Every-so-often a writer touches on something so wise, so true, that we all stand up and notice. One such writer is Winston Groom. He wrote the book Forrest Gump. His line of truth is often quoted, but seldom fully considered.
“My momma always said, 'Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.'”
Truer words were never spoken... by a fictional character in a book later turned into a blockbuster movie starring Tom Hanks.
Of course, in my experience, you need to get that box for yourself 'cuz no one is going to give it to you. Not even on Valentine's Day. I've gotten flowers, cards, and, long ago, a slinky pair of underwear, but never chocolate. That says something, doesn't it?
So, in order to get a life/box of chocolates, I need to go to a store. A store filled with people who ignore me except for the occasional and totally insincere “sorry” if their cart is blocking my way down the aisle. Once I get to the candy section, my eyes flit from one red, cellophane-covered box to the next. There are too many choices. Lining the top shelves are huge, dual-level ones of fine Belgian goodness that I can't afford. My gaze drifts downwards to micro-mini boxes filled with cheap and probably stale chunks of brown that resemble something made from what comes out of the end of a cow rather than her utter. The latter is the only type I'm comfortable spending money on. I mean, it's just for me, and is therefore not really important.
I didn't mention the guilt that goes along with even standing in that aisle. Glancing both directions with my arms tightly crossed in front of my chest, I'm embarrassed. Sure, it's somewhat humiliating to have to buy your own Valentine's Day gift. But I can brush that off - I have my excuse all prepared. If someone looks at me funny, I'll just shrug and say, “I never know what to get him.” No one knows that the “him” I'm referring to is my cat who doesn't like chocolate. But I'll “help” him enjoy his gift by polishing off the box while he and I watch a romantic comedy. No, the embarrassing part is that I'm in the candy aisle. Period. It's a law from the female handbook. I'm paraphrasing here, but the gist is: Thou shalt not buy sweets without feeling mucho guilt.
So, after sneaking up to the cash register, avoiding any judgmental eyes, I ask for my forbidden fruit with no fruit (I take my chocolate straight, thank you very much) to be double-bagged for privacy's sake. Porn, chocolate – it's all the same. Back at my lair, after queuing up the film, I unwrap my heart-shaped prize and settle back onto the couch with my cat beside me. I like to think he's happy because it's the thought that counts.
While finer chocolates have the guide as to which chocolate has coconut-filling and which has nuts in it, the cheap ones do not. As in the rest of my life, I have to guess. I force myself to take a tiny bite when what I really want to do is shove them one-by-one without chewing into my mouth. But, in this and, sadly, in only this, I have learned patience.
This oval one is...raspberry. Eww. Like I said, fruit and chocolate - not good. I put the rest of that one back in its little spot.
This one with the swirl of white chocolate is...oh god, I don't even know what that is. Sugar-flavored? Yeah, I'll eat that one.
One by one I go through them, tasting and disliking. It doesn't take long because I couldn't rationalize buying the big, ridiculously-cheap one. But there is one shape I recognize – the square. Regardless of size of box or quality of chocolate, they always include that one, and it always has the same interior. You know which one I mean. I keep that one for last. Until then, I taste each one, decide I hate most of them, put them down, and then go back and finish them off anyway.
And finally, the square. The perfect closure to a life experience of humiliation, nervousness, and filling myself with almost-good-but-not-good-enough. The square - sweet caramel enveloped by milk chocolate. It may be hard and difficult to swallow, but I love it as I love my family – totally and completely.
So, is life like a box of chocolates? Let's consider. No one is going to give me a life. I have to get it on my own. Life is full of embarrassment and, occasionally, shame. I hide myself behind at least two layers of baggage. Patience has its rewards; even mistakes sometimes have their rewards. I push myself to try new things, but they never seem to satisfy me. And, most importantly, I keep the knowledge that, someday, I will have something that, though it may be hard and difficult to swallow, will be bring me the joy and fulfillment I long for.
Life...if only it came in a pretty, red, cellophane-covered box.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Belligerent
As I was doing my errands today, I discovered something about myself. Something humiliating, something terrible and frightening.
I am one of those “happy people”! You know what I'm talking about, right? Those people who smile at perfect strangers or hold the door open for someone else after they walk through themselves, even if it means they have to wait until the other person casually strolls up the sidewalk to the door. One of those weirdos who wish everyone they make eye contact with (as well as those they don't) a “Happy New Year” or give the grocery shopper next to them advice on which kind of deodorant works best.
Oh my god, I'm one of them.
