ONE OF THOSE DAYS

It’s going to be one of those days.

You know the kind of day where you just get up with all of the energy and get-up-and-go in the world and you think to yourself, “This is the day I’m really going to get a lot done. Today is the first day of the rest of my life!” And then you plan:

1) I will restrict my caloric intake to exactly one thousand calories.

2) I will do all of the laundry in my hamper, including the fine hand-washables which have been at the bottom of the hamper for three months - which I swore to myself I would only buy on the condition that I would wear them once, then soak them in Woolite and lay them flat to dry.

3) I will not watch TV.

4) I will not indulge my urge to curse in traffic.

5) I will exercise ten minutes longer and twenty percent faster.

6) I will clean behind the refrigerator.

7) I will scour the stovetop.

I will finish three more pages in my screenplay.

9) I will make Henry an appointment for his annual with the vet.

10) I will make me an appointment for my annual with the ob-gyn.

11) I will nag Art to make an appointment for his annual with the GP.

12) I will cook a real dinner, as opposed to nuking a frozen pizza.

13) I will set a proper table instead of eating in front of the tube.

14) I will write something meaningful in my blog, or at least –

15) I will write something mildly amusing in my blog.

16) I will not go to bed tonight sighing, “Well, tomorrow’s another day”.

Have you ever had a day like this? No, I don’t mean a day where you actually did all the things you planned to do. I mean a day where you planned all the things you planned to do, then got distracted. Because, after all, the phone rings, the cat throws up, the basement floods, the car stalls, and Mercury is in retrograde. So you do what you can. You eat what you must. You curse because you can’t help it. And you do go to bed and sigh, just like Scarlett O’Hara – After all, tomorrow is another day!

© 2004, Robin Munson

A TON OF PREVENTION

Just a quick thought.

I wish I had a nickel for every medication, supplement, nostrum, and bottle of snake oil I have ever bought in my life, only to find out either: 1) it doesn’t work, or 2) it makes you sick. Every time a commercial comes on TV for one of those medicines, I am sitting there thinking – How long will it be before we’re hearing on the news that this latest, greatest cure is just a short-cut to a heart attack, a stroke, or some other life-threatening disease?

Besides, they always say, “Ask your doctor about . . .” and I’m thinking: Ask my doctor? I don’t know about your doctor, or the doctor they’re talking about in those commercials, but my doctor is always threatened by questions. (Okay, not every doctor I’ve ever had in my life, but quite a few doctors I have known). They just hate a “smart aleck” patient. I had one doctor in Tennessee who practically stopped talking to me because I questioned him. (Of course, that was in Tennessee. In California the doctors are used to being questioned). Besides, half the time they don’t tell you what the medicine is for. I can just see me going in to my family doctor saying: “They said to ask about HexiFlor. I don’t have any idea what it’s for, but do you think I need it?”

Anyway – Even having thrown away probably a health food store’s worth of medicines over the past five years, we have one whole shelf of a linen closet devoted to “dead medicine”. Cold remedies, nausea potions, creams, lotions, all natural laxatives, even ear candles – which I was always afraid would burn off my scalp. And yet I can’t quite bring myself to throw these treasures away. (The ear candles were a gift).

We’ve also got whole cycles of antibiotics that were prescribed for minor irritations. Art and I would read the warnings and when we got to sentences like, “Even a single dose of this medication has been known to cause DEATH” – we thought we would just take our chances with the infection.

When I consider the amount of money all this has cost, I ask myself if maybe medicines go through cycles of fashion just like clothes. Maybe Dr. Kornblum’s Old Fashioned Horehound Cough Syrup will come back into vogue in twenty years or so. But somehow, I doubt it.

One of these days I’m going to throw out the lot of it and make room for that extra set of sheets.

© 2004, Robin Munson

HEAVING ON A JET PLANE

In honor of our forthcoming trip, I thought I would share some of my sentiments about flying:

HEAVING ON A JET PLANE

(WITH DEEP APOLOGIES TO JOHN DENVER)

OH MY BAGS ARE PACKED – THEY SAY I MUST GO

I’M HANGING ON TO MY FRONT DOOR

ALREADY I’M TOO TERRIFIED TO CRY

BUT THE DAWN IS BREAKING – WE’RE HAVING A STORM

OUR TAXI’S WAITING – HE’S BLASTING HIS HORN

BEFORE TOO LONG, I’LL BE IN THE SKY –

HEAVING ON A JET PLANE

DON’T KNOW HOW I’LL GET BACK AGAIN

OH GOD – I HATE TO GO. . .

