DOING THINGS BADLY

I was walking out of my Continuing Ed watercolor class with one of my classmates.  “How are you liking the class?” I asked. I was pretty stoked about it. I have this bucket list of things I wanted to do when I had more spare time. The time had come—learning to paint was on it.

“I’m so bad at it,” she said discouragingly. “I thought it would be fun but it’s a lot harder than it looks.”

“No worries, I do a lot of things badly but that doesn’t stop me,” I told her.  I refrained from saying that very few things stop me if I’d decided upon doing them.  Not all the choices have been good ones, but I have reached my fifth decade so that’s saying something.

I knew in kindergarten being a great artist was not in the cards for me. It may have been my uniquely ugly, crayon creations that tipped me off. They were perfect eyesores.  They didn’t even warrant a place on the fridge, but I wished I’d archived them for kicks and giggle later.

My classmate sighed heavily, walked to her car and I never saw her again. I finished the course and thoroughly enjoyed it. My professor would often shake his head, bite his lip, and make a few suggestions. I’m pretty sure he pitied me, but I was enthusiastic and I made it to the end—six out of fifteen of us did. I felt sorry for him then. He’d given up his time to teach others about his passion and the badness factor had kept the rest of the students away.

The point here—yes, there is one— is that I’m all about the means, the journey,  the interesting stuff I learn along the way when I take up a new hobby. So far, I sew badly, I play the guitar super-badly, and I paint badly. I also park badly, but that’s a whole other blog.  It seems such a shame that people insist that they have to do whatever they do first rate, top of the class, must be the best at it, or the thing isn’t worth doing.

Can’t we just do it without the judgment of “bestness?” It’s being the best, doing the thing well or not at all, that cripples us. I’m not saying it hasn’t taken me years to get to this philosophical oneness with my badness, but once I did, I’ve had a lot of fun trying out new things and not worrying whether it’s good or bad. It just is. Isn’t that what having fun is all about?

So embrace your inner badness (the kind that goes with hobbies) and go out and have fun. If you’ve already reached this place—major kudos to you.  I won’t subject you to my watercolors, that would be cruel but I’ve archived them this time—you know, for posterity.

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WHAT EMMA TAUGHT ME

When I met Emma, she couldn’t pour her own cereal because she destroyed the kitchen. The whole place would have scattered cereal and spilled milk everywhere. It was like the Tasmanian Devil got hold of the Cheerios.

We’ve come a long way since then. She makes her own breakfast now. Having mastered that she’s moved onto bigger things–teaching me stuff, which is not as easy as it sounds. Here’s what I’ve learned:

Sandwiches do not need condiments. You taste the meat and cheese so much better. You get the essence of the unadulterated flavor.

The Review tab takes you to Spelling and Thesaurus in MS Word.

Coconut oil is great for your hair. It makes it shiny and soft. Note: A little goes a long way.

How to change the interior car lights to different groovy colors—a car feature I had no idea existed.

Ice cream in a cup is better than in a cone if you’d like it to stay solid when it’s a hundred degrees outside.

It’s fun to surf the floor in your socks. You need to watch your speed. Wood floors are hard. In the event of an emergency landing do the butt.

Chicken wire and manure have many uses. We won’t go there. Layce is still mad about it.

Recorder players are cool. Now, I am a record sniffer-outer in flea markets, antique shops, and thrift stores. Buying records facilitates a dialogue with others.

You can’t be lost if you’re still in Oklahoma. (Also, all cows look alike. You can’t use them as landmarks.)

She taught me that it is possible to crack the screen of your laptop by tripping and falling. I have experienced this myself. It’s alarming.

She taught me that you really can lose your glasses in a hay maze. I keep mine in sight at all times, most times, okay, there have been slip-ups.

It’s okay to wear a wig.

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LEAVE IT TO BEAVER

“We can’t go that way,” I told Emma. We were walking home after the belly dancing show in the park.

“Why not? It’s shorter,” Emma said.

“Because of the beaver.  I can’t deal with it. I tried to call the city to pick it for two days now.”

“Is it dead?” Emma asked.

“As a door nail.”

“Remember when you used to keep track of the dead animals we’d see on our road trips?” Emma asked.

“I had to stop doing that. It was too traumatic and I was concerned I’d start stopping to bury them.”

“Didn’t you have a character in one of your books that did that?” Emma asked.

“It was in my Family Affair trilogy. Chase did it. She couldn’t  bear to watch a beaver or any other animals get squished and taken to parts unknown in the tire treads of all the cars that will run the poor things over. And neither can I. If your mother hadn’t had stellar reflexes we would’ve high-centered the Jeep going over it,” I said. I was so busy worrying about the beaver that I didn’t realize we’d arrived at our street.

“Come on, you can do it,” Emma said.

“I can’t look.”

“Just pull your shirt over your head like you do when you watch scary movies.”

“I only do it when there’s a lot of blood, or needles, or dark hallways leading up to closed doors or…” I stopped. Evidently, I did wear my shirt over my head a lot. “Oh, all right. You’ll have to lead me past the beaver because I won’t be able see.” I pulled my shirt up over my eyes.