I was just getting a cup a coffee for goodness sake! Just standing there waiting patiently for my peppermint mocha, when I heard the woman who ordered after me say she didn't have enough money to pay for her iced latte. So without thinking, I reached into my own wallet, counted out 43 cents, and gave it to her. She thanked me and smiled. The cashier tilted her head to the side and smiled too. Then, when I went to return their smiles, I realized that I didn't have to make one. I was already wearing a stupidly large grin. The worst part was I didn't know where it had come from or how long it had been there!
It was disgusting. So I did what any other true-blooded American would do - I dropped the smile and pushed past the other patrons on my way out the door. I didn't hold it open for the next person coming through. In fact, I closed it on purpose, which wasn't easy because it was one of those safe doors that close really slowly. But I did it. Then I threw a nasty glare to the person I'd just stopped and stormed to my car. On the way home, I cut off as many other drivers as I could and even flipped someone the bird for absolutely no reason.
I reached over to get my mocha from the cupholder and my hand closed around air. The cupholder was empty. I'd left my drink back at the coffee shop.
I just hope that once they realized I'd left without it, they'd given it to the person I closed the door on. Or maybe the driver I'd flipped off was heading to get coffee and she likes peppermint mochas too. She could have it.
Oh crap! There I go doing it again. Maybe that would be a good resolution for New Years – eat healthily, go to the gym, and practice being belligerent.
I am one of those “happy people”! You know what I'm talking about, right? Those people who smile at perfect strangers or hold the door open for someone else after they walk through themselves, even if it means they have to wait until the other person casually strolls up the sidewalk to the door. One of those weirdos who wish everyone they make eye contact with (as well as those they don't) a “Happy New Year” or give the grocery shopper next to them advice on which kind of deodorant works best.
Oh my god, I'm one of them.
I was just getting a cup a coffee for goodness sake! Just standing there waiting patiently for my peppermint mocha, when I heard the woman who ordered after me say she didn't have enough money to pay for her iced latte. So without thinking, I reached into my own wallet, counted out 43 cents, and gave it to her. She thanked me and smiled. The cashier tilted her head to the side and smiled too. Then, when I went to return their smiles, I realized that I didn't have to make one. I was already wearing a stupidly large grin. The worst part was I didn't know where it had come from or how long it had been there!
It was disgusting. So I did what any other true-blooded American would do - I dropped the smile and pushed past the other patrons on my way out the door. I didn't hold it open for the next person coming through. In fact, I closed it on purpose, which wasn't easy because it was one of those safe doors that close really slowly. But I did it. Then I threw a nasty glare to the person I'd just stopped and stormed to my car. On the way home, I cut off as many other drivers as I could and even flipped someone the bird for absolutely no reason.
I reached over to get my mocha from the cupholder and my hand closed around air. The cupholder was empty. I'd left my drink back at the coffee shop.
I just hope that once they realized I'd left without it, they'd given it to the person I closed the door on. Or maybe the driver I'd flipped off was heading to get coffee and she likes peppermint mochas too. She could have it.
Oh crap! There I go doing it again. Maybe that would be a good resolution for New Years – eat healthily, go to the gym, and practice being belligerent.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Words
What is your favorite word? Not the word you use most frequently -- the word that makes you smile when you say it. My son's favorite word is “glossary”. He didn't know what it meant, but liked the way it sounded when he said it. That's what I mean -- the kind of word that feels good in your mouth and tickles your tongue. A good word has a trill to it like music. Hey, that's a nice one – “trill”.
I love words; not a big surprise from someone who dreams of one day making a living with them. But with writing, the words are spelled, not spoken – it's not the same. I have to imagine the words on the page being said aloud, or at least wait until I'm alone in the house so my family won't think I've lost it. The other downside to writing is that I don't seem to be able to use most of my favorite words in my work: “existential”, “sanctimonious”, “reciprocity”. Although I did actually manage to squeeze “carnivorous” into a story recently.
Others I can't even fit into conversation, at least not the sort of conversations I have. “Perpetuate” is hard to slip into a chat about play-dates, isn't it? If only I knew a “philanthropist” to refer to or even knew what “pedagogy” meant. And who could I possibly describe as “nubile” without being laughed at? Unfortunately, as this point in my life, I have no need to use the word “aphrodisiac”.
Of course, every once in a while, there is a “calamity” in my life, or an “ignoramus”. I did have to “eradicate” the ants from my kitchen a few weeks ago. Yesterday I told the clerk at Best Buy that something was “prohibitively” expensive. He didn't smile when I said it, but I did. Oh, and on Friday, my boss went “ballistic” when I asked him if I could have a few days off around Christmas.
