Current Quandary

As we head into the holiday cooking season, I wanted to pass along a really nifty idea. You know the recipe for your mother’s cheese ball that you have written down on a Post-It note? And that faded and stained recipe card for Aunt Milly’s sugar cookies? And those torn magazine pages stuffed between the pages of your cookbook? Well, gather them all up and send them to my friend Dana Hanna at Your Messy Recipes.com. She’ll organize and categorize them, then create and print your own custom cookbook. How great is that?! You’ll have your own wonderful heirloom — and you can even give copies to your family as gifts.

That Dana is one smart cookie. I wish I’d thought of it.

A few weeks ago my neighbors and I tried our hands at canning for the first time. We were spurred on by the incredible tomatoes I enjoyed all summer from my Consumer Supported Agriculture account with Harvest Valley Farms. Oh how I love a good tomato. To be able to enjoy locally grown tomatoes all winter long was certainly worth the eight hours it took to cook and can 24 jars each of tomatoes and spaghetti sauce. We followed Barbara Kingsolver’s family secret recipe for the  sauce, as found in her book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I’d never made the sauce before but it sounded delicious (the secret ingredient is honey).

Unfortunately, it doesn’t taste delicious. At least not to my palate. I made spaghetti last night and was devastated to learn that I now have 23 jars of sauce I don’t care for. This was just days after the five pounds of fresh green beans that I flash-cooked and froze turned to mush because my freezer broke. I tell you, if I open a jar of my canned tomatoes only to find I don’t like them I’m not sure what I’ll do. Although …

Homemade foodstuffs do make great holiday gifts.

My friend Cindy Closkey and her Brilliant Mistakes led me to this little Mad-Men Era quiz: “Are You A Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else?” Being a fan of the show, I naturally wanted to find out who I am. So I clicked on over to the site to take the short quiz.

What happened is what always happens whenever I take a personality quiz. I couldn’t decide which answer was more true for me. I got stumped on the very first question. Adding to my indecision was the fact that there were only two questions in the quiz, so this question counted for 50% of the results.  None of the three descriptions seemed overwhelmingly right. And yet all of them seemed right in some ways.

This happens to me over and over again. I remember reading Sacred Contracts by Caroline Myss. You were supposed to choose 10 archetypes that resonated with you, out of an index of 70. The first time through the list I checked 26. More than a third! I whittled the list down to 16 and gave up. Never did finish reading the damn book.

I’m convinced that my indecision has to do with my Zodiac sign (at least I think that’s a possibility, or maybe it’s not). I’m a Pisces, which is two different fish connected together. That in itself is a recipe for dichotomy. But it gets worse. I once had my astrological chart read and, based on where and when I was born, instead of two personas, I have something like 20. (Not in the literal split-personality, psychotic sense of the word — at least I hope not.) I asked the astrologist if that could be why I’m so indecisive and she basically said, “Well, duh.”

So am I a Jackie or a Marilyn or someone else? Yes.

Sure, the profuse periodical requires the sacrifice of too many trees. And I can never get the whole thing read before the next issue arrives. But the woman devotes regular column space to Martha Beck, a life coach who always gives me something to think about. And this month her column “Urgent! Urgent! (Or is it?)” made me take note of why I’ve been so happy lately.

The column delves into what CMU professor Randy Pausch said in his famous “Last Lecture:” To live richly and avoid regret, we must give priority to things of real importance. And, as Martha Beck put it, when we do what really matters to us, life comes into harmonious alignment.

Management guru Stephen Covey Sr. proposed we categorize all activities on a matrix of apparant urgency and ultimate importance. After we’ve handled the Important & Urgent stuff, we almost always jump to the Urgent & Not Important stuff when we should go to the Important & Not Urgent things.

That’s what I’ve been focused on lately: the stuff that is important to me but not urgent. I’ve been working a lot on revising my novel. And eating right and exercising. And yoga. And getting enough sleep. These things are not important to anyone else; In doing them, I am not trying to please anyone but myself. But, just like Martha said, life feels harmoniously in alignment.

Now for my confession: The only reason I started focusing on these Important & Not Urgent things in the first place is because work is slow, we haven’t been traveling, and by pure chance things are calm and quiet on the home front. The real test will be in keeping this wonderful groove going when those other categories start clamoring for attention.

