it has brought her, what it has taught her. How it has simplified her life by bringing such clarity. How it has revealed the truest of friends and shown her that family is whomever we choose it to be. How it has created such lightness in her life, on so many levels.

She tells me she could not have done this without me. I tell her I would never have let her do it without me.

I plea with her never to forget the sub plot of Meg’s Cancer Story, because deep within its heart is the real heroine: not me, but her.

In the parking lot, we herd the balloons into her car and hug goodbye.

The celebration ends, and a new year begins.
It’s going to be magical. And light.

This post ©2013 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Alas, whenever I dissertate this magical quality with others (and I often do, particularly while drinking), my husband, bartenders and fellow drinking partners will typically sneer in a combination of disbelief and doubt. I have proof! I passionately respond. Look at these! I exclaim, emptying my pockets to produce a small pile of crumpled cocktail napkins, upon which (in addition to buffalo-wing sauce) are hand-written notes revealing mind-blowing thoughts and inventions that, if nurtured to their full potential, could make me rich and famous beyond my wildest imagination. Which, uh… is pretty imaginative right now, because I’ve been drinking while writing this article…

To prove my point, here are but a few of my brainchildren (and don’t you be thinking about stealing any of them):

• I am going to design a collection of jewelry handcrafted with corks from empty wine bottles around the world. Necklaces, bellybutton rings, you name it – all from a night you’ll never forget… once you sober up, at least. I’ll call it BaubleLushious…
• Based on personal experience, I’ve decided to invent a Medical-Alert like item that is worn around the neck and – when pressed – calls not an ambulance, but the local liquor store (tagline: HELP - I’m out of vodka and I can’t get up!). You know, for those nights of super-duper creativity! Actually, I’m thinking about combining this invention with the wine-cork jewlery…
• I’m flying over to Paris and buying the least expensive hotel that’s for sale and renaming it Zee Hotel. So whenever stupid Americans jump into a cab fresh from Orly airport and – believing a fake French accent might help them communicate better – announce that they vant to go to zee ‘otel!, the driver is forced to take them directly to my place. I’ll charge a fortune per night and they won’t care (on account of being stupid Americans). It’s a no-brainer! Once the money starts coming in, I’ll open another one called Lay Hotel…
• I’m designing a line of funeral wear exclusively for the bereaved wife who’s on the make for a new sugar daddy. All black and highly fashionable with a touch of flirtiness, I will call it Merry Widow. I’ll create a sister line of haute couture for the recently deceased (complete with a convenient neck-to-foot zipper in the back) that I’ll name To Die For. I may even tackle a third line: sexy lingerie for widows returning to the dating scene, under the label Mourning After…
• I am looking into glow-in-the-dark toilet seats. Clearly, there’s a market…
• I’m hiring someone who will help be write a mobile app that will, when you hold up your iPhone to an airplane window, determine your geolocation to show you state lines and scenic locations over which you’re currently flying…
• I’m conducting research into how to convert the motion from the spinning wheel in my electric meter into electricity. Once I’m finished, I’m going to force the electric company buy the electricity from me.

Honestly, I amaze myself. In fact, the next time I order stationery, I’m having it printed on 4×4-inch, two-ply paper. The super absorbent properties of cocktail napkins make them perfect for capturing my moments of brilliance. Which, incredibly, I often do not recall until emptying my pockets days later for laundry. Must be because I’m always onto the next moment of brilliance…

Go ahead: mock me. Laugh, even. But while you’re laughing, remember this:, nobody has ever come up with a great idea after a second bottle of water.*

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the liquor store.

* a quote from American sommelier Kelly McAuliffe.

This post ©2013 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Curse you, Food Channel.
Actually, curse you, ME.

I am currently on a food plan (read: DIET) because for the past few years, I’ve become pretty overweight. Wait: I’m lying for having just used the term pretty overweight in that last sentence. The truth is that I’m fat.

There. I’ve written it.

