I'm Still Here

I wonder at what rate this cursor ticks. Is it once per second? I watch the beat as it metronomes me, telling me that the majority of my page is white.

Blank. Blink. Blank.

I had the words earlier today. Before now. Now is later than then.
Here is what I want to say. You decide if it applies to you. We have all the time in the world.

Blink.

The last two years were not easy ones for me. Some of you are more aware of this than others. The last year was less easy for some of you than others. “Less easy” is a soft way of saying it was hard. Hard may be too soft. For some of us, last year was brutal.

Blinking again.

I’m still here.

There were times that I wasn’t sure if I would be. It wasn’t that I looked all the way to December 31, 2011 and thought, “I wonder what I’ll be doing on that day.” I didn’t think about the future a whole lot at the beginning of this year. I was so deep in a rut that I didn’t even know there was a road, let alone a road leading to any where or when. I was stuck, I knew I was stuck and I was overwhelmingly uncomfortable. I DID know that I wanted to somehow get moving again.

I climbed, I reached, I was pulled, and I got a leg up. I followed the voices and laughter, the murmurs of encouragement pressed into me along with hugs at arrivals and partings of friends I’d long ignored. I moved out of the rut in a hundred different ways, but I’m out.

I think what happened was…I blinked. I stopped staring at my surroundings which had grown familiar and blurry and I looked at them in a different way. I decided to move into light, to seek help when I desperately needed it. I’m still moving toward that which feels as if it’s good for me and away from that which doesn’t seem to be doing a whole lot of anything for me. If it dulls my senses or makes me sad, it’s not for me.

Blink. Blank.

There is still space on this page, still something I want to say.

For those who face challenges this year, next year, the next, and on…

Know that I’m here. I value our relationships and I appreciate the help you’ve given me along the way. Know that I will feel valued if you choose to ask me for help. If I can point you toward an expert, I will. If all you need is to unload, go for it. I’m first-rate at setting boundaries, so I’ll protect myself and won’t let anything get out of hand. It all goes back to how I got out of my rut.

The thing is, we are all so very strong and I would never deny our incredible capabilities as individuals. We are also deserving of encouragement and the occasional assist.


Happy New Year with Much Love and Affection,


Michelle

Bound for Broadway?

I got an end of the year bonus today - sort of. I was able to leave the office at noon. Bonus! I’m also off work Monday so I’m excited to have three and a half days off work. Wish I’d known about this afternoon before this morning. With advance notice I think I might have been headed to the airport instead of the grocery store. Ah well, never look a gift horse blah, blah, blah, right? I was able to cruise the aisles and stock up on some fun foods for the weekend without battling the late day crowds. I’m now ready to make black eye peas and also bought some shrimp and plenty of fresh produce. I’m all set for a healthy and yummy New Year’s weekend.

Just back from New Orleans and Las Vegas, I’m thinking about my next getaway. Last year I said I’d go to New York City and I didn’t. Why? New job, no real oomph. Those reasons are as good and as bad as any. This year I want to do it. I want to: walk, shop, dine, shoot (my camera), and see (A show. Two? Three?). No particular order to the list. I want to stay in a fantastic hotel room and share cocktails with friends and/or strangers in fairly dark venues with lovely music.

As far as entertainment goes, today I watched a documentary called “Show Business: The Road to Broadway”. It’s from 2007. It follows four new musicals from prior to their Broadway openings to the Tony Awards. The shows are: “Wicked”, “Taboo”, “Avenue Q”, and “Caroline, or Change”. The film was a good way for me to spend a little time unwinding (while working a jigsaw puzzle – guilty pleasure).

I vaguely remember the controversy around Rosie O’Donnell funding and overseeing production aspects of Boy George’s “Taboo”. Although I wouldn’t likely be interested in seeing that particular show, it made me a little sad to see the energy invested in what seemed to be a doomed endeavor from the start. I can't imagine seeing "Avenue Q". I can barely handle the Muppet ad that comes on at the movie theatres. Blech. "Caroline, or Change" seemed to be something I would have liked - in a burn through half a box of Kleenex way.

Now to what gets me going: as the documentary opened, my interest was sparked (ignited?) at the possibility of seeing and hearing Idina Menzel in the role of Elphaba. I’ve seen “Wicked” here in Houston and love, Love, LOVE the play. I wish I’d seen it on Broadway with Menzel. I recently watched “Rent” on DVD with the cast that closed the show. Same thing, wish I’d seen it with Menzel as Maureen.

That’s what this piece is about. I wish to go to New York and see the play (or plays) I want to see. I don’t want to say, “Sure wish I’d seen that in New York like I wanted instead of waiting for the touring production."

So I’m going to start researching. So far “Memphis” is topping my list. Suggestions are welcome. Whether or not I’ll heed them is another issue entirely.



©Michelle Scofield, December 30, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Pass(i)on

Spoiler alert. I’m going to write about a movie. I’m not going to get too deep into the plot but I’m going to discuss it a little so stop reading now if you don’t like that sort of thing. If you don’t like that sort of thing, you better stop reading my writing for the next year because I’m planning on weaving a whole lot of talk about cinema, theatre, visual art, photography, music, and whatever other art I can get my brain around onto these pages. Consider yourself warned and please, PLEASE, play along. Comment, write, tweet, text, participate. I’m on a mission to increase my worldscape.

As I often do, I spent yesterday evening at the movie theatre. I was expecting a light comedy. “Young Adult” with Charlize Theron turned out to be darker than I was hoping for. As the story unfolded, I found myself pulled pack to high school, to a mirror I kept in my locker, to a steamy shower room after gym class, to my own bathroom mirror, to any reflective surface I came across in the mid-1970’s. Back then I was seeking a blonde bombshell, Farrah, Christie. I found Michelle, brunette, freckled, NotBlonde. I yearned to be NotMe.

The film was uncomfortable for my fifty-one year old self. I suppose I haven’t stepped as far from my sixteen year old self as I’d like to believe.

The trailers had me believing that Theron’s character would leave the big city, go back to her hometown and reconnect with her now-famous first love. Hilarity would follow, brought on by her acerbic, slightly bitchy antics. Hilarious wouldn’t be my word for it. Pathetic is closer. Theron does pathetic like few others can. Remember “Monster”? Dial that back, put it in a fetching package and you’ve got “Young Adult”.

So, to passion. My New Year’s Resolution is to look past my own (passions) and to learn from others’. I came home from the movie and Google’d the actress. Reading about the Charlize Theron Africa Outreach Project, I’m impressed at the way this celebrity is using her notoriety to push for change. She’s always seemed very glamorous to me - red carpet, Oscar, etc, etc. Working against HIV/AIDs strikes me as the opposite of glamorous. It strikes me as work.

What it comes down to is this. I plunk down my money to be removed from reality for a couple of hours. I make the assumption that the beautiful men and women who’ve been hired to play roles in the films love what they do. Why? Because I NEED them to love it. I’m paying my hard-earned cash for them to entertain me. But if I let it play out just a little further…perhaps I’m actually part of what they need to do. Maybe my cash helps them move toward living their passion? (I can dream.) Perhaps we can all play a part in each others’ passions if we are brave enough and smart enough to step out and do what we are meant to do.

Blessings on you, Ms. Theron, for doing what you’re doing. Who knows how long you will, but I can see now that the acting is a job that you happen to do very well. The work you’re doing, that’s entirely different. There are really no words to describe it.





©Michelle Scofield, December 29, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Attachments

I'm having trouble sleeping. Again. Or is it still? I'm not sure. I wake several times each night, pulling myself out of the current that's pulled me from the dayshore and attempting to stand on the shifting sand of Subconscious. My body aches in the morning, worn down and out from the effort to sink back onto an imagined and longed-for sea of Tranquility. I seem to have it all backwards. I am fighting to relax.

I've become tenacious about my tension. It defines me. I love my yoga classes. I love the power vinyasa flow classes better than the gentle hatha classes. This tells me I should probably take more hatha classes. It's more difficult for me to sit in my stillness than to keep moving. I will do better but if I don't I guess I'll need to be okay with that. I'm smiling as I write this. I'll try. I will.

I saw my doctor yesterday about my blood pressure. It's still a little higher than we'd both like it to be but it's coming down. I expressed my frustration about not being able to run very far because of this old foot injury. Every time I increase my mileage, the pain flares up. Her advice was nothing short of sage. "Don't do that."

I was so active prior to this and I am unbelievably hard on myself.

"Don't do that."

I like this doctor. I haven't opened up to a medical provider in this way for a very long time. She had some good ideas and spent time with me, getting to know me. I know how hard that can be and it's appreciated.

As I was walking out the door today I realized my keys felt a little light. I'd detached all the keycards when I went for a walk last night. I retrieved them from the dining room table and snapped the apparatus back together. Looking at the keychain I realized the letters are beginning to fade. Dad gave it to me so I could hand my carkeys to valets and not give them my housekeys. He always wanted me to be safe. Now I have a seperate key for my car, but I think I'll always keep this keychain. It reminds me of him, even though some of the memories are beginning to fade - just a little.