The Important & Urgent I’ll of course tend to. But the Urgent & Unimportant I’m determined to ignore. You know, like when the next issue of O Magazine arrives and I’ve barely made it through this month’s issue. Instead of my typical required-homework reaction, “I need to finish reading that,” I’m going straight to next month’s issue and read Martha Beck’s next column.

My friend Doug Borsch at A Little Chaos tipped me off to this clever NY Times op-ed piece. Regardless of which presidential candidate you’re voting for, if you miss watching The West Wing since it went off the air — and who doesn’t? Really, the writing was incredible — here’s a quick fix. Enjoy. (I wonder if the Obama camp has seen it?)

This morning I saw the funniest thing: young geese learning to fly in formation. A flock of them came swooping over our deck, heading south, honking and squawking like crazy. When I looked up I saw the leader in what should have been the point of the V. But the entire rest of the flock, instead of trailing behind in two single-file lines, was off to his (or her) right in one giant clump, wings un-synchronized, each seemingly yelling at the other, “You’re out of position, Dude!” Their leader/coach (no doubt rolling his eyes) made them circle back around to the north to practice again, as if to say, “No one is going anywhere for the winter until you straighten up and fly right!”

On another flying note, last night I saw the musical Wicked (The Untold Story of the Witches of Oz). It’s based on the novel by Gregory Maguire and written by Winnie Holzman, who wrote three excellent TV series: “My So Called Life,” “Once and Again” and “thirtysomething.” As someone known amongst friends to see both sides of arguments, situations and stories (albeit irritating to the PO’d friend telling the story), I felt oddly vindicated that someone saw the Wicked Witch’s side. Even if it is fiction.

Let’s start with a morning phone conversation between Brian (at home) and me (in Detroit):

Brian: I think Wilson might have gotten sprayed by a skunk last night. At 2 a.m. I realized he wasn’t in the bedroom and when I called him in from the dog-yard he was soaking wet and reeking. But I’m not sure if it was that wet-dog smell or a skunk.

Me: Oh, honey, you’d know if it was a skunk.

Yeah, well, I was wrong. Wilson had gotten skunked. And so, in effect, did our entire house, since Brian allowed him to come inside and hang out in all his usual spots: our bed, the couch, the chair in my office. Thank God I only had to put up with skunk-dog for one night before we cleared out for a long weekend. By the time we returned the house no longer smelled, though I can’t say the same for Wilson. Even though my wonderful niece bathed him three times for us while we were gone, his face took the brunt of the spray and skunk scent has taken up long-term residence in all those folds of skin I find so adorable. Poor SkunkFace, as we now call him, can’t understand why no one wants his kisses anymore.

Moving on to a couple of days later…

I’m in my office when I hear Lucy come in the dog-door. Out of the corner of my eye I see she’s carrying this old plush toy that looks like a groundhog. Only I threw that toy away months ago. And this thing is much bigger than that toy was. Hmmm. “What’cha got, girl?” I walk around the desk to get a peak, thinking it must be a rag or something, and Lucy drops at my feet a real groundhog. It’s dead — thank God — but still, IT’S A GROUNDHOG. The thing was nearly as big as she is — I have no idea how she wrestled the thing through the dog-door, let alone managed to kill it.

Lucy, Wilson and I all stood there in our respective states: pride, curiosity and astonishment. I start to scream at her but then remember the effects of my freak-out earlier this summer with the bird. So instead I run down the hall, out the front door and down the driveway to get my neighbor. Back at the house, I shove Wilson into his crate so Lucy will stop guarding her fresh kill, and my neighbor bags the groundhog and hauls it outside to dispose of. I call the vet to double-check that Lucy is up-to-date on her rabies vaccine.

Sometimes — just sometimes — I don’t enjoy living in the boonies.

I’m having the “Monday is almost over and my to-do list for this short week has only gotten longer” panics. If you’re having the same kind of day, I direct you to Cindy Closkey’s blog, My Brilliant Mistakes, where she quotes a few phrases of wisdom.

I hope I can keep the dose of perspective throughout the 48 hours I have to work with — four of which I’ll be in a meeting — before I drive to Detroit Wednesday evening for a day-long meeting Thursday. This will be followed immediately by the 5-hour drive back home, so that I can make a much longer drive with family to the Catskills Friday to spend the holiday weekend in a lodge revamped in retro glory by a member of the B-52s. (More on this upon our return.)