How this happened isn’t so important as what needs to be done about it, but in short the downward spiral began when I quit smoking. Because I knew the process would be difficult and mess with my metabolism, I granted myself some leniency regarding any resulting weight gain (leniency being the understatement of the century). My rationale was that I could take care of the weight once I got over the hump of quitting. And just to make matters worse, I was hardly thin to begin with…

But the plan went horribly wrong when I a) abused it by eating whatever I wanted without any second thought and b) continued to use that excuse without any imposed limit (time, weight or otherwise).  I never fully realized this (or at least acknowledged it) until I recently found myself in two situations, the first being when a friend asked when I’d stopped smoking and I heard myself respond, ‘three years ago this week.’

WAIT - Three years ago?

I’ve been using this pathetic excuse for THREE YEARS?

What kind of cruel fucking joke have I been playing on myself??

The second situation occurred last month at the end of a brief holiday with Rick in California when, during one my of return flights, I required the use of a seatbelt extender for the first time in my life.*

Holy shit.

Now, I could rationalize away this moment by explaining that it was a very small plane with really tiny seats and tell you how the flight attendant assured me that lots of people need those extenders on this particular aircraft – but while all of this is true, I’m frankly out of rationalizations. This moment was intensely sobering. That extender made me realize that I’d been extending my excuses (and waistline) to the very brink of my health.

My denial was no longer deniable.

So when I returned home, I tossed the bad food, filled the fridge with myriad veggies and low-fat items and leapt head-first into a great food plan I found online (complete with an iPhone app!). My timing was less than perfect, as the holidays were right around the corner, but I decided to take the plan out for a test drive that first week and then – while being more mindful of my food choices  - hold off on going full in until the new year began.

Which is right about… oh, NOW, by the way.

The good news: the plan is officially in full swing and I’m eating better. I won’t be able to attest to any measure (pun intended) of success for some time, but the food’s yummy and I’m off to a great start.

The bad news: old habits die hard. Case in point: after having copied down the coronary bypass stuffing waffle recipe last night, I found myself halfway through the online purchase of a new waffle iron before I realized the absurdity of this action.

Two days into the freaking plan!!!!! What the…??

Why is self sabotage so much a part of who we are? Why is our number-one enemy always ourselves?

If I’m going to win, I need to get the bitch in my head to come on board and stop trying to buy waffle irons. And stop watching The Food Channel.

I need her to realize not only the importance of this plan, but the crucial role she plays in the success of it.

I need her to see that this is not a temporary measure, but a series of lifetime, lifestyle changes. New habits to forge, new ways of thinking.

I need her to work with me and not against me. I need her to know that I cannot do this without her.

So because I know she needs visual reminders, I hung the seatbelt extender (which I – ahem, temporarily borrowed from United Airlines) on my wall this morning. It’s our new talisman… the perfect flag for us to carry arm in arm into battle. I am hopeful that this – along with other tactics, will prevent any further acts of self sabotage.

I’m far from happy to be in this situation, but I alone created it, and I know that only I can change it. And I will. It’s the next of several moves I’ve already made toward being a better me. This time when I’ve succeeded, there will be less of me. Which is better.

(Perhaps in the meantime, someone will revise the stuffing waffle recipe so that it doesn’t exceed the USDA’s daily fat intake for a family of seven.)

And to any United Airlines officials (or tattlers) out there reading this post, I promise to return the extender. Soon as I no longer need it. Both off the plane, and on.

* My sincerest, deepest thanks to the flight attendants at UAL: personally upsetting as it was, their kindness and discretion prevented this event from morphing into a public horror.

UPDATE!
It’s been about four months since I wrote this. Not surprisingly, the diet was unsuccessful. As most are… But for the past three months I have been working with THIS AMAZING PERSON, and loving every minute of it. These days, I measure my success in a variety of different ways – the last of which is my bathroom scale. It’s all clicking into place! I highly recommend her to anyone with eating issues… she’s a gem!

This post ©2013 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

One list of mine, however, contains items that can never be crossed off. The entries on this list are not tasks, but more resolutions, promises… Stop comparing. Practice patience. Don’t rush. Be here. Listen more. This is not a TO-DO list: it’s a TO-BE list. And each item on it is part of my journey toward becoming a better person. Because much as I know that I’ve made strides in the past few years, I also know that I can do much better. My TO-BE list reminds me how.