THERE’S SO MANY TIMES I’VE SAID I’D DRIVE

SWEATING BULLETS AND COVERED IN HIVES

BUT PEOPLE TELL ME DRIVING TAKES TOO LONG

CAUSE WE’RE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MAP

WE’D NEED ANOTHER MONTH AND A HALF

I’M HOPING THAT THE XANAX MAKES ME STRONG

(WHILE I’M)

HEAVING ON A JET PLANE

DON’T KNOW HOW I’LL GET BACK AGAIN

OH GOD – I HATE TO GO. . .

NOW THE TIME HAS COME TO BOARD

IF ONLY I WERE IN A FORD

THE FLIGHT ATTENDANT LOOKS A LITTLE GREEN

NOW THE PILOT’S TALKING – BUT THE ENGINE IS LOUD

ALL I KNOW IS – WE’RE UP IN THE CLOUDS

I’M TRYING HARD, NOT TO MAKE A SCENE

(BUT I’M). . .

(REPEAT CHORUS UNTIL WE GET THERE)!

© 2004, ROBIN MUNSON

A DAY IN THE LIFE

Lately it seems to me I have a choice. Either I can be creative or I can be efficient. But I can’t be both.

I walk around most of the time feeling guilty because I don’t have a “job”. That is, I don’t get up every morning at 6:00, gulp down breakfast, and head out on the freeway in my car through the early morning rush hour to get to an office on the other side of town. I also don’t have any children. So I ask myself,” What kind of a woman doesn’t have a paying job or children to raise”? And I answer myself, “A busy one”!

There are a million little, niggling details in my typical day, and this is a typical day. I have to pick up a prescription at the drugstore, go to the health food store and pick up a couple of supplements (presumably so that we can avoid yet another prescription), go to the grocery store for a long list of staples even though this will make my third trip to the grocery store this week, go to the bank and cash a check, go to the veterinarian’s to pick up special food and vitamins for Henry (who has kidney problems), take my winter coat in to the tailor for repairs, go to Sears and make some returns and exchanges, and of course, water the plants, do the laundry, and give the house “a lick and a prayer” in terms of cleaning. I should also go to yoga class at 4:30 –(a once-a-week tradition I only started last week, so it seems a shame to abandon it this early in the game). We are slated to have dinner with another couple tonight. I rarely make a point of sharing my daily activities with anyone. I don’t really want to bore you with such mundane details. But I’m making an exception now to make a point.

Then, oh yes – I almost forgot. I have to write. I’m writing in the morning now so that no matter what else I have to do, at least my blog will get done. Now this is the tricky part. I am in housewife mode, and I have to somehow switch gears and be “an artiste”. I don’t know how anyone does it.

They say you should write about what you know. If I were to write songs about what I really know these days, they might have titles like: “My Vacuum’s Broke (But I don’t Care)”, “My To-Do List For Today”, “Someday When My Plumber Comes Along”, “What’s Free About the Freeway?” and one that I’ve seriously contemplated, “At Fifty-five” (a brilliant metaphor about living at a reduced speed). The baby boomers would know what I’m talking about, but would they admit to it?

Anyway – If I’m ever going to get to Sears (and this is Saturday, after all), I’d better get going. Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to get around to my screenplay today.

© 2004, Robin Munson

POST-THANKSGIVING BLUES

It is one day past Thanksgiving. We have the traditional Day-After-Thanksgiving food hangover. Our refrigerator is now stocked with enough to provide a small Russian army for the rest of a long winter campaign. We are fat and sassy and not too ambitious.

I’d very much like to hibernate for the rest of the weekend, but there is a catch: Christmas. Christmas is looming, its bright green and crimson head is peeking out from behind the pumpkin, grinning at me and saying, “Well? Pick up the pace! I’m practically here!” And you know, I hate to say it, but, well, I’m a little bit behind in my plans.