My daughter told me that her favorite word is “kitty”. I asked her why, but she just shrugged. Then my son leaned over and whispered to me, “I thought she was going to say 'makeup'”. So did I.
What's your favorite? You don't have to tell me, but I'm betting that the next time you say it, you'll think of me ... or not.
I love words; not a big surprise from someone who dreams of one day making a living with them. But with writing, the words are spelled, not spoken – it's not the same. I have to imagine the words on the page being said aloud, or at least wait until I'm alone in the house so my family won't think I've lost it. The other downside to writing is that I don't seem to be able to use most of my favorite words in my work: “existential”, “sanctimonious”, “reciprocity”. Although I did actually manage to squeeze “carnivorous” into a story recently.
Others I can't even fit into conversation, at least not the sort of conversations I have. “Perpetuate” is hard to slip into a chat about play-dates, isn't it? If only I knew a “philanthropist” to refer to or even knew what “pedagogy” meant. And who could I possibly describe as “nubile” without being laughed at? Unfortunately, as this point in my life, I have no need to use the word “aphrodisiac”.
Of course, every once in a while, there is a “calamity” in my life, or an “ignoramus”. I did have to “eradicate” the ants from my kitchen a few weeks ago. Yesterday I told the clerk at Best Buy that something was “prohibitively” expensive. He didn't smile when I said it, but I did. Oh, and on Friday, my boss went “ballistic” when I asked him if I could have a few days off around Christmas.
My daughter told me that her favorite word is “kitty”. I asked her why, but she just shrugged. Then my son leaned over and whispered to me, “I thought she was going to say 'makeup'”. So did I.
What's your favorite? You don't have to tell me, but I'm betting that the next time you say it, you'll think of me ... or not.
Monday, December 7, 2009
How I Know I Don't Have Enough Friends...
Or maybe it's that the friends I do have just don't like me enough. Or my family. While I ponder that, I will tell you how I came upon this realization.
It started at my mailbox, I know it's Sunday - no mail, but I forgot to get it yesterday. Thankfully, since I signed up for all of those eco-friendly services to reduce the amount of junk mail I receive, I usually only get enough to fill the mailbox every other day.
On the way back to my door, I went through the letters.
It isn't as exciting to receive a gift card that you sent yourself. I'd traded in some airline miles from an airline I never planned on using again to get three $25 gift cards to a bookstore and two restaurants. It was so long ago, I'd forgotten.
At least I could take myself out to dinner, plus there was still the other envelope that really looked like a Christmas card. So I grabbed that one and ripped it open. It was! It was a Christmas card - not the finest quality, but I'm not picky. It had five different-colored Christmas tree ornaments in a row, hanging from a squiggly line of sparkles. Sparkles make me smile. The words wished me "Happy Holidays"! I wondered what the inside would say (seeing as how sweet the front was). I opened up the card and read:
It was an ad, there wasn't even a gift card in it.
Do you know how I'm sure I don't have enough friends. Because I put that card up on my mantel. Right next to the one I'd received from State Farm for Thanksgiving. Then I took myself out to dinner.
It started at my mailbox, I know it's Sunday - no mail, but I forgot to get it yesterday. Thankfully, since I signed up for all of those eco-friendly services to reduce the amount of junk mail I receive, I usually only get enough to fill the mailbox every other day.
On the way back to my door, I went through the letters.
- One big stack of advertisements that, out of principle, I will never look at, much less use.
- A letter from my bank - hopefully a statement and not a Notice Of Changes to my account, which we all know is bank speech for "more expensive charges for every reason we can think of".
- Three envelopes of identical size and return address (no name, just the address) with something hard inside of them, like a credit card.
- And one larger envelope that looked like a Christmas card!
It isn't as exciting to receive a gift card that you sent yourself. I'd traded in some airline miles from an airline I never planned on using again to get three $25 gift cards to a bookstore and two restaurants. It was so long ago, I'd forgotten.
At least I could take myself out to dinner, plus there was still the other envelope that really looked like a Christmas card. So I grabbed that one and ripped it open. It was! It was a Christmas card - not the finest quality, but I'm not picky. It had five different-colored Christmas tree ornaments in a row, hanging from a squiggly line of sparkles. Sparkles make me smile. The words wished me "Happy Holidays"! I wondered what the inside would say (seeing as how sweet the front was). I opened up the card and read:
Enjoy the gift of Netflix
It was an ad, there wasn't even a gift card in it.
Do you know how I'm sure I don't have enough friends. Because I put that card up on my mantel. Right next to the one I'd received from State Farm for Thanksgiving. Then I took myself out to dinner.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
DAYS OF THE WEEK, sung by Zoe S
Monday, Monday, Oh I love my Monday
Monday, Monday, Oh I love my MONDAY!