Lately I've been realizing just how much of my social life was tied up in my father. We were travel companions. We were very good friends - I didn't know father and daughter could be such close friends. I talked with him on the phone every Sunday morning and often one or two times additionally during the week.

I feel a strong need to move on - to let go of old attachments that may very well be holding me back. I also want to strengthen my existing attachments and add new ones. It's there for me. It's up to me to decide what to do with it.

For now:

My favorite place is Grand Cayman. I can recall the sound of the waves when I close my eyes. Tonight my bed will be a raft and I will drift away on waves remembering the greens and blues of the ocean. I will stay as long as I stay and then I will allow myself to return when I am able. For now.

Location, Location, Location

Some of you may remember this trip when I met a couple and reassured them about their son who would be coming to Houston for evaluation of a tumor about which I happened to know quite a bit. I was able to provide information about The Big Medical Center, The Very Big Cancer Hospital, and even The Big Department (where I worked) they would be visiting. I let them know that he would be in capable hands then we all went on our way and I enjoyed the rest of an extremely memorable vacation.

I was in the right place at the right time.

Yesterday I met Mr. and Mrs. Idaho. I was at a local Farmers' Market and they sat down next to me on a curb to take a breather and watch people - same as me. He was wearing a John Deere hat. My homesickness swelled. They asked me if I lived close. I told them I did and then I asked about them.

They are in the area so Mrs. Idaho can be treated for a cancer, specifically with radiation therapy - something I know a little about. Mrs. Idaho is a patient at the Very Big Cancer Hospital that used to be my Employer. I left there when the physical stress of operating hour-upon-hour each day got to be more than I wanted to handle. I now work for a different Very Big Hospital, a direct competitor.

So here's the deal.

I was able to give Mr. and Mrs. Idaho a little bit of reassurance that they were (indeed) in the right place getting the right treatment. I let them know that I was proud to work at the Very Big Cancer Hospital when I was there, that it employed some of the best doctors in the world. I lessened some of their hesitation about the doctors that were from places that weren't Idaho, Kansas, or Texas or anywhere else in the United States. I told them that I've worked with residents and fellows from all over the world and I'm comfortable with these brilliant minds who leave their families for a little while (or longer) to work at the Very Big Cancer Hospital.

I also told Mr. and Mrs. Idaho about some of the other things they can do in Houston area for free - besides the Farmers' Market in my neighborhood. I told them about The Menil and about free Thursdays at the Museum of Fine Arts.

I hope Mr. and Mrs. Idaho went to sleep in their hotel last night knowing that this Kansas transplant cares about them. I think they did. I hope tomorrow is just a little easier for them, with a little less stress and worry over things over which they have so little control.

Today I pulled my bright pink Physician Assistant T-shirt out of the closet and wore it to get coffee, then to a movie, and to dinner. I used to tell myself I didn't want to talk about medicine when I wasn't at work so I didn't want to "advertise" my profession. I'm starting to realize it's not about the medicine at all and I really need to stop worrying over things over which I have so little control. If I'm supposed to talk to someone, I'll know it.

Reset, Review

Yesterday I stuck a foreign body in my eye and raked it across my cornea. Just like that. I knew the moment I did it that it could be trouble. It was one of those moments like watching a glass fall from your hands or running through a stop sign in full view of a police car. I couldn't take it back. I was in a hurry and applying eyeliner. I swooshed the pencil across the place where my lid should be except my lid wasn't closed - it was open.

Crap.

I blinked, blinked, and blinked some more. I pulled out a magnifying mirror and attempted to see what I knew I'd never see without stain and someone else's eyes. I went on with my day. I more or less forgot about it except for a little mild irritation and a couple sneezes in the afternoon. Then I got in my car to drive into Houston for an art opening. It was dark and I was facing oncoming headlights and I had a telltale halo effect.

Well, this wasn't good.

I stayed out a couple hours and headed home.

When my eyes aren't feeling good I experience fatigue. I arrived home around 9:30, feeling like I'd read about a hundred pages of a difficult book but still without any scleral signs: no redness or discharge. My goal was to get to bed as soon as possible. My phone rang and I reluctantly answered. I'd been expecting this phone call.

Could I see clear to ignore the last few days of noncommunication? A difficult situation had come up and he didn't really know how to handle it but it had nothing to do with me. Maybe we could just pick up where he had dropped us off?

Suddenly I saw the red (flags).

My fatigue became overwhelming enough to prompt me to end the phone call and the day. Wishing him a healthy, happy life I bade him goodnight and goodbye.

My pillow felt cool and welcoming as I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

This morning I awoke to the relief of the realization that I'm still young enough to heal pretty darned fast. My eye is fine and my sight seems to be normal.

Here's looking at you.

If Only Life Were a Magic Show...Yeah, I know.

In light of the events of last week, the most recent Houdini is only a puff of smoke. Still, it never hurts to go back over life's lessons. Abracadabra! May you all have a wonderful weekend.


How to Handle a Houdini(originally published March, 2008)


"He pulled a Houdini."

It's a phrase that's batted about dating circles with disdain and disgust. Everyone seems to hate The Houdini. He's the man who shows fairly intense interest, perhaps takes a woman out on several dates and then, poof! He's gone leaving her behind in a cloud of bewilderment and confusion. There is no white dove, no rabbit, no Siberian tiger on a platform to wow his audience. He leaves behind an empty stage and a theater so silent you can almost hear the digits change on her cell phone LCD time display as she checks it once again from the third row back. The soft green glow lights her face as she hits "messages"...just in case. Nothing.

Harry Houdini (3/24/1874 - 10/31/1926) was a master illusionist. He was an escape artist. He didn't really disappear, although some wondered if he might have had the power to do so, given the sheer audacity and difficulty of his illusions and stunts. His profession required incredible physical and mental training, practice, and precise timing. The Dating Houdini doesn't really deserve the title, because disappearing from a dating situation isn't nearly as grand - when compared to what Houdini accomplished. Houdini had to work at what he did. He had to struggle, sweat, and at times risk his life. Most dating escape artists simply stop showing up. That's pretty easy in comparison.

The offender (the escape artist) can also be female. Nothing is to say that a Houdini has to be a male. There are two basic ways to handle being Houdini'd. I promise the first option is the most attractive to future suitors who might be paying attention to your behavior, but feel free to attempt option two. My guess is that if you're reading this and you have any inkling that option two has merit, my words will effect you in the same way a false cut would a shuffle.

Option One: Move on after taking a very brief personal inventory. How's your grooming, mood, manners, general presentation? I want this inventory to be ultra-brief. This is most likely, almost certainly, I can almost promise you, not about you! There, there, isn't that better? Forget about it. Take a walk, ride your bike, go to the movie, call a friend. Oh, and leave the booze and ice cream out of this. They have no part in it.

Option Two: Call him or her. Texting is good, too. Email? Why not? Perhaps write a poem, odes are nice. Do you know any of his friends? Perhaps know where she works? You getting my drift? You can investigate, make sure, make really, really, really sure that nothing happened to him. He COULD be in a ditch somewhere, bleeding a steady, marching stream of blood cells out of a gash in his groin. Oh my God! If only he could. just. reach. his. cell. phone!

Now that you've considered your options, I'd like to cover one more point, the followup. There may be a time when you encounter your Houdini out in public. I suggest you smile, nod and keep on walking. That's what you would do with any stranger, is it not? Resist the urge to take up with the escape artist again.

I'm going to let you in on a little bit of personal history here. I rarely give out my own dating dirt, because I think it can be tacky, but this little resurrection of my own personal Houdini happened on Halloween, the anniversary of the Great One's death, so I think it's fitting. I hadn't heard from Mr. Man since he disappeared seven months earlier. Suddenly he's standing next to me at a party. He's talking to me and he seems quite interested. This was all quite surreal. I nodded, smiled and told him it was nice to see him. I couldn't very well have not talked at that point. No...I didn't hook up with him. I truly believe all that was attracting him was my stockings, or corset, or maybe it was the handcuffs. Remember, it was Halloween, and he is an escape artist, after all.



©Michelle Scofield, September 16, 2011 All Rights Reserved

lost list

This list grows.

The photos,
the days,
the years,
the things
that made us
-us.

It wanders,
meanders,
mews and winds,
and
pushes against
the backs of my eyes
to trick me into
false comfort.

It sighs and flutters
gingham over denim.
I sew a patch on that
place where sunlight
would show through
if the sound of a snarl
wasn't already filling
that space you
OCCUPIED
when we were twelve
- before you learned to
drive your father's car
and we jumped the curb
into a summer night.

It scratches vinyl
and skips pages
that would make sense
of the storysong
we sang when we said it would

all
turn
out.




©Michelle Scofield, September 13, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Convocation

The new academic year is upon us. All across America parents are watching their children go off to preschool, and fourth grade, and high school, and college. Pictures are being taken on front sidewalks. Backpacks and vehicles are packed for trips across town and across the country. Reality quickly steps in to replace anticipation as homework starts to add up along with the cost of extra-curricular activities and textbooks.