When I look at the TO-BE list, I realize what Umberto may have been writing about: some things are simply not meant to be crossed off. That, for so long as we breathe, these things may be attained but never fully accomplished. And because they can’t be accomplished, they cannot be crossed off the list. Thus, we continue the quest. We continue to live.

My TO-BE list hasn’t changed often, but this past year found me adding a new entry to it that profoundly changed me, actually made me pray out loud that I would always find it within me to work toward it:

Love more.

Now, this sentence may seem a bit Pollyanna for some, but to me it sounded – well… right. Because I’ve known for a long time that I really do need to love a bit more. Not in a rose-colored-glasses, I love everyone and everything in the whole wide world! way, but in a way that would make me more willing to see the best in others and respond with kindness to them.  I’m often too impatient, too judgemental. Too quick to assume and find the bad in others… Too closed. Loving more would help me be a better person. And a happier one as well.

So the very moment I wrote those two words, I just knew this was my new mantra – my only mantra. To love more would encompass everything on my TO-BE list. In essence, it was my new TO-BE list.

I’m not kidding when I tell you, something inside me sang out YES!!!!

That’s when I decided to get a tattoo.

I always adored the idea of getting a tattoo, but could never decide what I wanted – or where I wanted it. Over the years, I realized that I had no desire for body art as decoration or a display for others. I knew that whatever I chose, it would hold meaning only for me. So while it needed to be placed where I would see it, it was likely that only I would appreciate it. And until recently, I didn’t love anything enough to indelibly inscribe it on my body. Not so anymore.

Today, I have a tattoo of my new TO-BE list.
Perfectly placed to forever remind me, every day, to love more.

(I sure hope it works!)
xoxos

This post ©2012 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Honestly, I don’t know what to make of this news. At the very least, it bewilders me. Rick was born with an internal GPS; he’s adept at finding anyplace he’s ever been to, dating straight back to the birth canal. If someone ever blindfolded and tossed him into a car trunk in the dead of night and drove him to a remote location where street signs were banned and it was illegal to give out directions, Rick would find his way back there time and again without ever stopping at a single gas station. It’s an extraordinary gift. So why would he need a GPS? Were his super-power geo-location sensors waning, thus forcing him to compensate via technology like the rest of us mere mortals? Was it just coincidence that this horrifying event was syncing with the end of the Mayan Calendar? Should I be stocking canned food and bottled water???

Actually, I’m thinking that his Geo-Location gene was temporarily beaten up and overtaken by his Gadget gene. A boys-and-their-toys thing. Oh well…

So now we have a GPS in our car. A very, very low-tech car that has no cell phone mount, bluetooth speakers, speed detector, satellite radio or heated seats –  not even automatic transmission, for that matter. A car that rarely drives any further than 40 minutes from its own driveway and yet holds about 237 maps, each folded incorrectly. Go figure.

Don’t get me wrong: I can certainly see the usefulness of a GPS (it’s widely known, for example, that both Frodo Baggins and Dorothy Gale would have largely benefited). But in our little corner of New Hampshire, it really isn’t necessary. In these parts, all small roads lead to slightly larger (paved) roads, which bleed into streets (many of which have signs) and then finally end up on one of two state roads – both of which have a gas station every 2 or 30 miles. Otherwise, you can stop just about anywhere to ask for directions, since people are real friendly.  Why, I remember the very first time we got lost and stopped someone. A nice, elderly man stood in front of his house listening to our query and then pointed down the road, asking  do ya know wheah Mike Duquette’s old bahn used ta be? When we shook our heads in unison, he responded well, if ya did, that’s wheah you’d be tuhning left…

Alright, maybe a GPS isn’t such a bad idea after all.

So I conceded to Rick’s newest teckie fix and off we went for a test drive.  We keyed in several destinations and followed most of the instructions – but ignored the ‘turn right here’ order a few times just to see how it would compensate. I was consistently impressed with its accuracy on our backcountry roads.