You see, Art and I are making a trip back east next week, and we don’t plan to be back home until December 13th. Well, that’s a scant twelve days before Christmas. We’ll barely have time to pick out a tree by then – if there are any trees left to be picked out.

I looked at my list yesterday. (The famous one that I check twice and promptly lose before hitting the mall). I thought I was doing so well. Then I realized that I haven’t even picked up Christmas cards yet. On top of that, I had completely forgotten that there is the whole Nashville contingency on my list to be considered. The lights are still in their boxes from last year.

Art and I have never had a Christmas party. This is why. There’s so much to be done just to do “normal” Christmas stuff. (I’m sorry – I keep saying Christmas, and I really should be saying Chanu-Mas or Chris-Chan or something – it all gets wrapped up into one big holiday pudding with us. We make no religious distinctions when it comes to the holidays).

In spite of all that, we had planned a holiday party one year when we were in Tennessee. We had hired the caterer (Indian vegetarian). We had Xeroxed copies of the lyrics to about twenty Christmas carols and had them on top of the piano, ready to go. The house was spic and span. The tree was up. The menorah was in the window. The lights were lit. The music was on the stereo. Then, the night before – at the exact same time – Art and I both came down with the flu. We were both sick as dogs. I had to call my dearest friend and neighbor and beg her to call everyone on the list so that they wouldn’t show up at our door that night. We had to apologize and grovel to the people who were scheduled to cater the party. (They were extraordinarily kind. We were extraordinarily lucky).

We thought about having a holiday party this year. We talked about it for several days. We planned to invite all of our friends and family in the area. Then we realized. What were we thinking? How on earth could we plan an entire party before we leave for Connecticut, and then execute said plans and actually have the party before Christmas? Were we out of our minds?!

Our friend, Judith, suggested having the party in January, after the holidays. She reasoned that January is the letdown month when there is nothing to look forward to. For a minute, I thought that was the perfect solution. Then Art and I talked it over and remembered fondly how relieved we were last year when the holidays were over. The holidays are like a great vacation. You have so much fun anticipating, then you have so much fun being there, and then – you can’t wait to come home. January is the month of coming home. I think we should leave it that way. As for a holiday party – maybe next year.

© 2004, Robin Munson

GIVING THANKS

Well, it’s Thanksgiving again. Time to trot out the old turkey (or tofurky, in our case) dressing, cranberry sauce, and the sweet potato casserole with tiny marshmallows. We have mixed feelings, of course, about the green bean dish with French fried onion rings on top, as well as the lime jello mold with bananas suspended in the middle. But nobody can argue with apple pie. Some things are just plain good.

I love Thanksgiving, but it wasn’t always how I felt. There was one dreary Thanksgiving during the year I spent living in an efficiency apartment on East 38th Street in New York City. I was divorced and had no family whatsoever in Manhattan (or any of the neighboring boroughs, for that matter). My so-called boyfriend was living in Washington and apparently could not be bothered. (Is there anything lonelier than being attached to a selfish person)? My father and stepmother were in Pittsburgh. My mother and sisters were in California.

So I took myself down to Grand Central Station. There was a little diner there, and I got a Thanksgiving special: a slice of turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, a little cup of cranberry sauce and some kind of bread stuffing. Along with a cup of coffee, I think the whole thing came to about $1.49. (This is back in the seventies).

The thing is – I had planned on having a miserable time. I figured this was about as low as I could go. All alone. Thanksgiving. Too poor for a nice dinner. Boyfriend absent. Out there in the cold, and - Did I mention? – All alone.

But you know, I sat up there at the counter in this little diner, and it was toasty and warm in there. Everyone began talking. We introduced ourselves and wished each other happy holidays. It was like a little club. We, the solo diners at the counter, including the homeless guy at the other end, and the waitress, and the kid back in the kitchen preparing the food and washing the dishes – we were all in this together. There was comfort in that. We were slogging our way through what logically should have been a perfectly miserable night. Quietly, and without even realizing it, we were having a good time. It was a reminder that, after all, if you climb far enough up your family tree, we are all related.