I'm watching many of my friends experience "firsts" this year. First child in grade school. First child in college. First time with no kids in the house. I try to remind myself that it wasn't that long ago that I was in their shoes.

I remember the day my daughter started kindergarten like it was yesterday. I sat at the kitchen table for three hours, just waiting for her to be home. I didn't want to hear everything that happened. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to have her chattering and moving around the house. I knew that she had passed a milestone in her development and I couldn't move along that road with her. I wanted things to be like they were the day before...until they would change all over again the next day. Like I said, it seems like yesterday. It was only 24 years ago. I obviously couldn't stop time from turning.

When my son left for college, he packed his belongings in the back of his pickup and drove himself to school. He wanted it that way and I put on a brave face, respecting his wishes. I hugged him, kissed him, told him I loved him and watched him drive down the road. I walked into the house and into the laundry room and saw one lonely piece of his laundry on the floor, fell to my knees and cried for hours. It's what I needed to do at the time. I wasn't brave. I was distraught. Somehow I managed to stand and move on through my own time, even thriving. As did he.

So in honor of the new academic year, a list of things that have helped me. To you, from me:


The question not asked is the one that will drive me crazy. The question asked more than once is the one that will drive them crazy.

If your child expresses an interest in music, do what you can to put an instrument in his/her hand.

A part-time job is a wonderful thing. So are scholarships. So are used cars.

Just because we raised them doesn't mean we consider the same things to be important. (This applies to cleaning, pets, romantic interests, holidays, clothing, on to infinity.)

Once they turn 18 they really DO have the rights and responsibilities of an adult.

Asking your child for advice and letting him/her see you follow it instills a great sense of trust that runs both ways.

Turning my phone off to get some sleep results in a terrible night's sleep for me.

Watching "Jackass" with my kids and laughing at the vulgarity was a great investment.

I'll never know for sure, but I think that telling my kids they would have to deal with any arrests by spending the night in jail meant they didn't spend the night in jail.

Finally, remember. Remember how you felt to be stretching yourself and trying new things. Remember the fear and the excitement. Remember that you didn't want to tell your parents everything. Besides if we know it all now, what will be left to spill at holiday dinners in front of their kids?


©Michelle Scofield, Aug. 28, 2011 All Rights Reserved

My Sister Cried

I ignored my ringing phone and let the hot water run over me. Maybe an extra long shower would loosen the tightness that had crept into my back muscles when I allowed myself an extra two hours sleep this morning. It was Saturday, who would call at 9 a.m.? Turning the faucet off and reaching for my towel, I hoped it wouldn't be one of the kids with an emergency.

I looked at the caller ID and was a little irritated to see her name. She has a habit of calling me after church on Sunday and wanting to get together last minute. I sighed and for a minute considered not returning the call. I wasn't really in the mood to chat or have tea or rush out to meet someone. We haven't seen each other for a few months. My job. Her job. I think she has a new male friend who is keeping her busy - I'm very happy for her in that regard. Her kids are out of state, like mine. We're just so...busy.

But we're still friends. We have been since Katrina blew her into Texas and our relationship was formed one morning in the parking lot of an apartment complex. It (the relationship) grew from a chance meeting into a trusting, caring, rare thing that has to be tended to. That's what friendship is. I dialed her number, got voicemail, and let her know that I missed her. I do.

I wrapped my towel around me and took my phone into my bedroom. In less than 5 minutes she called me back. She was crying. She only needed to hear my voice for a few minutes to let me tell her that I love her. Her mother died.

I do love her and I would give anything to sit beside her right now and just be.

We'll have that cup of tea when she returns to Houston, whenever that is. Today I sit in gratitude that she thought to call me early on a Saturday morning, when her heart is broken once again. She has endured loss and tragedy like very few I've ever known. I've watched her rise from the bitter wrecks of Katrina, pulling herself up with such admirable strength and today I felt her sorrow pour through the miles and over my phone to me. My heart is so very heavy for her. I can't make it any better. I can only love her, my New Orleans sister.

Light Shines on the Steps

My week? Depends on how you look at it. I've been sailing along with an easy work schedule. I managed to dodge some bug. (Felt feverish and jumped right on it with lots of orange juice and a hearty bowl of Vietnamese chicken soup.) My social calendar has been just full enough to keep me busy without stressing me out. I've taken three yoga classes and I'm feeling pretty good about that.

Sounds great right?

Depends on how you look at it.

I've been listening as people I love have filled me in on the difficulties of their respective weeks. My heart has ached a little for each one because there isn't a whole lot I can do besides be present - several states away sometimes. All I can do is listen and offer up bits of advice if they're wanting that kind of help. I can't fix everything. Most likely I can't fix anything.

I'm walking those steps again this week. OK, I walk them every week but sometimes I'm even more aware of my journey down that path. This week I had many nudges that told me, "Just be there. That's all you can do."

On two separate occasions I witnessed women I don't know all that well, making themselves crazy attempting to control situations that are entirely out of their hands. They were micro-managing the macro. They were trying to tweeze tiny minutiae in haystacks while combines swept the fields around them. They were so wrapped up in their projects - the importance of their own agendas - that I wondered what they would see when they looked up and all was gone. My guess (my hunch) is that they would still be wrapped up in the details and mourning the loss of control, rather than the loss of the relationship. How do I make up stories in my head about people I don't know? Only because I led that life before. I only think/write/ponder about it occasionally to remind myself of where I don't want to be again.

So sometimes all I can do is listen.

If I haven't been stepping up enough, the ones I love do a pretty good job of saying, "Hey! I need help!" They know I've been working these steps to give up my controlling ways. It's been a lot of years.

Weeks like this, when it seems the world decides to put the smackdown on more than one of my loved ones at the same time, magnify stress. The steps seem a little steeper. I know I can manage, and so can all of those who make my life so very sweet.

Now we're back to that, "...depends on how you look at it." I have people in my life who are willing to talk to me about their problems and worries. What a sweet, loving, trusting gift that is.

My week was wonderful. I hope yours was too. If you need me, all you have to do is ask.

Saturday Night's Allright

I haven't had a Saturday with so many social choices in a very long time.

My friend, Todd, is playing at the Galleria Concert Pub. He's in a Tool tribute band called Spiral Out. They're very good and I'd also love to spend a little time with Todd's wife, Vali, who is probably the prettiest/funniest/sweetest/sexiest Southern Woman you'll ever lay eyes on in addition to being a close friend who always makes me feel as if I'm one of the most important people in the world when I walk into the room. You know the kind of person I'm talking about, right? There will be a big crowd of friends (we'll all get together real soon, I promise!) and it should be a lot of fun.

It's White Linen Night in the Heights. Traffic will be a nightmare but the art and food will certainly make up for any of that hassle. I received several invitations to parties ranging from parking lots to galleries. Aside from not owning a stitch of white linen, I just wasn't feeling up to mixing and mingling this year. Oh, and the fact that I blew my art budget yesterday framing one piece I bought a few weeks ago and four of my own photographs.

There IS the Prayapalooza being held at Reliant Stadium today. Rick (Strong Hair) Perry booked the 70,000+ seat arena and so far there are about 7,000 RSVPs. I hope the hors d'oeuvres hold up in the heat. I just hate it when I overestimate and overprepare for the crowd that actually shows for one of my parties. (I guess I get a little giddy. It's the party girl in me.) I never really planned to attend, so I didn't respond to any invitation for Governor Perry's soiree myself. I did, however, send him a little note via e-mail kindly asking him not to use state funds for his meetup.

Speaking of funds, here's what I've settled on for my Saturday entertainment. I won...wait for it...2 FREE tickets to the Houston Astros game tonight. Yes, I'm going to a baseball game. Now don't scoff. I'm fully aware that the home team is struggling. Some would say they're wheezing, gasping. I see it another way. They're past all that. The pressure is off. Now they can just go out and play ball. And I can spend Saturday evening watching a game I enjoy with a guy I'm enjoying spending time with.

Happy Weekend! Hope you enjoy yours.




©Michelle Scofield, Aug. 6, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Writers and Friends

I took my time reading Say Her Name by Francisco Goldman. I heard a review on National Public Radio and thought it might be a book worth spending time with but I recently went through a difficult grief journey of my own and it made me cautious about diving into Mr. Goldman's story. I bought the book and read the first few pages then set it aside for a couple months. Once I picked it up again, I didn't push through to the end like I often do with novels. I read five or six pages at a time. It was a heavy, dark, and very sad book.

It's been eighteen months since my dad died and I'm finally beginning to feel more like my old self. As I closed in on the final pages of "Say Her Name", I found one paragraph that felt particularly familiar to me. The author talks about falling on some stairs and his absolute need to stand and recover from that fall without assistance from those who witnessed the fall.