But after only a few minutes of driving, the bloom was off the rose. At first I enabled the audio-only option because that screen was mildly distracting and I nearly wound up driving into oncoming traffic. Then after the display was turned off, the sound of that voice started driving me nuts. Turn left in 500 feet. Turn left here. Turn left here. HERE! Turn left here!!!! Shut up, SHUT UP, you know-it-all bitch or I’ll give you directions straight to hell and help you get there damned freaking fast! I’m telling you, between me screaming at her and her screaming at me, it’s a wonder Rick didn’t open the door and toss us both out.

The only part of the ride that was not agitating was the drive up our road, when the screen displayed our car (which looked nothing like our car, by the way) running over our house (click HERE to see the absurd video). Now, I have no idea if all GPS devices head straight for, smash into and then drive straight over their destinations… but if they do, a few sound effects would make the viewing far more entertaining.

Actually, there are lots more options that would make this GPS far more fun – and helpful:

ACCENTS. I know many models have this option (British, for example), but a bit of that Brit smugness incorporated into the lingo could help take the edge off those orders this device belts out: I say old bean, head left after the circle and you’ll be spot on! Personally, I’d feel better taking directions if my GPS had a Boston accent: ya missed the tuhn, ya wicked basstid! Now bang a yoo-ie heah…

ADVICE. Girls, if your husband is actually listening to a woman’s voice giving him directions, then these devices need to be programmed to provide other types of instructions as well: you’ll be in this traffic for approximately 20 minutes, Dave, so here are a few YouTube videos I found on the perfecting the art of foreplay…

REMINDERS. Turn left at this jewelry store, Dave, so you can purchase Maryann something special for your anniversary tomorrow… Head right over to that grocery store, Dave – you’re very low on milk…

EDUCATION. Turn right onto Sycamore Street. By the way, the word for STREET in Spanish is carretera, Dave… repeat after me: CAH-RAY-TAY-RAH…

MONITORING. The speed limit here is only 35, Dave. Are you in need of a gas station? You appear to be driving erratically, Dave – have you been drinking with those bumass friends of yours again? Maryann is trying to reach you, Dave… shall I inform her of your actual location here at Lucky Harry’s Steak and Strip, instead of where you told her you’d be?

On second thought, nix that last suggestion. Justifiably, Dave would unplug the bitch and stuff her in the glove compartment, where she’d be condemned to live out her final days wedged between expired registration cards, a wad of old MacDonalds napkins and melted lollypops.

Yup. Giving the GPS a dose of PMS would clearly be a bad route. Best that this little gizmo sticks to providing directions. Of only the geographical type…

This post ©2012 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Instead, I imagine each woman telling me about how that Lifestyle Lift changed her life, making her feel younger and sexier than ever before, and how she hasn’t eaten out in months since her husband can’t control himself and they always end up turning around halfway to the restaurant because that guy of hers is just gonna D-I-E if he doesn’t have his way with her RIGHT NOW, and that – other than the permanent matt on the back of her head from all those bom-chicka-bow-wow mornings in the sack – she’s never been happier.

I really like those women on that commercial because they all seem like someone I’d share a cuppa coffee (or vodka) with. They’re just regular women who wanted to turn the clock back a few years and now look great as a result. Better yet, they still look like themselves. Yup, I wanna be a Lifestyle Lift Lady.

But before I saw the commercial, I never, ever, ever would have considered cosmetic surgery, no matter how crinkly and saggy I got. EVER. Not because of the procedure, or the cost or any personal hangups I might have about changing myself. Those are all sensible reasons to mull over before elective surgery of any kind, and I’d certainly give them serious thought.

The REAL reason I’d never have cosmetic surgery is Meg Ryan.

A few years back, Meg Ryan was stinking adorable. Beautiful, in fact. Then she underwent a few procedures that she later described in one interview as ‘a bit of freshening up.’ Pulleeeze: if that is freshening up, then the Titanic disaster was a minor leak. Meg doesn’t look younger, she looks scary - as though she was intentionally disguising herself so that Harry would never find Sally, let alone want to meet her. When I saw Meg on TV speaking happily and confidently about how she looked right after that surgery, I knew that this went far beyond our culture’s perverse issues with beauty and self esteem. Oh yes… it was much more than that.

It was the aliens.