I don’t remember any of their names, but I remember the feeling that I had when I got back to my tiny apartment. I was grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and all your family.

© 2004, Robin Munson

EARTHLY REINCARNATION

They (yes, the infamous “they”) say that every seven years all the cells in our bodies are replaced. In other words, every seven years we get a new body. Think about that. Every organ, every muscle, our lungs, our heart, our brain – everything is constantly turning over. What appears to be permanent (at least after the age of 15 or so) is actually ever changing. Of course, the cells have “memory”, so if you had a lazy eye seven years ago, it’s a good bet that you’ll still have a lazy eye. Hey, I’m just the messenger.

But this idea intrigues me. I mean, it’s kind of like we are reincarnated within the parameters of our life here on earth.

I look at pictures of myself at various ages, and I do see many different people. The little girl of three or four who wanted to be a movie star may have contained the seeds of the grown woman, but she is an entirely different entity from the young actress of sixteen, the songwriter of twenty-four, the family counselor of thirty-five, the middle-aged woman in her forties and fifties – still trying to decide what she wants to be when she grows up.

I do envy people who make a decision about their lives at a tender age and are able to follow through. There is constancy to their lives. Each decision builds on the previous ones in a neat, orderly fashion. My younger sister was that way. From the time she was about thirteen, she knew she wanted to be a physical therapist. She had a calling, a passion, to help people who were injured and disabled. Every career decision she has made since then has been the next logical step in that progression. Today she has a thriving private practice as a physical therapist, as well as a co-existing career as a yoga practitioner and instructor. Each track of her career feeds the other. Her life has a steady – if fast-paced – rhythm.

My older sister knew from the time she was a very small child that music was her calling. She was a child prodigy before she had any earthly idea what that meant. She studied theory and composition in college. It seems she was jet-propelled into a life of music and has steadfastly refused to even entertain the notion of any other type of career, even when the going was very rough. She is now an established composer and songwriter with legions of admirers, especially within her industry. She has worked exceedingly hard and, as mother says, when you combine hard work with a God-given talent, you have a winning combination.

Then there’s me. The middle child. I admired both of my sisters so much, that I think I tried to emulate them at different stages of my life.

I so wanted to be a musical “phenom” like my older sister that I followed in her footsteps, studying piano and voice. When it dawned on me that I didn’t quite have her abilities, I took a side step into theater. I loved theater, but was not psychologically suited to the life of an actor. So in college I majored in French. No rhyme or reason there, except that I wanted to be like Audrey Hepburn in Charade – an interpreter at the U.N. Yeah, right. If only I had been a native speaker of about five languages, I might have had a shot.

There was a protracted venture into songwriting (age 20 to 32) which was interrupted by a career as a family therapist (age 32 to 40) – the part where I tried to be more like my younger sister - followed by a deeper exploration of songwriting (age 40 to present). But now I also consider myself a writer of prose. Sprinkled in with all of these careers have been many jobs that have sustained me financially while I explored my more far-flung aspirations. I was a legal secretary for about twelve years. That one job carried me through a divorce, two years of graduate school and internship, my entire career as a licensed therapist, the beginning of my current (happy) marriage, and several years of helping Art to establish a small business.

So anyway. My point is this: You may think that things are the way they are. You may think that you are stuck with whatever choices you’ve made, or whatever choices have been made for you. You may think you are too old to learn new tricks. You may think that the “die is cast”. It is not. Remember: Every seven years you are an entirely different person. Be like Madonna, if you want. Go ahead and reinvent yourself.

They say there are only two certainties in life, death and taxes. But there is one more certainty in life: Change. And remember that Change is the essence of Hope.

© 2004, Robin Munson

MODERN LIFE

Please forgive me. I’m not my sweet self today. I am going through voice mail hell this morning.

You see, back in September Art and I were on vacation in Connecticut. Among other reasons, we were there to cheer on my brother-in-law, who was undergoing surgery. While we were cheering him on just after the surgery, I suddenly fell ill. I vomited on my shoes and almost fainted – right there in the room. Very cheery.