"One of the most common tropes and complaints in the grief books I've read is about the loneliness of the griever, because people and society seem unable, for the various reasons always listed in those books, to accommodate such pain. But what could anybody possibly do or say to help?...You have to, can only, live this on your own."

Goldman bared his emotions: the guilt, the sorrow, the misgivings, the anger. Mostly the guilt. He also did it while telling a beautiful love story and he managed to pay tribute to his wife who was also coming into her own as a writer at the time of her death.

It's a well-written book and I was only minimally surprised when I clicked on the author's Facebook page and saw on his list of friends, Junot Diaz - one of my favorites. Diaz wrote The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, a first novel which happened to win the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. Loved it!

I have plenty of wonderful authors on my Facebook Friends list. Today I received a package in the mail. War Remains is by my friend, Jeffrey Miller. I'm anxious to get started on it. Review will be here. Soon. Promise.

Drought

We watch summer sky
to see if splish will be splash.
Dark clouds hold our breath.






©Michelle Scofield, July 29, 2011 All Rights Reserved

A Different Path

Right. It's hot. No run at 7:30 this morning. I decided to take a walk with my camera. It was time to explore my new surroundings. I headed in some direction, either north, south, east or the other one. I have no inner compass and only know that if I go one way and turn around 180 degrees, I'll end up back where I started. That was my plan. I didn't take my cell phone, no Run-Keeper application for me this morning. I had my watch and a general idea of how long I wanted to be out in the steaminess.

It wasn't bad. I stuck mostly to the shade and there wasn't a lot of traffic except on Highway 6 where I'd decided to cross over and check out the other side. Like that chicken who didn't know where she was going. Oh, I forgot to tell you. It's about the birds today. Kind of.

The first street took me to a dead end. No signs indicating so, of course. That was okay. I didn't have a plan or a destination in mind. I knew there was a lake somewhere in the area but didn't know how to get to it. I didn't expect to see this family walking down the sidewalk next to me. I kept my distance. The mom and dad seemed to have their hands (feet? wings?) full just keeping track of so many of them.


They were the picture of nurture. Which brings me to:



I call it, "Nature vs Nurture". Beautiful Spanish Moss growing on the trees next to the road and my least favorite (migraine-inducing) restaurant in the world. It's where the road ended and I turned around and made my way back to the highway to continue my walk. May I never see the Sugar Land ChuckECheese again. I felt a cold chill being near it. I'm sure my kids enjoyed it when they were young. It's one of those parental things we do (giant rodent pizza parlors), but I loved taking them to the museums and parks so much more. Sorry kids, I have a feeling I gritted my teeth more than I should have in those days and you no doubt saw it. I wasn't always a good mama duck.

I found a small man-made lake on the next street and spent a few minutes trying to take a picture of a clever little duck who paddled one way and the other, back and forth past tree branches. I knelt in one spot and waited. He was quick and seemed to smile each time I missed him. It was such a pretty scene and he wasn't having any part of it. Silly duck.



I sighed and stood up, listening to my bones creak, wondering if the duck was laughing at that, too. That's when I saw what had been in front of me the entire time - this.



Fungus. It's one of those, "Oh. My. God." shots. So glad I had my camera. I have about 25 shots to work with - all different angles. Ups, downs, waters, woods, grasses. It's beautiful, just growing all by itself there on that tree.

On the way home I saw this bird sitting high above the mall parking lot. I told myself that he'd been flying around all morning and wanted to hang out and look around but was so smart he found the one bulb that was burned out and thought, "Yeah, it's still hot, but this perch is just a little cooler than the rest. It's really beautiful up here. I'm just going to hang out and look around for awhile." Or maybe he was just a bird that landed on a tall place.



©Michelle Scofield, July 23, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Crickets

Of course it's hot, it's July 22, smack dab in the middle of summer. I've come to expect Houston to be sticky and mostly miserable this time of year but everyone runs their air conditioners to maximum capacity so it feels wonderful to step into almost any building and be hit with that aaaaahhh of cold air.

We're being overrun by crickets. They're everywhere. You can't walk down a hallway or sidewalk without seeing several. I've done a little reading on them and I guess they're trying to escape the heat just like the rest of us. They want to get into cool, damp places - that would be anywhere but the blazing streets and yards.

They feed at night and early morning. I must have been a real sight yesterday morning when - after a 5am run in the dark - I walked through the back entrance of my building and stirred up about forty of them. They all jumped. I jumped. They jumped some more. I let out a string of curse words. I'm going to have a stroke one day from a bird or insect startle. I just know it. Freaking nature.

I've also read a little about the insecticide used to get rid of crickets. That takes a little investigation. I discovered that many of them (Pyrethroids) are based off of the chrysanthemum flower and are listed as "safe" for humans but that their mechanism of action for pests is by causing paralysis at the sodium channels of the nervous system. Seems simple enough...read a little more...oh, there are dangerous levels of these chemicals in some waterways. Freaking chemistry. Why do I read these things?

Along the way in my cricket research I found a video of a cricket fight with people wagering money on which fierce battling cricket would win. There must be other ways to spend a Friday night. I'm considering heading out my back door to listen to more music on the Town Square. Last night was a great evening of jazz and it was made even better when a friend showed up. I hadn't seen her for several months. She promptly introduced me to a very handsome man, insisting that we should know each other. She has this way about her, very insistent. So we'll see. He has my number. And would you believe? He called today. Jiminy!


©Michelle Scofield, July 22, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Monday Recap

The Good:
I chose to reboot with a 24 hour juice fast. (Note to the trend-speakers out there: it's not a fast if you're taking calories.)

To break the fast I had a tuna on whole wheat sandwich (before yoga class). It was the best food I've tasted in ages!

No coffee since yesterday at breakfast - no caffeine in any form.

Lots of water.

I ran this morning before work.

I'm still kicking and I don't have a headache. High five to myself!

The Bad:
I feel a scratchy throat thingy coming on. I'm going to try to ignore it. I've had enough vitamins in the last 24 hours to kill Ebola. My OCD is fixed on a stinky pillow at the hotel this weekend. I don't think it was Ebola, maybe some other horrendous virus. What if it's yellow fever? Or Dengue? I know they aren't transmitted by pillow but my imagination is running rampant now. I guess this isn't the best way to ignore it. Ack!

The Ugly: Super Glue? Really? Yeah, I was trying to fix something and I got superglue on my hand. No, I didn't stick my fingers together but I'll have to wait a couple days for this stuff to grow off. It kind of looks like the skin on my left hand is doing a sexy little sluff. Hot stuff.

Reboot

I'm winding down this weekend. Considering putting in a movie that's been sitting on the shelf for a few days. If I do, chances are I'll fall asleep in my chair. Better set the alarm clock on LOUD, just in case.

Friday night was fun. I listened to some music outside at Town Square. My friend, Ken, showed up and we sat in our lawn chairs watching the kids turn cartwheels while we enjoyed the whiff of breeze that played through the buildings and teased us, making us think it was much cooler than the 85 degrees it was.

I woke early yesterday morning and drove into Houston to pick up Daryl so we could drive to Austin. I wanted to browse through some shops and galleries. We made the trip in great time. It was the first road trip for my new car and I've got to say that it handles beautifully. Daryl and I talked most of the way there. He has a way of helping me work through issues without getting worked up. I value his friendship so much.

We spent most of our time on Commerce and 6th streets, taking time for a yummy Tex-Mex lunch. I found a beautiful painting that I'm excited to hang in my dining room. It's one of the first figure works I've purchased and I think it's a great addition to my collection. It's also on paper, not canvas. I'm trying to think of the best way to display it. I could have it custom framed but at this point I'd like to do something a little more primitive. Still thinking...

As soon as we returned to the hotel room I shared my good news ("New Art!") via Facebook with my friends and family. It's so much fun for me to hear back from them that they're as excited as I am. Well, maybe they're not as excited as I am but they support me in my addiction and I appreciate that. It's really fun for me to hear from artists who support me purchasing art from other artists. I have one friend (Edgar) who is just about the most positive person I know. I will tell you that he is one of the people that Daryl and I really talked up when we were making the rounds in Austin.

Dinner last night was the only real disappointment in the trip, although there was something to be gained from the experience, to be certain. The food was way too salty for me and the crowd at the restaurant was unusually loud. Most of the time these things don't bother me so much.

I think I've reached some tipping point, a point of saturation. I've been taking yoga classes and have been doing a lot of reading about juice and raw foods. I'm not one to go overboard on an all-or-nothing diet but I think last night's dinner was an alarm in my head that was telling me that I just can't/won't eat that kind of food anymore - at least not regularly.

I went to the grocery store today and bought a couple days' supply of fresh produce and pulled the juicer out. Lunch and dinner were fresh fruits/veggies - in a glass.

Like I said, I won't go overboard but I think a few days of giving my body a break from the toxins of the outside world wouldn't be such a bad thing. I told Daryl I've got a new story idea that is begging to be written. I have two on the back burner. There's yoga classes twice a week. I can surround myself with really great people which isn't so hard considering my group of friends. I've decided not to go to the memorial service for my friend, Joan. She knew how I felt and I know she'd understand.

