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

Hallelujah!

Could the moon be more full?

Please! I know I asked for help from my friends but...What. The. Hell?

Tonight (7:55pm), in my car, dressed in a cute new cocktail dress and my phone rings. My friend is backing out on plans for tonight. Fine. I get that his could-be date backed out. I get that he's not feeling it. Big ol' sigh and let's get on with it. I drive to the art show and, damn it! Where am I supposed to park for this thing? After 20 minutes of circling the bus station and the hobos (yes, I said it) I find a place next to the 24hour flower shop and traipse my new shoes over the train tracks to a complimentary shot of single-malt. That's better. The art is good but the crowd is on average 20 years younger than me and I don't know anyone but one of the artists. I'm out of there after praising her obvious talent. I leave the gallery and maneuver through the dark streets to my car hoping against hope that I make it in one piece.

I duck into one of my favorite restaurants. It's a favorite because it serves a fantastic steak and one of the bartenders is a real cutie that I've been flirting with for about 6 months. Would you believe that he's maybe leaving said establishment? Ack! Not to worry. He has my contact information and he wants to attend an art event with me. I'm feeling pretty good about the fact that I wore the right cute dress tonight and that he won't be "the help". I hate that phrase. I hate the "should I, or should we" debate. He's attractive. We're both single. Forget about it!

Now's where it gets interesting. A man sitting next to me starts up a conversation. I think, "harmless". Wrong.

By the end of my steak and partway into his conversation, I'm trying to think of an exit strategy where I don't get murdered by the Jesus freak to my left. What did I do to deserve this? Hail Mary full of grace, please don't let him see me when I exit to the parking lot after going to the ladies' room. (I'd paid my tab earlier and managed to confirm with Mr. Hottie Bartender that he would be calling me next week.) I excuse myself to the rest room before Ezekial enters the promised land of discussing his upbringing in Kentucky. What sends me running? Literal fists on the bar and finger pointing to heaven. For a little while I think Jim Baker or Joel Osteen is in house.

I slink into the parking lot, making furtive glances over my shoulder and heave a sigh of relief as I shut my car door. I am safe within the confines of my car for the second time this evening.

So I'm home. I suppose I could lift a prayer of Thanksgiving for a safe return in light of the hazards I faced tonight. Or I could just be grateful for another adventure in this wonderful city and call it good.


©Michelle Scofield, April 16, 2011 All Rights Reserved

With a Little Help From My Friends

So divorced eight (8?!?) years. Haven't seriously dated anyone for over a year. What do I know about dating? That's the question of the century. Guess what. I'm not going to answer that today.

Here's what's going on. I've asked my friends to consider their friends. Do they know anyone in my general age range, who is employed, who might possibly be interested in meeting me. I know that I'd like to meet someone who isn't fresh out of a relationship. I figure I've done that (dated someone who is working through his issues). It's not something I want to do again. Ouch!

Today I was told that I wasn't someones "type". I wasn't a little tiny woman and I was too smart for one particular man about whom I'd inquired (an acquaintance of a friend). OK...honestly? After awhile a girl just wants to throw in the towel and go back to the Internet (which I dabbled in BARELY for a couple of years). BUT that is no man's land as far as I'm concerned. So it stung a bit to hear this truth but darlings the truth is just that.

I'm just going to keep on being me. It's off to the bookstore and then working on my travel plans. If my friends know someone, awesome. If not, I'm going to change the name of this damned blog. :)



©Michelle Scofield, April 16, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Through My Eyes

I'm working the book "The Artist's Way" because I'm stuck in a rut. Call it a block. Call it not moving forward. Call it what you want. I know I want that thing called "more" but I'm not able to define what "more" is. I have two books started and that's as far as they've gone. They've been born and they're stunted in their infancies.

It was suggested to me to try the book because many people have had success moving past their blocks with it and because I love art in so many forms. I dutifully stopped at Borders and then ducked into Hobby Lobby and bought what I've wanted for years - a sketch pad and pencils. Actually, I had those supplies already. They are buried somewhere in my storage closet and I knew that I would use the excuse of later and I'd never get to it if I didn't purchase them now.

I thought I might start with small, detailed pieces. I'd give myself the time to sit and draw - even if I was bad. I EXPECT to be bad - at least not good. The point is to spend time in a quiet spot and work in a creative way. I thought I would be detailed. I thought wrong.

Today I drove to the Rose Garden at Hermann Park and found a quiet spot to sit next to a single flower in midbloom. I fidgeted for a bit. Of course I did. Where to start? I pulled out a single graphite pencil and attempted to draw the petals. They fit so perfectly into each other. I worked one way and then another to try and fit the soft strength of them together with black, gray, smudge and shade. Nothing. Did I dare reach for color? Why not? The art I love is all about color. The garden around me was shouting with color. My nose was full of the scent of roses. I reached for pink and orange. I closed my eyes and told myself that I was sitting in that place for my own peace not for rules. There were no rules.