Okay, maybe it initially sounds ridiculous. But go with me on this for a bit…

Have you ever noticed how most people who’ve had plastic surgery look the same? Pick up any People magazine and you’ll see what I mean. That same shiny complexion, those deadpan, zombie-like smiles, the canned high cheekbones, those creepy wax lips… It’s because they’ve been replaced by another species right after general anesthesia. Go ahead and mock me. But this is exactly how the Invasion of the Body Snatchers starts. At first, I thought maybe it was more of a Stepford Wives sort of thing that was happening, but those things are not robots – and they don’t look at all like the people they’ve replaced… so that theory quickly went straight out the window.

And it’s a classic alien invasion as well. It’s a known fact to any regular watcher of the SyFy Channel that aliens infiltrate slowly over time, while most of us aren’t paying any attention. It’s only long after they’re in control and nothing more can be done that people will wake up and wonder, hey – how come I’m the only one I know who doesn’t look like LaToya Jackson?

(By the way, you’d better start paying better attention to People magazine because soon as someone’s been replaced by an alien, they write a story explaining that the physical difference is due to a ‘bit of freshening up.’ It makes the rest of us feel as though it’s okay they look so freakish. But to them, that article is a birth announcement.)

Think about it and you’ll realize that I’m on the money with this. Any sane person who would pay to look like what poor Meg Ryan does now would have screamed hideously when they pulled off those post-surgery bandages. I mean, come ON!  She looks exactly like Jack Nicholson’s Joker from Batman – they could be one of those separated-at-birth spoofs! But according to Meg herself, she was thrilled with the results. My guess is that if she said anything at that moment it was probably something like we are the Borg… we will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own… resistance is futile. The real Meg would have sued the surgeon and won. Heck, by now, it would have been a Lifetime movie. But the alien Meg didn’t, because she is no longer Meg.

Man, do I hate being right.

Although I am frightened by this realization, I do find comfort in living on the east coast. I know that most of those aliens live in the Hollywood area and won’t be making their way out here for a while longer. But sooner or later, plastic surgery may be just as popular in New England and my lovely Lifestyle-Lifted face won’t help me blend in. My flat, un-inflated lips and matte complexion will give me away and they’ll come for me, just like that girl on The Twilight Zone who is forced to undergo plastic surgery to live in a world where it’s required, because looking like everybody else is paramount to happiness. They’ll make me choose between two looks – probably Bruce Jenner and Meg Ryan… and I’ll have to choose Meg.

Nah… not even Meg Ryan would choose Meg Ryan.

Poor Meg. She should have settled for a Lifestyle Lift. Not that it’s gonna do me any good with those aliens eventually coming for me. Well, at least I’ll look fantastic until then.

This post ©2012 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

In my dream, I looked at both boxes. The large one was massive… I heard myself saying that I’d never be able to create a list long enough to fill it. Conversely, I worried that the smaller box would never hold a complete list of all I dreamed for and wanted.

But I carried on with my task, starting with the large box. Pen in hand, I began a list of my gratitude. My husband. My business. My silly bassets. My friends. The view from my office window. French-pressed coffee. My new sneakers… Finding items for the list was initially easy, but after the first twenty or so it became difficult. I wrote sporadically, searching my brain for anything I could think of to fill the list. About the same time I became frustrated, the stranger returned to check on my progress. He looked up from the list and said, don’t focus on the task… focus on the gratitude. Listen to your heart.

When he left, I sat there quietly, listening… waiting to hear something. In the dream, I may have sat in that room for days, until I finally heard a voice and slowly began writing all it was telling me.  Fall leaves. A newly sharpened pencil. The smell of a summer rain. Rick’s laugh. I wrote without thinking, gently tapping my soul for everything in which I found delight until I realized that the list had started writing itself; things were magically appearing on the paper all by themselves.  In my dream, I marveled at this display.

As I watched several items appear on the list, it occurred to me that many of them would never have been added if I were writing it. A past friend from whom I’d parted on unkind terms… The loss of Rick’s job… A grueling work project… My treadmill… A recent health issue… Initially I felt no gratitude at all for these things. But then I realized that each one had brought me a challenge from which I’d benefited and learned. And I was indeed grateful for the lesson.