So the week's theme will be: starting over in a healthy, gentle way. This is the intention I'm setting and I'm giving myself the leeway to let myself slide into the place I need to be.

Pressure Release

I used to thrive on conflict. I believe this to be true. If there was drama and shouting it was my version of the latest and greatest roller coaster at Worlds of Fun in Kansas City. I was either inching toward top emotionally or I was screaming my way toward the bottom. What changed was I moved to Texas where I had to spend time alone. I didn't have a ready audience for my tantrums. I was forced to spend time with myself.

Please understand. I haven't experienced an overnight cure of my ailment. It's taken many years, countless group and individual therapy sessions, and hours and hours of time spent listening to a small, still voice inside my head that really pisses me off when I wish it would just SPEAK UP, for God's sake, instead of whisper to me.

I have a very long way to go on my journey toward calm and I sometimes wonder if I'll run out of gas before I get there.

Tonight all I wanted to do was come home, kick off my shoes and grab a light bite of dinner before I go to yoga class. Yoga class. You know. It's that place where I allow myself to surrender to the peace that waits for me. Yoga class. It's that place where no one asks anything of me and I don't have to compete, not even with myself.

I pulled into my parking place and I was met by a new neighbor who was...waiting for me? In the parking garage? (Was this about the note I'd put on a windshield yesterday reminding someone that the spaces were reserved? At least I hadn't had someone towed.)

"Michelle? It's Michelle, right?"

"Right. How are you?"

"Great!" All smiles. "Hey, I need to apologize to you."

So, yeah. He and his wife have been parking in my spaces and he knows they're my spaces and would it be a problem if they continue to park in my spaces because I'm not here much and...

Gah!!!

No. It's simple. I'm paying a hell of a lot of money for this place. When I come home I want my spaces, in the covered parking, not in the sun, not in the rain. I want my guests to be able to follow my happy ass into the garage and park right next to me and not have to worry about parking.

I just smiled and told him that I'd like him not to park in my places. The thing is that I think I was smiling like the Joker from Batman. Really, I think Heath Ledger looked like Mother Teresa compared to me.

How I got wound so tightly over parking spaces flabbergasts me. Rather, how I let myself believe parking had anything (real) to do with feeling like the top of my head was going to blow off is what really flabbergasts me.

I could list the things that have been stacking up this week, but I won't. Let's just say it's a good thing I've signed up for pressure release. The opportunity to take a yoga class came at the right time. I'm sitting in gratitude for serendipity, and for my keyboard, and the motivation to use them.

©Michelle Scofield, July 13, 2011 All Rights Reserved

You Will Be Missed

3/12/2007 8:56:23 PM

For sweet voices and the gift of familiar converse, I am grateful.
For time spent 'round the table, I am grateful.
For answers attempted to questions stammered, I am grateful.
For allowing tears to fall when they must, I am grateful.
For each day old friends grow older still - together, I am grateful.
For the opening of a circle to form one anew, I am grateful.
For yesterday, for today, for tonight, for tomorrow, I am grateful.


Nothing has changed...but everything. Goodbye, Joanie. You will be in my heart forever.

Assist?

So, yeah. I think in numbers. And letters. I spell every conversation, every single one. It's a little glitch in my brain chemistry that started around puberty. I guess it's my special version of OCD. I also count backwards from one-hundred when I run. I can't get to zero because something dire might happen - like death. Maybe. I'm not sure. What I'd give for a Paxil cocktail some days...

Anyway, I think in numbers and letters. I've been writing this blog in one form or another for years and my follower count doesn't go up but I hear from people all the time, "I love your blog!" They're reading it. It's not the same eight people. Each time I log in, I think, "Maybe today will be the day I've got twenty followers." I never should have watched "Julie and Julia". That movie showed the author's follower number climb almost exponentially. Ack! It shouldn't matter, but it does to me.

It also irks me that I help promote other people and I get nothing. I'd make a shitty Buddhist. (Here is where I have to say that I DO get something. I just made a really terrible blanket statement. It's my EEEEE-GO talking.) I'm linked to blogs that also link to me. I'm just not feeling the love today. We all have days like that. Oops! There I go, using a work like "all" again.

Moving on:

Here's the good news. I've signed up for a four week Beginners Yoga class. I've been up and running or power walking four times this week. This morning's route took me past my office and I didn't get feelings of dread. This is a big deal. With my last job I avoided any proximity to work during my time off. There was that much stress associated with the job. Now I see a building where I work. I don't see a building where I don't want to be.

It's a Sunday morning hallelujah for the regrowth that I've been aching to feel. Moving on.




©Michelle Scofield, July 10, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Exposed

Feeling purple but not in my favorite Prince way. Someone (some counselor?) told me I may think in numbers, like some people think in colors. Today I'm feeling a color.

"What's in the box? Are those the prints?" When I framed them I was excited and proud. My obsessive love of order and sameness was fed by the uniformity of the pictures in their container. They were surrounded by shiny black borders and clean glass that virtually sparkled. I'd signed them with my best sixth grade signature. (My penmanship never improved after Mrs. Axtell was done with me.) No one had seen the finished product but me. Suddenly - surprisingly - I realized that they'd been left out on a table during my move-in and they were being scrutinized.

"Hey, we're both signed up for the same race!" I hadn't run an official race for over a year. I'd made up my mind that I would for several reasons: My son is now a runner. There was no entry fee. (Frugality raises it's head once again.) I've moved to a new city and it's time for a fresh start. I've packed on 20 pounds since injuring my foot. Knowing that I would be slow, sweaty, and my times/race photos would be online for anyone/everyone to see gave me pause but not enough to keep me home Monday morning. So I got my older, fatter self out of bed. Oomph.

"...so I put it on twitter and forwarded it to some classmates..." Thus went the beginning of an email alerting me to the fact that my writing was about to get much more exposure than I've been used to. I'd had an inkling that it would happen and I'd let my coworkers know. I took the next step and linked the professional journal article to an email and now I'm certain that not only my family, friends, and colleagues, but also my immediate coworkers have read my words and my thoughts.

"I'm just calling to remind you of your mammogram appointment at 8:20 tomorrow morning." Why not? I feel like I've bared my soul this week. What's a little anatomy?

Here's to Mom, an all-star at letting us see her emotions. No pink for her. That would have pissed her off. Anyway, get your mammogram if it's indicated for you. No one should die of breast cancer. That's for damned sure. Mine is a year late because...well it's a year late. There are no excuses. Sorry, Mom. I'll do better next year.





©Michelle Scofield, July 7, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Sallie Field Moment

Well that was exciting. I was checking my email last night, between buffering frustrations with my Netflix. Yes, I'm still a phone-tethered fool who won't get cable. I prefer to think of myself as frugal, not cheap. So rather than stare at that swirly blue bar at the bottom of my screen, I jumped over to my mail account. Bianca took me to the JAAPA website. Wow! Just...WOW!

I knew it was in the works, this gathering of Physician Assistant writers, but I didn't know how or when. I'm absolutely flattered and excited. I'm very proud to be in such good company.

Thanks to Jim Anderson for his steady, most excellent work. Now check out the other writers. You'll like them, you'll really like them.

Holding Memories

Packing, clearing, reaching for top shelves. What's that? My medical bag.

I've been very good about not stopping to reminisce but this discovery forced me to take a few minutes to recall how excited I was (almost 16 years ago) to receive the black leather bag that held all things which made me somehow official. Officially a student, that is.

The bag is now disintegrating and I need to throw it away. I guess if you don't use it you really do lose it. The handles are sticky and one side is covered with some kind of goo that I don't want to attempt to identify. I've watched enough episodes of "Hoarders" to believe that the memories are in my brain, not in that bag. The bag is out. First, I wanted to make sure I kept any contents that might have value.

A disposable scalpel. Tossed. I don't anticipate doing any quick surgeries outside of an operating room. Assorted tapes and bandages - just as sticky as the handles. Gone. Diaphragms to long lost stethoscopes. Pitched. They don't fit the one I have now. Drug company pens. So thrown out.

My otoscope. I remember when I first got it and I wanted to look in everyone's ears. I practiced insufflation and probably caused some terrible pain. For this I apologize to any of my patients/victims who might be reading today.

A tuning fork. I think my kids played with it more than I ever used it.

I smile a little remembering how intimidated I was by those two pieces of equipment. Never in my wildest PA Student dreams would I have imagined that an auriculectomy would become an "easy" surgery to assist. I'm not even sure if I had wild PA Student dreams. I was too afraid to dream wildly. Sometimes I was too tired to dream.

Looking at the bag I get a giggle out of the umbilical clamp I used for an identification tag. It's a mark of my ego. It wasn't enough to have a bag. I had to go one step further. I had to show that I was in proximity to birthing babies. The first day I actually helped deliver one, I believe I was as white as that clamp. I'm not sure where my ego went, but anything to do with obstetrics scared the crap out of me from that point onward.