This was about letting art let me go.

I don't know how long I sat there and sketched. When I was done, I felt satisfied. I didn't judge my art. I wasn't there to make "good" art. I was there to let my mind go for awhile. I wandered a little bit afterwards and took photographs of a few of the flowers.

The paths at Hermann Park don't always lead to an exit. Sometimes I have to double back to get to the gate - that's if I want to stay on the path. I can always walk on the grass, cut across and see what's across the way. It's up to me to decide if I want to stay on the well-defined road or set my own course.

Today I lift up my gratitude for my teachers and those who give me the space to walk my own path.



©Michelle Scofield March 27, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Waiting

This week I was given two assignments: I was to start reading "When the Heart Waits" by Sue Monk Kidd and I was to journal about an event that caused me a lot of pain. I've done both and I'm tired.

This is part of a step I'm taking to understand a phase I'm in - a rut I'm in. I feel as if I'm not moving, as if I'm suspended at a place that is not especially unpleasant. I'm not sad or depressed. My career is good. I can say it's great. I don't have financial problems. My children are grown and we get along famously.

However.

But.

There must be more.

There must be more.

How long have I been here? I'm not even sure, I only know I am. I decided that I'm not unhappy, but neither am I excited or passionate about this place.

There must be more. The problem is that I have no idea how to get to another place, which way to turn, or even what I'm looking for. I am at a loss. I may even be lost and feeling neutral about it isn't acceptable to me.

Back to the assignment: The book touches on religious aspects of waiting, of soul-building. It does so in a way that doesn't feel too heavy and so far I've been able to read and accept the concepts in a general way. It's not preachy and I don't feel defensive. I'm only about a dozen pages into it. The journaling took me through several emotions. I moved from feelings of invasion to urgency to embarrassment to anger to emptiness to sadness to fondness to anger again and finally wound my back around to "EMPTY".

Where this will end up, I'm not sure. I certainly must wait because there is no rushing tomorrow. It comes when it comes and I will live through today as I lived through my yesterdays. No, I won't rush tomorrow but I bet I will welcome it.

Providence

"The moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves as well. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred.

A stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen accidents, meetings, and material assistance that no one could have dreamed would come their way.

Whatever you can do or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now. " Goethe

I haven't given Providence a lot of thought as a theological concept. I teeter on an agnostic ridge, living most of my life balanced somewhere between hopeful and doubtful. I occasionally perform a cliff dive and swim for days in the calm ocean of Grace that beckons me from my attempted perch as removed observer. It seems that I can only tolerate so much spiritual isolation before I crave the reassurance that someONE or someTHING is caring for me - not so much for my soul - but for me, as a person, and as a part of this planet. It involves my belonging.

Moving from one place to another by definition involves a beginning - and an ending. It requires a commitment to change. The challenge I see at this time is in opening myself to the dreams I've had all along but have been sleeping through. I am quite comfortable transposing religious constructs into Universal ideas. Boldness will allow me to move forward. Providence, the Universe, will allow it. I simply have to be open to the possibilities of my life.

Steps, movement, power.

Perspective

“Perspective, man, perspective”. Those smug words flowed too easily from my brain, to my fingertips, through the keyboard, and onto the screen. I was telling my friend that my view of him allowed me to see him in a unique way – that I somehow had the scoop on his Goodness. We’d been communicating most of the day about a recent breakup of one of my relationships, a friendship that had gone bad. He’d been supportive of me and I’d decided to make a public pronouncement of his support as a way of thanking him and (I will admit this) as a way of letting the world know that I still have friends.

Lately I’ve been feeling left out, confused, and generally pissed off around the loss of a couple of friendships. I admit this. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve also felt blessed, grateful, and honored at the addition and strengthening of relationships over the last year.

Yesterday was a little cathartic. (How is that possible? A “little” cathartic? Does one purge just a teensy bit?) Anyway, being asked to explain just what the hell had happened to the old gang was a relief. It also reinforced how little I’m bothered by the change. It’s simply change. You know, like life. It happens.

So as I was sitting in my chair contemplating the day and the discussion and the year leading up to it, my phone rang. It was 9:48 pm.

“Mom, please don’t be mad.”

Those are words that will get a mother’s attention.

This afternoon my daughter doesn’t remember saying those words.

Yesterday she was involved in an accident. She was driving her Vespa scooter and today she doesn’t remember telling me not to be mad at her.

Perspective.

I have the scoop on nothing.

Life is too precious to take things for granted. I am so thankful that my daughter was able to call me (again) today and let me know that she is hurting, that her injuries will heal.

Love. Love. Love