Suddenly, the list was done. It was massive. I placed it in the large wooden box. I could barely close the lid, but when I did I sat and smiled. Then I turned my attention to the small box.

A list of my prayers… dreams, desires, yearnings. I wondered how I ever would fit such a large list into such wee space…

I began.

In the tiniest of handwriting, I wrote down everything. Ample money for retirement. Lose 50 pounds. A new car. Time off next year for a proper vacation. Better skin. An upgraded Mac. Those cool jeans from the Fall catalog. Clear cell phone service at the house. Unlike my gratitude list, this one started out with far too many items; it didn’t seem to end. And no matter how small I printed, the list was always too large for the box.

Again, the stranger checked on me.  While watching me attempt to squeeze my list into the box in frustration he responded, don’t focus on the task. Focus on the prayer. Listen to your heart. He left and I sat there quietly, listening… waiting…

Waiting…

And then the voice came. Without any worry over the size of my writing, I picked up my pen and dictated the three prayers it said aloud: one for me, one for those I love and one for those in the world around me:

May I be more patient and kind.
May those I love be happy and healthy. 
May everyone know tolerance and peace.

Then I folded the paper and placed it in the tiny box. The lid closed without any difficulty.

I stood and looked at my two boxes. One filled with a large list of gratitude, and another filled with a small list of prayer. I smiled.

Then I awoke from my dream… and it hit me:

Gratitude and Prayer.
Thank you and Please.

Perfect portions. Perfect order. Perfect lesson.

This post ©2012 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

But really, these folks do need to come to terms with what they make for a living and finally tell their moms. I mean, c’mon – we all poop and toilet paper is a necessary product, so just call it what it is. I for one would feel less confused if I could purchase toilet paper instead of bathroom tissue - which always leaves me feeling like I should be blowing my nose with it and not wiping my ass.

Oops…
Complete. Post. Derail.
Sorry about that.

Back to my point.

These fancy little toilet paper containers truly befuddle me for lots of reasons. First off, why a plastic air-tight lid? Will the toilet paper actually go bad or become stale if it’s not stored properly, like coffee?  Because if that’s the case, Cottonelle should get smart and add a ‘Best Used Before’ date on their packaging. Like beer – which, coincidentally, is the prime reason I personally go through so much toilet paper. But I digress. Again.

Second, why a container?  Why disguise toilet paper? Why not just leave the roll out in the open, sitting on the back of the toilet? I know, I can already hear some of you collectively inhaling to recite your sprayage speech (don’t even bother Googling that word, by the way, because I just made it up). Alright, then – but if I lived with a sloppy pee-er and needed a container to protect my spare roll (blech!), I certainly wouldn’t opt for one that conceals it, inevitably provoking panicked cries from guests.

GUEST: You’re out of paper! Where’s your spare roll?
YOU: It’s in that fancy little airtight plastic container!
GUEST: I thought that was for coffee!

No sirree, Bob. Instead, I’d head on down to the nearest assisted living facility and find some lovely elderly woman who still partakes in the lost art of crochet to make me one of those Barbie-doll covers. You know, the ones where you shove the toilet paper up her skirt. There’s never a question of where the spare roll is: everyone knows what’s under there. And unless that little old lady makes that skirt out of designer mohair, it’s washable. Sprayage problem resolved and no more frantic, confused shouts from bathroom guests.

Third issue I have with these little containers: it doubles your effort. Once you’ve used the spare roll stored inside them, you need to refill them. Running out of paper just became even more of a pain in the ass. Worse, there are now two things to nag the hubby about: the roll being empty and the container being empty. I don’t know about you, but I work pretty hard around my house to reduce naggage.

THE BOTTOM LINE: it’s not so much that this product is useless. It’s just unnecessary. I not only don’t get it, I won’t get it. Ever.

There are lots other products I don’t and won’t get:

Monograms.* Get over it, boys: summer camp was over 30 years ago and you need to start doing your own laundry. Or get over yourself: other than the Queen, no one deserves their own crest on their clothes…

Organic eggs in inorganic packages. No shit, my grocery store actually sells locally farmed, all natural eggs in airtight plastic containers – the same kind of plastic that requires parents be armed with box cutters on Christmas day and sends one out of every three dads to the emergency room for resulting stitches. Can you spell I-R-O-N-Y?