So about twenty nurses and techs and candy stripers appeared out of nowhere and insisted on taking me to the E.R. To tell you the truth, if I’d been at home, I just would have figured I had a mild case of the flu and stayed in bed for the day. Nevertheless, they kept me there for about five hours, checking out my heart, my blood pressure, my temperature, and giving me saline solution. When they were satisfied that there was nothing wrong with me (or nothing that they could diagnose apart from a “pre-syncopal episode”, which means “You almost fainted”) they sent me home.

Now, a month and a half later, after having provided everyone with the necessary documents – which was no mean feat – I am receiving vague threats from the hospital, inferring that I am a deadbeat who deserves to have her credit dinged for failing to pay for services rendered.

Now, in the first place – This is the first time I’ve received a bill from this doctor. So how could I be in arrears? In the second place, when I logged on to the hospital web site, as suggested, it appeared that they did not have my insurance information. How could they not have it? My husband handed them my insurance card before they admitted me. Furthermore, I called my insurance company the next morning and straightened the whole thing out with them. Finally, this is the third bill for the same visit – my insurance company has already approved the other two for payment. Why do I get the feeling that I am in the Twilight Zone? Has this ever happened to any of you?

So now I’m trying to call the hospital so that I can – once more – give them my insurance information. Thank God my husband has a speakerphone so I don’t have to hold the receiver up to my ear for an hour waiting for someone to pick up the line. I’m not usually one for multi-tasking. I consider it an affront to my sense of civility. But I just can’t sit and twiddle my thumbs for an hour waiting for someone to pick up the phone. I consider that an affront to my sense of self-worth.

I don’t know. Maybe I’ll take a shower, take a walk, do some laundry, scrub the floor, have some lunch – and then, maybe, just maybe someone will pick up the phone. Of course, by then I will have forgotten who I called and why. I will apologize to a disembodied voice at the end of the line and hang up the phone, only realizing after I am disconnected that I have now set the wheels in motion for a dunning letter from a collection agency.

Such are the conveniences of modern life.

© 2004, Robin Munson

I REMEMBER PITTSBURGH

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania is the place I grew up. My memories of Pittsburgh get softer and warmer as the years go by. I remember my neighborhood as tree-lined, intensely green in summer, dappled in red, green and gold in autumn, pristine white snow covering the landscape in winter, and a riot of pastels in spring with the scent of lilacs everywhere. The houses were old, for the most part. Many were covered in stone, many in brick, often partially or fully engulfed in ivy. The churches dated back to the 19th century and many were gothic in design. Although I was Jewish, once I attended midnight mass on Christmas eve with some friends just so that I could experience one of those beautiful churches from the inside, getting the full effect of the incense wafting through the air, the shafts of colored light emanating from the stained glass windows, and the old English carols being played on a massive pipe organ.

I remember the schools I attended - Linden Elementary School, Taylor-Allderdice High School. Nowadays when I remember them, it is with fondness, as much for the traditional architecture and the smell of chalk as for the superior education these schools afforded me.

I now remember the people of my childhood as kind, civilized, friendly, welcoming and inclusive. Strangers would nod and greet you in the street. Grown-ups would stop whatever they were doing to help a child who was lost. There were block parties in our neighborhood.

Isn’t that the way it was?

Well, somewhere in the back vault of my memory bank I have tucked away the other memories.

Pittsburgh was gray most of the year. Showers were not confined to April. Au contraire, it could rain at any time of year and was much more the norm than clear and sunny days. The dull dark cloud that hung over Pittsburgh, not because of the weather, but because of industry, compounded the dreary effect of the rain. We were a steel town back then – I beg your pardon, not “a” steel town – “The” steel town. Driving past downtown you could see the stacks lining the river spewing orange and black smoke. The rivers themselves were brown and opaque.

All of the venerable old buildings in Pittsburgh when I was growing up were black. Regardless of what color they had originally been intended to be, they were black. Of course, there were various shades of black – you could have grayish-black, brownish-black, or midnight black. Streets were constantly littered with trash, especially brown Iron City beer bottles.