I received an email from a new graduate today. She asked me for some advice and I answered her immediately. It wasn't clinical advice she sought but practical people stuff. In my last paragraph I thanked her for asking me and as I hit "Send" I was grateful that someone considered me wise enough to seek my council. I think it's fitting that today is the day to discard this symbol of my infant PA self. Back then I thought it meant I had arrived. Little did I know.




©Michelle Scofield, June 27, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Only Numbers

What if I only meaningfully interact with 6% of the people with whom I come in contact? Over the 3rd or 4th (who was counting?) drink last night, my best friend and I stepped briefly into that dark melancholy corner of the bar and quietly mourned our similar situations. We're middle aged and seriously single - heavy on the serious.

We were in a very big, very crowded, very packed establishment. You know the kind. It was frat-boy heaven. The walls were covered with the trophies of mass consumption of hoppy brew, each displaying the name of someone who had managed to taste (purchase) each of the offerings of the place. I think there are about 200 beers available. Big screens played soccer and baseball. Beer was being swilled and spilled. It all seemed silly and juvenile and my friend and I spent a few minutes wondering what the hell we were doing there before we remembered what we were doing there. We were on a birthday pub crawl and we'd come from a fun Irish pub and were on our way to another place we hadn't tried before. As quickly as we'd plunged into that pity fest of estimating that "94% of these people are people we have absolutely nothing in common with", we walked out the door and rejoined the people we'd arrived with - the ones we DO have something in common with.

No doubt alcohol fueled philosophy is a dangerous thing. I'd rather look back on our little psychic foray and pull what I can from it, now that my head has cleared.

Aside from the deep and plentiful laughs, here's what I gained from last night:

1. I still don't like to drink beer unless I'm cooking. I can make it last a couple hours and I don't care if it's warm.

2. Light has a magnetic pull on me. (My college physics teacher would blanch at this sentence.) I am compelled to take a picture when I notice the way light falls on a face, an object, through the air. I become uninvolved in conversation. I border on rude. I apologize to my fellow humans. I'm having an affair with my camera.

3. I've earned the right to say my age and to act it. The thought of going to a rave after a Saturday night of drinking makes me tired. I hold no judgement on those who go. I only know that I can't, won't, didn't. I'm happy with being told I don't look this age. So far, no one's making a big deal about what age I act.

4. I want to buy a tie for someone. I want to see him go to work and know that he's wearing the tie I bought him. (One of the places we went was also a tailor shop.) Seeing all those beautiful ties and knowing that my closet is about half-empty triggered that desire in me to share my life and my space with someone who will let me do nice things for him. Little things, like buying ties. This is kind of funny to me because, really, how many men wear neckties anymore? Statistically, I don't think I should make this a dealbreaker. Even if the 6% we discussed last night is only ballpark, this necktie thing might really narrow my field.





©Michelle Scofield, June 26, 2011 All Rights Reserved

What Are Memories Worth?

I've been packing for my upcoming move and I've thrown out a lot of things. Over the years I've moved many times and I've gone through the sorting process each time, so this is a pretty easy move. Still, I'm surprised at what I thought I needed to hang on to. Maybe it was that I was too physically tired to sort through a box or maybe I was too mentally fatigued to shift an item from the storage shelves in my brain. Do you have these?

I Had This

This Might Come Back

This Is Over

Having a garbage chute in my building helps. I can walk a bag of trash down the hall and send it 4 floors away to a steaming pile of hot Houston summer never-look-back. When it's gone, it's gone.

The pleasant and happy happening is that the photographs of my Mom and Dad haven't been painful to come upon. I've had a lot of smiles to find pictures of them as the (at times) youthful, silly, optimistic, attractive, career-minded, flamboyant, outgoing, charismatic, loving, generous, shy, and beautiful people they were. It's a good thing to be able to put all of these pictures together and have a goal of distributing albums to the family.

It's a goal - it could happen. I once heard that goals are healthy, kind of like oat bran.

I also found a lot of ticket stubs and playbills. I always figured they would stir memories of the night, the music, the experience. I've had "Kathmandu" by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band running through my head since coming upon that shoebox. Look at the picture and notice that I didn't find my ticket from that night. No Aerosmith or Todd Rundgren. Nothing from ZZ Top or Peter Frampton. Those are the concerts I remember the best.

If I close my eyes I am standing in front of the stage at Frampton and I am in the presence of a genius but I don't have the capacity to describe it because I'm a very young girl and all I know is his music is blowing me away.

I can remember how still a very full concert hall became when Todd Rundgren climbed to the top of a giant speaker and sang "Hello It's Me". That was after Head East opened for him. We had been whipped into a teenage frenzy with "Never Been Any Reason" and then Rundgren looked us all in the eyes and sang to us, individually, and we were still and we listened.

So I don't have those paper memories but it's interesting to look at the ones I do. Check out the prices on those tickets from back then. Styx and America each set me back six-fifty. Black Oak Arkansas cost me five bucks. Lynyrd Skynyrd, seven dollars. Compare that to what we're paying for concerts today. That Van Halen ticket cost thirty times the price I paid to see Kansas. Sure, Van Halen was great. Sure it was with David Lee Roth and not Sammy Hagar. Guess which I'd rather do again?





©Michelle Scofield, June 18, 2011 All Rights Reserved

For Company at 3am

On Solitude - Alexander Pope

"Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye."




Last night was a night most restless. Heh, I read a few poems from the 18th century and I switch up my diction. I needed someone to talk to. I was anxious and worried about a patient. I attempted to sleep and I woke myself almost hourly, thinking, "Don't forget." Today I was beat and my caffeine consumption tells the story of someone who struggled to get through the day. I made it but just barely. As it turns out, my worry was unnecessary. The potential problem I was pondering wasn't a problem at all. Sometimes it happens that way.

Anyway, at 3am I was wondering if I had someone with me, would I just be keeping that person awake? Or would it have helped to bounce my concern off of them (not the minutiae - but my CONCERN) before going to bed? If I'd have had the opportunity to decompress, might I have slept better? Who knows?

I tell myself I like my solitude. I tell myself I adore setting my own schedule and course in life. That's what I tell myself.

Then again, I put a lot of energy into sharing this life with others. I even write about being alone. This irony isn't lost on me.




©Michelle Scofield, June 15, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Search Six Eight Eleven

I need a topic today. Without a clue or inspiration, I'm looking at the "At-A-Glance" calendar on my desk. What is today? June 8, 2011. So I'm going to Google "June" and see where the eighth entry takes me. Hang on. I'll be right back.

I end up at MySpace? Really? Can you hear this long exhale I'm making. It goes like this. "Gaaahhhhhh." I'm 51 freaking years old. I don't want to be at MySpace reading about the band June which has apparently broken up. I listened to some of the music. For a little minute - a very little minute. Let's see what's going on at the blog. Hmmm...July 18, 2010 Tim wrote that he "finished producing and mixing a song for Linkin Park's new record coming out in September".

Let's head on over to Linkin Park. Look at all those interesting places on Linkin Park's tour schedule for June, 2011. What's in the 11th spot? RockWerchter2011 in Belgium. Looking at the lineup I'm feeling everyone of my 51 years old.

Wait!

I've already seen one of these bands. Once you've seen Social Distortion, do you really need to see anyone else? Looking through the tour dates I see that they will be in Austin in September. Road trip, anyone? Travel keeps us young.


©Michelle Scofield, June 8, 2011 All Rights Reserved

What Price Comfort or Beauty?

Free is good, right? Have I got a deal for someone. I don't know for whom. I have this perfectly almost great couch with somewhat squished cushions. Now I didn't say comfy, cozy, squishy, lush cushions. Something happened between now and 2006. The foam in the cushions stopped doing the job it was meant to do. I've hardly used this couch. The springs seem to be OK. I think it was not super-great foam to begin with and then it became flimsy. I don't like flimsy foam. I'm want to dump the flimsy-foam couch





and get a sleek leather couch like this.



You say, "Sell the flimsy-foam couch." When? I work Monday through Friday and I'm not able to run home during the day. I also don't want to deal with the Craig's List Strangler. I have a strong hunch he works evenings and weekends at his part time strangling job.

You say I should donate it? Easier said than done. I've looked for charities that will pick it up and (you guessed it) the charity truck drivers only work Monday through Friday. I have no idea what they are doing evenings and weekends. I won't hazard a guess.

I'm hoping a friend will want it. I think it would make a swell addition to a game room where kids can jump on it and squish those cushions even further. Or maybe someone who is very industrious can recover it, even recover just the cushions. Anyone? ANYONE???

You bring the truck and the lifting power and I'll provide the free couch and a big ol' smile while you take it on out of here. There's an elevator. That's a bonus, yes?

While I'm talking price, just take a gander at this beauty. I love it but c'mon. $31,000 for a watch?

I love watches. I have a teensy, tiny addiction. I found replicas of the Hublot selling from $85 to $595. I think I'll hold out for the real deal. One day. A girl can have goals.