I’m sure it’ll all be worth it. Right?

Things I should do inside:

1. Revise novel. On Friday I hit the half-way mark! But I still have two more sections to go by the end of August. But that’s just my own self-imposed deadline. But I have copywriting assignments ramping up next week so who knows when I’ll get another big chunk of time. But I’ve already spent several beautiful days inside working on it.
2. Construct iPhoto books. A great idea I had for thank you gifts to my cousins for the reunion they hosted in mid-July. A full month ago. I could no longer delay the thank you cards, so I sent those with the promise of something fun coming soon. But it’s so nice outside and this is a good rainy day activity. But there’s no forecast for rain for at least another week. What’s the time etiquette on thank you gifts?
3. Iron clothes. They’ve been sitting in the laundry room for a full week. But it’s not like we don’t have a closet full of other clothes we can wear.

Things I feel like doing outside (but have no money for):

1. Shopping for a large round or square patio table that can seat a minimum of eight. Yeah, sure, we can squeeze eight around the oval table we currently have. But a round or square table would fit the space so much better. And I hate the table we currently have. But summer is almost over. But patio furniture is on sale now. I could just window shop and not buy. But I have no self-control.
2. Going antiquing. I’d love to find a funky piece for the covered porch, something to set under the window and serve appetizers on. That space looks so bare. And I said at the beginning of summer that was what I was going to do. But summer is almost over. And antiques are never on sale. It would still be fun just to look. Ditto the no-self-control argument above.

Things I could do outside for little to no money:

1. Stain the small picnic table I bought last week for the yard. It was a great price at a road-side Amish furniture stand, but part of the savings was that it came untreated. I shouldn’t let too many days go by without treating it. But I can’t decide whether to stain it natural/clear or a color (yellow? green?).
2. Lay on the deck and read.

Hmmm.

Remember on the “I Love Lucy” TV show, how Ricky would scold Lucy when she messed up? Well, our bulldog Lucy really messed up the other night. She nipped our 10-year-old guest, Gracie. I say “nipped” because I can’t bring myself to say “bit.” In the face, no less. In one lunge she got her right on the cheekbone. No blood, luckily. But an abrasion and some swelling. What the #&*!?

I was completely mortified. I was also flabbergasted. Why did Lucy do it? It certainly wasn’t provoked. At the time of the incident, Gracie was sitting on the floor and Lucy had her back to her. Gracie leaned over to pet her, saying what a good girl the dog was, and Wham! Lucy whipped around and got her. It was instantly over; there was no ruckus to break up. I think we were all stunned for several seconds, including Gracie.

After we’d kicked into action, bringing Gracie into the kitchen and filling an icepack, I tried to theorize Lucy’s actions. I had this need to understand her motivation. Maybe she mistook Gracie for our other dog Wilson coming up behind her (she sometimes lets him have it when he sniffs her). Voicing this aloud only sounded like an excuse (which I did not intend it to), and a stupid one at that. Little Gracie replied, between sniffles, “Why would I want to sniff Lucy’s butt?” My humiliation deepened.

The saving grace was that Gracie’s folks are dog lovers. So they remained very calm about the episode, even thanking us for the evening while they settled Gracie into the car with an icepack on her face. I went to bed in a quandary. Was Lucy getting old and cranky? Did I need to keep her aways from kids? With our neighbor’s Elvis incident not even a week old (and his fate still up in the air, by the way) I was forced to admit that maybe a little apprehension of dogs is a good thing. We pet lovers tend to treat our dogs as part of the family, but the truth is they aren’t even part of the human race. I looked down at Lucy nestled at my feet and wished she could explain herself.

As they often do, things looked better in the morning (the exception being Gracie’s face, which was black & blue as if she’d been in a fist fight). Everyone compared their notes on the scandal and I learned that from my vantage point I had missed some key facts: There was a bone in the picture, in Lucy’s possession. And Wilson was circling, waiting to get his paws on it. Gracie unknowingly reached right into the tense silent stand-off and Lucy’s instincts took over.

Knowing this is a relief. The situation can easily be avoided in the future (no bones in front of company). And I now know that my dog wasn’t behaving like Cujo, just like a dog with a bone. So it’s no longer baffling (if no less mortifying).