The schools were hopelessly old-fashioned and run by spinster women who were not averse to a good swift paddling for any perceived infraction of the rules. The hallways were hollow, cavernous and forbidding with their high ceilings and cold marbled floors. The “good education” I received was largely a matter of rote learning. Independent thinking was hardly acknowledged, let alone encouraged. And people like me, who were a little bit “different”, were ridiculed and socially marginalized. Not only in school, either.

The city was rather “Balkanized”. Geographic barriers insulated neighborhoods from one another. There were mountains in Pittsburgh separating the Poles from the Jews, the Italians from the Irish, the Blacks from the Whites. Cultural divides and racial tension were the norm.

Isn’t that the way it was?

Looking back at your childhood is kind of like looking at a Rorschach test. You can look at it one minute and it represents all the best that life has to offer. The next minute the same picture can look like a living hell. I suppose the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

Of course, I ran as far as I could get from Pittsburgh at the tender age of 17. (But that’s typical of 17 year-olds, regardless of where they grow up. Art did the same thing, and he grew up in rural Connecticut).

One thing I can say for sure about the Pittsburgh of my childhood – The trees were green. A beautiful, deep shade of green.

© 2004, Robin Munson

A LITTLE BIT OF SOUL

A LITTLE BIT OF SOUL

This morning while we were having breakfast, our cat, Henry, started running in and out of the kitchen like a maniac. He darted outside through the kitty door, stayed out there for about twenty seconds, then darted back into the kitchen and raced all the way to the far end of the bedroom. He did this several times. I don’t know what he was reacting to, but clearly, it was something we couldn’t see.

We’ve noticed this and lots of other inexplicable behavior in our cats over the years. Our sweet little Siamese, Natasha, (who recently went “over the rainbow bridge”) would wake up in the middle of the night howling. For those of you who have never experienced the Siamese Howl, it is chilling, mournful, ghost-like, and utterly unforgettable – especially when it wakes you up at three o’clock in the morning. I would call her over to us and she would scramble into bed like a frightened child. I would stroke her and comfort her until she fell into a deep sleep.

Natasha was otherworldly, anyway. She, more than any of the cats I’ve ever known, seemed to be in touch with spirits. I would walk into the living room and find her standing with her nose two inches from a blank wall. She would be intently staring at something I could not see. She could go on like that for quite a long time. It used to puzzle us no end.

Another thing about Natasha – We used to call her “Nurse Natty”. She was extremely aware of our moods and our physical aches and pains. When either one of us was feeling blue or was “under the weather”, Natty would appear out of nowhere. She would actually sit on us and purr for as long as we could allow. I’ll bet if you tested our blood pressure before and after one of Natty’s treatments, you would see it go way down. She always made us feel better, no matter what was going on.

Then there was Charlie. Charlie was alert to invisible predators. He would awaken from a sound sleep and jump about two feet into the air, then scramble off to another room. It was dramatic with Charlie because of his extremely long legs. I used to say that he was the Air Jordan of Cats.

It’s not only cats. My mom’s little dog, Mugsy, is prone to barking at odd times of the day and night as if there were a stranger at the door. Well, Mom looks up and down the sidewalk outside, but there is no one, nothing, no sound, no shadow. At least, nothing that is detectable to us.

I believe that out animal companions are tuned in to other dimensions. Maybe it’s their extraordinary sense of smell or their acute hearing. But more than that, I just think they have been endowed with the ability to perceive what we can not. I know, I know. Just too weird. But if you have ever lived with a four-footed companion, you probably have witnessed what I have witnessed.

And then you hear pronouncements, as I have, that “animals have no souls”, and so forth. Well, in the first place, we are animals, so I guess that statement is intended to mean either that we have no souls or, more likely, that non-human animals have no souls. It’s just not logical. If humans have souls, why not other species?

The problem is one of communication. Our four-footed companions can not speak our language, and therefore, there is no way for us to know what they think or feel. Of course, some might argue that it is we who can not speak their language. As sure as I’m sitting here, our cat Henry knows exactly what we are saying to him. (Although he may choose to ignore us). And he’s better at reading our moods than most humans. He’s way better at understanding us than we are at understanding him.

My best guess is that our beloved Natty came to “visit” Henry this morning, and the two of them were running around chasing each other, as they had for many years.

© 2004, Robin Munson

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