©Michelle Scofield, June 7, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Stretch and Cut

First day back at work. I know I was missed. Everyone told me so. That's a great feeling and it made the commute on the slightly rain-slicked highway a little easier.

I was feeling pretty good about myself. I was knocking my notes out, keeping up with the day and standing pretty tall. After being off for a week, I felt like things were going better than I'd expected them to be. No major malfunctions. You know what happens next. Something always happens next.

I entered a room. Chitchat ensued and morphed into political discussion.

Uh oh. I hate that.

The room tilted to the right and I felt my stomach flip as it tried to reconcile the gravity of the conversation. I looked at the chart. I looked out the window. I attempted to look as apolitical as possible.

I heard the words.

"She's a real Obama fan, a regular supporter."

Why does it have to be this way? I felt my credibility fly out the very window through which I'd been gazing. It flew out on the wings of a creature that hovers above me and occasionally divebombs, taking me by surprise.

I smiled. Sometimes it's better to say nothing. One doesn't have to deny or confirm. In fact I think I said more with my silence than I could have said with words.

Since it's now 6:26pm and I'm off the clock, for the record: Yes, I am.


©Michelle Scofield, June 6, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Time to Say When

You know when enough is enough, right?

Six days in Las Vegas made for a very long week. Sitting in straightbacked chairs for hour upon hour and listening to talks on acute renal failure, sexually transmitted disease, surgical wound management, malpractice issues, and ovarian masses can be exhausting. Each evening the temptation was to hit the personal pan pizza stand and melt into the king sized bed with television remote in hand. I can only take so much of the Discovery Channel. I made a pact with myself to enjoy a nice dinner out each evening - even if it meant I'd be eating alone.

When I first started traveling to Las Vegas (*cough* 30 years ago *cough*), the all-you-can-eat buffet was King. Not so much anymore. Thank goodness. Today there is a fierce battle being fought for restaurant royalty and the dining patron is benefiting from the fight. Many so-called celebrity chefs have opened up shop along the strip. I have a few favorites that I've accumulated over the years, including Michael Mina and Emeril Lagasse.

This trip I tried Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill. Holy Chili Pepper! What a wonderful meal I had. My only regret is that I ordered a glass of wine and not tequila. Next time I'll know better. The chili relleno was the best I've had but the fire really needed the sweet and sour of a margarita for balance. What impressed me about the food at Mesa was that the spice was all full and forward. It didn't linger and scald. It didn't ruin the next bite.

For my last dinner I went to the Venetian and asked for a table for one at B&B Ristorante, a Mario Batali establishment. It wasn't late, about 7:30, and there were many open tables to be seen. I was told I could sit at the bar or be put on a list and the wait would be fifteen or twenty minutes. Uh, no. I left and walked over to AquaKnox where I was seated immediately in an extremely comfortable, high-backed, deep-cushioned, luxurious chair.

I was given ample time to peruse the menu, finally choosing the ahi tuna which was barely seared and served over a bed of couscous seasoned with blood orange. If I tell you it was delicious I'm not even beginning to do it justice. I finished my meal, I finished my drink (see above) and thought, "I'm done. I want to go home."

I was tired.

I'd attempted to scout out the best and I'd stumbled onto even better. Mario Batali can keep his pasta and his attitude. I had a simple and perfect meal and one perfect martini along with it. My glass was empty, my stomach full.

I decided the night would best be finished with a walk down Las Vegas Boulevard, through Harrah's casino and onto the Monorail platform to catch the ride back to my hotel. It seemed a shame to take a cab and let it all end so early. Lest I be lulled into complacency and think there was some sort of magic to the night, I happened to witness a full-on fist fight in front of Denny's and I narrowly avoided being vomited on by a woman wearing a bright pink feather boa. But wait, there's more.

I arrived at McCarran airport this morning and breezed through baggage check and security. I grabbed a cup of coffee and made my way toward gate C-2 to wait for boarding. I noticed a young man sleeping - snoring - on the floor. He couldn't be missed because his snores were so LOUD. Oh, and his face was covered with black and red marker. Someone had written all over his face. And his neck. And his arms.

I walked around him and soon I heard a young woman shouting at him, "Jason! Wake up! We have to get on the plane!" Jason wasn't waking up. People around him were looking, nudging each other. A few even got up to take pictures of him with their cell phones. Someone got a wheelchair and then Jason was poured into it. He slept on, snoring like a bear.

You know what comes next, right?

I made my way to the service desk and asked (discreetly) if they were really going to let that young man on the plane. The woman at the counter told me that his flight didn't take off for a couple hours. Holy shit. I'm glad he wasn't on my flight.

That's what I told her. "Holy shit. I'm glad he's not on my flight." Oh, I added. "What will you do if he has a seizure?" She just shrugged and said, "He's just really sleepy."

(If I'd been working the ER, he'd have an IV hanging and his airway protected. No doubt in my mind he was on the edge of alcohol poisoning - if not there already.)

I feel:

old
sad
tired
disgusted


tired.


©Michelle Scofield, June 4, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Was it Something I Said?

Please bear with me, I have a tiny rant.

I just returned home from an afternoon out with a friend. We attended an art show then stopped into a new restaurant where we enjoyed a nice lunch. The service was outstanding. We enjoyed the air conditioning as we sipped our margaritas and dined on 100% TexMex awesomeness that included tamale, enchilada, tacos, chips and guacamole. Yum! It was a fitting Houston lunch for this all-American holiday weekend.

Before heading home we stopped into our favorite bar for a cocktail - a place we've patronized for over two years. We're regulars. We were greeted by a bartender who is fairly new to the crew and we took two seats at the end of the bar. We placed our orders and extended hellos to a couple of the other bartenders. It became clear very soon that the mood in the place was not good.

It was late afternoon and as the staff on duty grew, one-by-one they displayed scowls and exchanged looks of general unpleasantness. They used one word answers with the customers and with each other. A few of them looked (frankly) pissed off.

Can I tell you that it was uncomfortable? Can I tell you that I didn't want to be there? Can I tell you that I wish we hadn't stopped in?

Here's a big one.

Can I tell you that I don't know if I'll go back?

The funny thing about this is that just last week I let one of the bartenders in this establishment know that I'd nominated her for a local newspaper's web award. Now this woman is hardly acknowledging me. (Wait. I don't think we're best friends. The day I get that buddy-buddy with my barkeep is the day I sign up for an extended stay at posh place with "Meadows" on the sign out front.) It was just weird.

Here's the story I made up in my head about today. (Remember, I make up stories.) The people working in the place were irritated, pissed off, angry, SOMETHING, for some reason and they didn't or couldn't make nice in front of the customers.

What. A. Shame.

The good thing about Houston is that there are plenty of places to spend a buck or two on a cocktail. Or ten.

Measuring Excitement

I've been taking photographs for years, decades for you sticklers for detail. I've enjoyed sharing my pics with families, then friends.

With the advent of electronic sharing, I shared.

Very recently I was told I should share in a different way. It was mentioned to me more than once that I might share with strangers commercially, that people might be interested in paying for my view on the world.

That stirred a little something in me. Ego. Fear. More fear and a few restless nights that mixed that fear with excitement.

I enjoyed the attention and the talk.

I took a leap and I ordered some prints to test my favorite shots at eight by ten inches. Wow! That was exciting.

Guess what. Sixteen by twenty is much more than twice the fun.

Building my showpieces along with my excitement.

This is a blast.



©Michelle Scofield, May 27, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Resolution

AskTheDateCoach is no longer.

It was a nice idea while it lasted. It was a fun conversation starter.

I'd rather put my energies elsewhere. Oh, I still have opinions on dating. I will be more than happy to share them from time to time. Not to worry.

If you've followed me there, please follow me here.

I'd love for you to follow my photography.

I'll keep you posted as that develops. Ha! I couldn't resist. I have many things lining up for the future. Can't wait to share.




©Michelle Scofield, May 25, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Leave My Allegory Out of This

My text message alert (the upward sliding whistle) sounded as I reached for a second glass of water. I left the cell phone on the counter as I drank down the tumbler of coldness and told myself that all I needed to complete my task was water, that I certainly had the energy cells but without H20, I couldn't make it. About an hour earlier I’d packed an old Anatomy and Physiology book into a box and the formula for Aerobic Respiration threatened to make an appearance in my brain after all these years.

“Krebs Cycle? What the hell?” I’d long forgotten many of the things I used to think were important. I set the glass on the counter and picked up my phone. Reading the cheerful greeting, I decided it could wait.

I spent an hour moving boxes and bins from my storage closet to the spare bedroom in my apartment. Fortunately said storage closet was only about 300 yards away. I carried tennis rackets and golf clubs the length of a football field. I moved my grandmother’s china and my mother’s Avon treasures.

Most of those boxes hadn’t been opened in over a year.




Each time I opened my apartment door to drop off a load my phone alerted me to another message. Did I want to listen to some music? Was I hungry? Of course I did and of course I was. Unfortunately, I was busy.