Pancake pens. I saw these in a catalog, accompanied by a picture showing happy toddlers drawing designer pancakes shaped like dinosaurs or amoebas, straight into the frying pan. They sold for $8.95 each. It’s a freaking 59-cent squeeze bottle, folks. Wake up and smell the oil burns.

Wine bottle toppers. Right… as if there’s gonna be any left. What a waste of money.

Pajama Jeans.  Listen up, honey: your pajamas look infinitely better on you than those jeans. You’re not fooling anyone.

Scented tampons. Are you freaking kidding me? Who benefits???

Truly. I. Don’t. Get. It.  But I realize that the world does not owe me a personal explanation of this particular brand of insanity. Perhaps I should even be thankful for that.

What I do get, however, is how fun those Barbie-doll covers still are. I soooo need one of those…

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* Alright… monograms aren’t really a product per se… but they still irk me.

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This post ©2012 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

“Are you better off now than you were four years ago?”

As a rule, I tend to skirt all questions political, particularly with those whom I know openly endorse anything I passionately oppose (such as any form of discrimination or telling me what I can or cannot do with my own girl parts). But this question tugs at me on a personal level – not a political one. Mostly because of timing.

For the past four or so years, I’ve been on a personal campaign to become a better person. I saw myself approaching fifty and I didn’t like the person I was. More to the point: I knew I could do better with myself. I wanted to be more content, more grateful, more happy, more confident. More comfortable being ME. Throughout the course of this campaign, monitoring my own moral pulse has been foundational. So considering this question at this moment seems delectably symbiotic.

AM I better off now than I was four years ago?
If so, how?
What have I learned, and how has it made me better?

After careful thought, it turns out that I’ve learned quite a bit…

I have learned that it is usually not people who disappoint and hurt me, but rather my own expectations of these people. Readjusting those expectations has changed me for the better.

I have learned that I’ve spent too much of my money and time on possessions and not enough on people or experiences. That’s different now. As a result I give more, get more, see and do more, and I’ve grown more.

I have learned that I am the keeper of my own heart, my own happiness. It’s helped me become more accountable to myself and less dependent on others.

I have learned that the length of a friendship has nothing to do with the quality of it – and not to assume that these characteristics are interchangeable. This has helped me hold some friends closer and gently let go of others.

I have learned to release my own inhibitions regarding my physical self; they were getting in the way of not only liking me, but being me.

I have learned to appreciate the blessed gift of laughter. Especially in cases when I need to laugh at my own, silly self.

I have learned to trust in the divinity of timing; that things meant to be will happen on their own time, and not mine. With this lesson came such a wave optimism and release, it initially overwhelmed me.

I have learned to stop focusing on waiting.  Waiting for something to be over, waiting for something (or someone) to get better. To look around. To pay attention to where I am in moments of beauty, sadness and difficulty, and to harvest what I can from where I am – even if it’s not where I want to be. The line is part of the ride…

I have learned that staying open about trying new things may not make me good at them, but there’s so much fun when the focus is on the trying, the doing, the learning.

I have learned that I need to stop comparing and judging.  The former is a crime against me, the latter a crime against others.

I have learned when to listen to my inner voice, when to question her, and when to tell her to shut the fuck up. Ironically, this has helped me trust myself more than ever before.

I have learned that saying nothing is always better than saying the wrong thing and that – in the absence of the right words – a loving hug of support speaks for itself.

I have learned that when mean things are spoken by others, they have more to do with the person saying them – and that I need not take it so personally as a result. I am now less prone to anger and snide reactions –  and more prone to forgiveness.

I have learned that no matter how bad I think things are, someone else is wishing for what I have. This thought has been life-changing.

I have learned that I am not perfect and will never be. But I am better. And I like that.

So politics aside, I have determined that I am indeed better off than I was four years ago. And I pledge (only to myself, of course) to be far better off in four more years.

Thanks to my own personal campaign of ME.