At the final Monday, she yells the word and throws her arms up into the air
Tuesday, Tuesday, Oh I love my Tuesday
Tuesday, Tuesday, Oh I love my TUESDAY!
Same thing here
Wednesday, Wednesday, Oh I love my Wednesday
Wednesday, Wednesday, Oh I love my WEDNESDAY!
Ditto
Thursday, Thursday, Oh I love my Thursday
Thursday, Thursday, Oh I love my THURSDAY!
You guessed it
Friday, Friday, Oh-
She stops singing, a puzzled look on her face.
Wait, erase that ... cause we don't usually sing it on Fridays.
This is where I start laughing.
Let me start over.
Right here I'm trying not to visibly cringe
But just from Thursday.
Sigh of relief
Thursday, Thursday, Oh I love my Thursday...
You can't make this stuff up.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Texting
I love texting. I do it constantly. But, even though it is oddly still legal in Florida, I don't do it while I'm driving. Outside the car, though, I am like a fiend on my little QWERTY keyboard. My best friend and I have long conversations with our fingers - back and forth, back and forth. We do it all the time because we can type fast.
The only problem with texting is that sometimes, and with some people, it just isn't fast enough. Plus, my phone only lets me use 160 characters before I have to press 'send' and start another one. Then I have to go back into the main menu, through 'messaging', 'send text', 'text message', and select the recipient again, all before I can continue my thought from the previous text. Not everyone types as fast as I do, and some people don't have the full keyboard. They have to press 'PQRS' three times for each 'R' in "terrible", just to describe their day! That is what my mom has to do.
If I were more electronically inclined, I would invent something faster than texting - something that could practically read your mind, it would be so fast. Then, because I created it, I could name it. It would need to be something user-friendly, something simple that could easily become part of our everyday venacular. Something like...
The only problem with texting is that sometimes, and with some people, it just isn't fast enough. Plus, my phone only lets me use 160 characters before I have to press 'send' and start another one. Then I have to go back into the main menu, through 'messaging', 'send text', 'text message', and select the recipient again, all before I can continue my thought from the previous text. Not everyone types as fast as I do, and some people don't have the full keyboard. They have to press 'PQRS' three times for each 'R' in "terrible", just to describe their day! That is what my mom has to do.
If I were more electronically inclined, I would invent something faster than texting - something that could practically read your mind, it would be so fast. Then, because I created it, I could name it. It would need to be something user-friendly, something simple that could easily become part of our everyday venacular. Something like...
TELEPHONE
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Mary Poppins Inspires Anarchy
The kids and I were watching Mary Poppins today. Them for the first time, and me for the 8 billionth time. Remember it? It's a great movie about a totally disfunctional family who knows how to sing and the nanny who comes to save them all.
I mean, really, the two kids are angels compared to kids today (my own not included - they really are angels) but both have massive inferiority complexes. The mother is a closet feminist - dancing through the streets for the right to vote during the day then gliding smoothly into the role of doormat as soon as her husband comes home. And the father, well, he's what we would now call "a prick". I can't see Julie Andrews saying that at all though.
But in the end, he turns around and realizes that he would rather be flying a kite with his kids than working. That was the part that got me - he'd rather be flying a kite. Okay. Makes sense. Then he tells his boss off and dances away with his family.
That was when I realized how fantastic life would be if we all came to that conclusion. Every one of us could dance out of our places of employment to go fly kites. The telling your boss off part could be up to the individual - I happen to like my boss, so would skip that part.
Then I came to my second realization - not many of us know how to fly kites. And not many of us would want to fly a kite. Hmm, too bad - he looked so happy.
I mean, really, the two kids are angels compared to kids today (my own not included - they really are angels) but both have massive inferiority complexes. The mother is a closet feminist - dancing through the streets for the right to vote during the day then gliding smoothly into the role of doormat as soon as her husband comes home. And the father, well, he's what we would now call "a prick". I can't see Julie Andrews saying that at all though.
But in the end, he turns around and realizes that he would rather be flying a kite with his kids than working. That was the part that got me - he'd rather be flying a kite. Okay. Makes sense. Then he tells his boss off and dances away with his family.
That was when I realized how fantastic life would be if we all came to that conclusion. Every one of us could dance out of our places of employment to go fly kites. The telling your boss off part could be up to the individual - I happen to like my boss, so would skip that part.
Then I came to my second realization - not many of us know how to fly kites. And not many of us would want to fly a kite. Hmm, too bad - he looked so happy.
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