I used the metal luggage cart my daughter used in her band camp days to carry boxes of photographs and boxes of toys. My mother’s heart wants to believe that her high school language wasn’t as colorful as mine as she loaded her French horn and suitcase on those little rollers. My soon to be ex-neighbors got an earful of cursing as heavy boxes challenged the tiny dolly and I maneuvered through the hallways of the complex, sweating and mumbling about my remaining adenosine triphosphates.

My final trip yielded a card table and my Hurricane Preparedness kit (toilet paper, flashlight, batteries, canned food, battery operated fan, can opener, bleach). Two more things I didn’t use since moving into this place in December of 2009. I’m happy that we weren’t hit by a natural disaster. I’ll leave the emergency supplies intact and hope that they remain untouched for another five years.

My phone was blinking after I’d finished a bath in a tub full of cool water. It felt wonderful to soak away the heat and dust of generations of saving pretty things from the past. I settled into my big, ugly, old, doesn’t-go-with-anything chair that I use every day.

I haven’t had a meaningful, romantic, physical relationship with a man in two years.

My working title to this essay was, “Leave my allegory out of this.” It’s too easy. All these boxes, the dust. Right. Laugh about it. I have. I do.

As I think about it, I like the title. I also like the thought of unpacking a few boxes before I move. I have a month. I’ll condense and take fewer things with me. There’s no way I need some of those things. (I think tax records from ten years ago can be shredded.)

But before I go, I’ll be having dinner and listening to some music with that man. We have a date. I’m no dummy.



©Michelle Scofield, May 21, 2011 All Rights Reserved

The Man in the Crimson Shirt

Same corner, every day.

Almost violent in his pointing
and waving,
he pushes me toward a

Twenty-nine dollar
manicure

neither
needed
nor
wanted.

Who hired this angry man to
stand on this corner
and direct me to services
unsought?

I'll close this sunroof and
catch Deacon Blues before
they reach him.

This free brother
is tempting me to throw
him
a kiss in exchange
for his mad display.

Green light drives me
and my music away.
Point on, rhythm man.


©Michelle Scofield May 11, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Future Written in the Past

I've started the process of "Look at it, Toss it or Keep it. Look at it again." I could wax nostalgic about a lifetime of collecting memories but I'm only halfway into this planned century of living so that seems a bit premature. My goal this morning is to begin the process of packing for a move down Highway 59. Doing so means tackling the mountain of mail and Very Important Papers on my desk. I pulled out a plastic filing crate from the closet and started throwing away Other Very Important Papers to make room for newer ones. It all makes sense to me.

As I finished the "Car" folder and moved to "Chris", I found two yellowing sheets of lined notebook paper. One was written by my son and one by my daughter. My son was not yet using longhand, except for his signature. My daughter wrote in precise cursive, nothing I would recognize as hers today. I took the time to sit down and read.

Apparently one day there had been some sort of altercation that had prompted a punishment by me that resulted in the pages I now held in my hands. They (the children) had been instructed to write a full page on why they should not hit each other. I won't go into the exact words they wrote but I will tell you that when my kids were in grade school I didn't have any idea they would grow into their current professions. Oh, I knew they would excel at anything they attempted. I knew they would be superstars - there was no doubt in my mind. (That's not just their Mom talking, they were undeniably brilliant.) What I didn't know as I was wrapped up in parenting, groceries, cooking, cleaning, considering my own schooling, attempting to keep a failing marriage together (and honestly, not attempting that hard), running a household, and fearing for the future of my brilliant children and myself...was that I had a lawyer and a doctor sitting right in front of me.

The papers written so many years ago speak of arbitration, fairness, diplomacy and consequences. They speak of relationships, self-esteem, the family unit. They speak of the importance of remaining healthy physically. I am blown away each and every day by the gift that I have been given in my children. I try so hard not to live in regret but how I wish I had been able to take more time when they were younger to appreciate the lessons they were teaching me. Paige and Chris, I love you more than I can ever, EVER express.


©Michelle Scofield May 7, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Top Ten List

Here are the top ten reasons why today is a good day:

10. I know I'm moving.

9. I don't know exactly to where I'm moving and that gives me a bit of a thrill. I recognize this vagabond trait in myself and I know it comes from living an unsettled childhood. I know it comes from making the best of not-so-good situations. I learned that there was a knew to be gained from every new and a know to grow from every now. I learned that I needed to pay attention to everything. Mom said I was like a little bird who perked up at the slightest change in the air in the room. My winds of change are stirring and I'm excited to see what they'll bring to me.

8. The weather is glorious. (That's typed in imaginary musical font, in case you didn't hear it in your head.)

7. I have another trip planned at the end of the month. My frequent flyer miles are racking up toward another freebie.

6. The photographs I shot in Chicago are incredibly strong. I'm proud and excited to put together something to show.

5. I'm connecting with my patients on a level I haven't felt for at least ten years. I think it's the bell-ringing. When someone completes therapy it's a HUGE accomplishment and I get to be there to see their celebrations. DING! DONG! DING!

4. Satellite Radio is the best. There's nothing like 70's music to get me in a good mood in the morning.

3. I found some old David Letterman on YouTube. Watching him in a Velcro suit - stuck to a wall - was hilarious. Last night I think I woke my neighbors. I was laughing so hard.

Tied for 1 and 2. My children. I watch the more-settled, growing-up versions of that younger me and I am amazed. And in this I sit in gratitude.


©Michelle Scofield May 4, 2011 All Rights Reserved

To Be Splendid

About six months ago a series of clicks started moving through the system of tumblers that lock my brain. I couldn't hear them but I felt the tiniest shift and ease as pins lined up, tension built, and I experienced one slight release after another. I am letting go.

I've let go before. I've walked away, I've moved on. This feels different. When I compare my previous life transitions to now it seems as if those times were like walking through a doorway into another room (leaving the room behind)and this is more like opening the windows to see what is actually in the room (to find I may want to spend more time in it).

When I turned 50 it bothered me to state my age. Now I throw it out like a challenge. I'm 51 and my skin will always look 20 years younger. I started growing my hair longer before my birthday. I'd worn it extremely short for years. I've embraced a couple looks that I've always loved on other people and hadn't tried myself. Why? I have no idea. I find myself wearing colorful silk scarves more days than not. I wear a denim jacket with dresses and I have a closet full of shoes that make me happy.

I was asked if I have plans for Easter. Would I like to have dinner with a family because I'm all alone? I declined, saying I have theater tickets. The inviter was surprised and said she was sorry I had to go by myself. Reader, I hope you're not sorry for me. I have 3rd row seats. I think it will be wonderful.

Now to one of the clicks I was talking about. It may take a minute to get there. I went dancing with a female friend of mine last night. We were outside - on the patio - taking in the night breeze and catching up on our lives. A most attractive, friendly, single man struck up a conversation and bought us a drink. This most attractive, friendly, single man eventually asked me to dance and at one point told me I was "splendid". Isn't that a wonderful word? Given that his native language is French, I take that as a sincere compliment and I felt bad that because the band was so loud he had to say it 4 times before I heard it. (Kind of.)

Here's the click. He was good-looking, single, seemingly-sincere, interesting and...more than 10 years younger than me. I'm aware of how my room-leaving, door-slamming self works.

Easing open the windows shows me that it's fun to dance. It's wonderful to be told I'm splendid. One day I may meet a man in my general age-range. Maybe. In the meantime. Click. Click. Click. Yes, he has my number.

©Michelle Scofield, April 22, 2011 All Rights Reserved

A Man for Every Day of the Week

I’ve taken to running errands on my lunch hour. I run to the bank. I get my car washed. Today I ran to the grocery store and picked up some fresh veggies. It would be great to have a delivery service to bring my groceries to me.

Today I was involved in a discussion about the milkman, a bit of reminiscing. Some of you may remember him. When I was a girl we had a big tin box on the front porch. The milk man would come around twice a week and place a couple gallons of milk and maybe some half-and-half or cottage cheese or whatever extra order Mom had placed for him on the little yellow slip of paper that she clipped on the box with a clothespin. If she forgot to order the extra before she ran off to work in the morning it was always a loud “shit!” when she got home that night and started preparing dinner.

Seems there used to me more “men” around who did certain tasks for single women in the old days. Please know that I’m smiling as I type this. I’m fully aware that a woman could have done those jobs. Today’s talk about the milkman disintegrated exactly as you might expect. Today a group of women began to talk about just who we might want to come around once a week. There were laughs and sideways smiles, smirks and talk of servicing us.

Mechanics. Plumbers. Cabana Boys. Chefs.

Here’s how it ended up.

Mostly we wanted someone to:

Wash our cars. Go to the bank. Do our grocery shopping.

Ha! So I guess all the old jokes of having the milkman come around are just that - old. We tried to keep up the jokes and the innuendo. We just couldn’t do it.

There is no sideways way to say it.

Sometimes an oil change is just an oil change.


©Michelle Scofield, April 20, 2011 All Rights Reserved