We got past the beaver without incident. At the top of the hill, Em told me it was safe to come out. I pulled my head out of my shirt. “What did the beaver look like now? Was it smooshed, dismembered, and lying there as a reminder of the complete disregard for the sanctity of a dignified death?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Because it wasn’t there.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me? It’s hot under my shirt.”

Emma just smiled.

“Does this have anything to do with my comment on your room?”

“You mean the one where you called it a cesspool of teenage funk and disarray?”

“Sounds familiar,” I said.

“Then, yes.” She looked at me and grinned.”Paybacks are hell.”

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THE BIG TRIP, Part One

I slapped a fat manila folder down on the table. “It’s finally done. Now we can go.” I was thrilled.

“What’s this?” Layce asked, gingerly picking up a corner of the folder as if what’s inside might leap out and snap off a finger.

“It’s the history of Hot Springs, demographics, weather predictions, must-see sights, morning walks mapped out, the best place for coffee and lunch, a list of all available hotels and their amenities, coupons, more maps, and reviews I want to compare to see just how people come up with those snippets on TripAdvisor, and a detailed packing list of all the things we’ll need to make our trip a success. Do you have any questions concerning your packet?”

“Huh?” Layce asked.

“You need to read all that so you’re prepared for our trip. I’ve included photos so you can get the feel of the place. See,” I handed her a series of photos of the Garvan Woodland Gardens. “And that’s the Grand Promenade,” I said indicating another photo. We’ll walk that the first morning. There are some great coffee shops along the way.” I pointed to the list of coffee shops, bistros and restaurants I had compiled.

“You have times listed here,” Layce said, scanning down the page.

“I made out a daily agenda so we wouldn’t miss anything. It just makes things easier. You get up, and you have your day all set up because your wife is taking care of everything. Now, I think you should go pack.”

“We’re not going for another six weeks.”

“No time like the present.” I grabbed the car keys.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the oil changed, the tires rotated, and a 52-point inspection. You don’t expect me to leave town without doing that. Safety first.”

I looked down at the presentation folder as it sat looking forlorn on the table. “Why aren’t you reading? You’ve got a lot of material to cover in six weeks. I expect you to be fully prepared.”

“Will there be a test?” Layce asked. She’d gotten up to pour coffee.

“No, but I put a lot of time into researching.” I put on my best pout face.

“But this is like watching those movie trailers that are too long. After you watch it, you feel like you’ve already seen the movie.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to go now?” I asked.

She flipped through the folder and said, “All the best stuff’s in here. We’d save a lot of money if I just read this. Then we wouldn’t have to go and spend a fortune on a vacation.”

I snatched the folder out of her hands. “Forget it. You’re not reading this.” I dumped it into the trash. “Forget it even existed.”

Layce smiled and walked out of the room humming a tune that sounded a lot like We Are the Champions.

Why do I get the feeling I was just bamboozled?

Stay tuned for The Big Trip Part Two.

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The Splooge Effect

It was one of those mornings.  My inner Luddite had become a Tasmanian devil.  I glared at my computer screen.  I sighed.  I swore.  I let out a definite splooge.  I couldn’t help it.

“You’re doing again,” Layce said.

“Doing what?” I asked, trying to hide the splooge.

“You’ve been splooging ever since your Dad’s email didn’t go through,” Layce said.  “Give me your computer.”

“I’m not splooging at you. I’m splooging at the Universe at large and technology in particular,” I said, handing over my laptop to see if she could sort it out.

“Well, some of the splooge splattered on me.  Did you send your dad’s email to the correct address?” Layce inquired.

“Yes and no.” I replied.

“What does that mean?  It’s either one or the other.”

“It means I sent it to the address on my contact list but it came back.  What I am attempting to do now is keep the email and see if I can find out the correct address otherwise I just wasted my time even bothering to write it.”

“I don’t understand Yahoo mail,” Layce said, scowling. She handed my laptop back.

“What do you use, Google?” I asked.

“No, I use Outlook Express through our internet provider,” Layce said.

“Don’t even get me started on Outlook Express,” I said. I pulled up Facebook and sent a private message to Lorene (my sister-in-law extraordinaire—she sorts out all the Bennett muddles.)

“Wanna listen to the email I just wrote Lorene?”

“Sure.”

“Dear Lorene, the new baby is adorable. I hope work is going well. WTF is wrong with my dad’s email? My email keeps getting returned. WTF has he done to his computer this time? Have a nice day. Hugs.”

“Nice,” Layce said.

Next, I tried to share a photo on Pinterest. “Ah! I can’t even download a stupid picture on Pinterest.” I’m trying not to look like I’m splooging.

“Step away from the computer,” Layce ordered.

I didn’t listen to her and succeeded in downloading two of the same photo on Pinterest.  Okay, well that was better than nothing, I thought.  I glanced over at Layce who appeared to be having her own computer issues.  She sighed.  She swore.

“What the hell? I can’t get the new book cover to come up,” Layce said.  “It’s lost somewhere in the ether and that is not where I wanted it.”

“I think you’re splooging on me.”

“No, I’m splooging at the internet,” Layce said.

“Well, I think I have a piece of splooge right here. Yes, this is definitely some splooge right here on my shoulder.”

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