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This post ©2012 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

At the end of each week, Florence would spend her Fridays carefully removing every piece from that china cabinet for a meticulous polish and dust, only to return it to a predesignated spot where it would remain untouched for yet another week. Along with other household chores (which at one point included washing and ironing every set of curtains in her house), she referred to this ritual as Friday’s Work.

A few years back when Flo was moved to assisted living, my husband asked me to clean out his mother’s beloved china cabinet.  I didn’t want this job for a host of reasons, the primary one being that I was not on good terms with my mother-in-law. Florence was not an easy woman to love. Afflicted with a strong sense of entitlement and a belief that a more prosperous life should have merely been dropped in her lap, she never pursued anything that would have made her happy. Instead she chose to spend her years looking past those who willingly offered love and yearning for more, then bitterly complaining when it never arrived. Flo’s self worth – and the worth of her material possessions – far outweighed the value of anyone including her own children, who served as nothing more than emotionally battered victims of her quest to find someone (or some thing) who’d offer a better life.

I worked very hard to get past Flo’s ability to willingly discard love simply because it didn’t suit her expectations, but it deeply pained me to see her treat others (including my own husband) with such unkindness and blatant disregard. At first I tried to be her friend but, like everyone else, I couldn’t live up to her haughty expectations. Eventually, the toxicity became too much and I backed out of further phone calls and visits.

In the end, she drove everyone away but for a few, one of them being my Rick. So because he really needed the help, I packed the car with boxes and newspaper to begin the task of cleaning out Flo’s china cabinet.

Finding someone in your life such as Florence often often leads you to examine your own perceptions of happiness and love. And here I was, about to examine the very items in which she’d found more happiness and love than in her own friends and family. It was unsettling. Initially it felt awkward, forbidden even, reaching for the glass door to slide open the cabinet, exposing Flo’s beloved treasures to a flood of fresh air and light.

As I removed the contents, I wondered about the hold these items had on her. To Florence, their value was not sentimental but rather monetary and symbolic. They were rewards for having achieved a place in upper middle-class. Because they held such prominence, these treasures were used only for the most special of occasions, as a proud declaration of having acquired a highly sought after lifestyle. They were to be ogled over and admired by others. Any less an occasion would not have been worthy of their use.  And because such events rarely occurred, most items never left the inner sanctuary of the china cabinet. Unless you count her Friday’s Work.

I believe this is the saddest part of Flo’s story: that she saved her things – and her love - for events and people that never arrived. Nothing was ever special enough. Or special at all, for that matter. And when no one worthy of her expectations showed up, she grew angry and bitter, assuming the part of Unloved Victim in a story she perpetuated that vastly distorted reality.

An examination of the contents of that china cabinet was an examination of Florence herself.

Ironically, it turned out that none of Flo’s treasures held any of the value she’d assigned them.  Napkin rings that she believed were gold were not. Tea sets once coated with the barest layer of silver had long been polished off. European crystal turned out to be restaurant-grade goblets. Ceramic figurines were not the antique porcelain she’d been told about. Plastic cocktail skewers were not ivory. And china plates were chipped and worn from years of being stacked atop one another.

All that Friday’s Work, all those high expectations, all that saving for special occasions or people… it resulted in nothing.

In the end, it was all thrown away. No one wanted anything, since these very items that represented a good life for Florence also symbolized to others her inability to desire and love anything but them.

In situations like these, I tend to look for the lessons. The one I learned from Flo and her china cabinet is simply not to have one. Because anything designated only for special - be it a gadget, appliance, blouse or plate – eventually forces you to rate each individual or event, to determine whether they’re special enough for the special stuff.  Surely, weighing the value of a person is a crime. Caring for and coveting material possessions more than the people in your life must be equally criminal.

In our house, we celebrate the everyday with all that we have and our table is dressed each time we sit around it – whether with friends or by ourselves. We don’t save the special stuff since, to us, everything is special. This may sound as though it would lessen an important event, but in reality it transforms every occasion when we’re together into something wonderful.

Everything is special enough to mark both the ordinary and the extraordinary. Therein lies the value… not monetary, but in sentiment. Not in our things, but in each other.

This post ©2012 ORANGESWING.COM AND SUSAN RILEY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.