Sometimes We Have to be Pushed Off Our Perch

Some say change is permanent. Others add that security is fleeting. I am finding that the older I get, the more I agree with both.

Approximately one month ago, I was let go from my job at a local community college. Shock and grief immediately set in, and I spent the next week curled up on my couch watching movies and regularly refilling the trash can with tissues. Oh Woe was Me.



Fortunately, I had a splendid support net, and like any faltering trapeze artist, I fell, bounced a few times, and then I crawled out.

Looking back over these past weeks of re-evaluating what was/is really important to me, I have finally admitted to myself that no matter how many times I said, "At least I have a job," my position there had become an exercise of fitting my oval shape into a square mold. Expectations of clericalocity (<-- my new word for the regular pencil pushers of the technology age) left little room for what drove my own passions, and I was left feeling smothered, under-appreciated, and, well, just darned unhappy.




People have often commented on how tranquil I seem to be under stress, and how pleasant I always come across to others. Characteristics that are certainly a plus, no doubt. However, back seat driving those very same traits is the tendency to become complacent while letting things roll off my back. Thus, it was easier to just internalize the challenges I faced (yes, I occasionally had to vent to my most trusted supporters, like any seemingly dormant volcano), than it was to charge head-long into a coup for change. Alas, no rebel am I.



Through this all, I am truly fortunate that my husband has been, and is, my staunchest supporter. Pulling no punches on the present job market, he has offered me quite a tempting proposition. He has suggested that I, at least, take the summer off to regroup, explore some creative ideas I have had rumbling around in my head for years, investigate alternative forms of income (nothing illegal or immoral, of course), and then, if necessary, take a part-time job to cushion our joint income.

This would, unfortunately, mean that we will need to move out of our house and sell it (we are looking at ways we can quickly and efficiently do this) which, in retrospect, isn't a bad thing since he has strongly admitted that he hates being a home-owner, with all of the snow-shoveling/lawn-mowing/unplugging-the-plumbing/etc. et al. With the advent of both of his daughters growing to an age where they no longer live with us part-time, this house has become much too opulent for the two of us.



Gone will be rooms of un-needed furniture, mementos, knick-knacks and general clutter. Sadly, it would also mean that he will be selling his vehicle (which he loved) as well as finding superb homes for our wonderful dogs. One canine has been warmly received at my husband's ex-wife's home, where his youngest daughter lives, and the other is poised to find happiness with a large yard, a cat, and two small children tomorrow.




Achingly, that seems to be the most distressing choice of all. Three months ago we traveled 10 hours to/10 hours back to rescue the dog of our dreams. And, always preferring a cat over a dog, I was surprised at the bond I have formed with my gentle giant these past three months, and will be heart-broken when she leaves.

However, we will be embarking on a new, and exciting adventure. I have always been fascinated with my own downtown, and have always dreamed of living in a loft in the heart of the city. Close to just about anything and everything (except maybe a grocery store, but the lure of having my groceries delivered instead of enduring the mauling I always seem to encounter whilst trolling the aisles of my own market here), the clincher was the mere five-minute walk to work for my husband, instead of the 40 minute commute (plus costs).

Change is, indeed, constant, and getting used to having no discernable schedule each day has been both a pleasure and a pain. I am still struggling with which direction I really want to take, since my mind and my passions, once encumbered by bureaucratic say-so, have been released. I have been given a marvelous opportunity to grow, once again, into the person I have always wanted to be. And how many adults get to explore so many youth-planned paths in their lives?

Being pushed off my perch, while stressful to the "nth degree," has been my liberation too.

Sie la Vie!




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Stuart in the Sky With Diamonds (or How Minnie Got Her Groove Back)

The scuffling woke me up at 4:00 am. Already curled up like a well-cooked shrimp I tried to hunker up more - well as much as my stiff knees would let me. “What could that racket over my head be,” I wondered as my phenomenal dream faded, and the annoying noise continued to crescendo. Was it a mouse?

Indeed, I had been aware of some errant scratching within the walls a time or two, and on more than one occasion had even discovered some suspicious globs of fabric under the sink, the tell tale crumbs beneath a sheared off corner of a box of cereal in the cupboard, and later a few small remnants of that meal.

However, my two Amazon felines had always been able to keep any type of rodent infestation down to a minimum, and in fact had often been busted bringing home neighborhood contraband critters still wriggling in their mouths (to that extent I am certain my neighbors had been grateful of my frequent collared prowlers.)





Still, one of said Amazons who nightly snoozed on my feet continued to remain in cat dreamland and I was apparently stuck being the sentry for that particular morning shift.


So, barely breathing I concentrated on the noise. With audio effects being difficult to translate into words my best attempt, sadly, will be far from the actual sound but it sounded much like “scritch scritchscritch” and then the sawing of a tiny little hand saw (I swear that’s what it sounded like).


“Yes, that sure sounds like a mouse,” the voice in my head remarked. And then a board groaned overhead. “Uh no, mice aren’t that big” my inner voice squeaked and I felt my breathing pick up in tandem with the increased beating of my heart. I quietly straightened my posture out in the bed, and the scuffing immediately ceased. Whatever it was had Six Million Dollar Man hearing AND was bigger than a mouse.

My mind started working overtime. I envisioned a bloated Jabba-the-Rat wiggling in a corner, with her army of little rat minions bringing her trash scraps to feed all of the little baby Jabba-the-Rats.





I pictured a more than likely vicious Mama Raccoon nesting about and redecorating the attic in anticipation for her upcoming dating, mating and then blessed event of octuplets.

I saw a surplus of squirrels creating quite a bachelor pad for sleepovers and the subsequent squirrelettes.

And even worse, I pictured all of the above.




Sleep finally came to me at 4:45 when the nestling stopped, and I tossed and turned until the alarm clock went off at six. I woke up knowing that I had several hours of daylight to figure out what to do next. I also knew I needed to at least walk around the house and look for the Studio 54 entranceway and then go from there.


So, after a week of walking around the house peering and looking and gazing from every angle I could from the safety of my yard, I finally went to the official website of the State Division of Wildlife to reaffirm my fear. I found out that squirrels are definitely not nocturnal but rats, mice and raccoons are. Yikes.


Now convinced that I most certainly had a ferocious mother raccoon inhabiting my attic, I commenced to tell everyone I knew of my wild life, and how inconvenient it would be to have a nest of raccoon adolescents padding about overhead throughout the spring and into the summer. How it would be far too dangerous to even attempt to interrupt the upbringing of these youngsters as everyone surely knew it was a certain reorganization of one's face to come between a raccoon mother and her children. I dramatically regaled how miserable my sleep was surely to be for the foreseeable future, and apologized profusely for the expected bags under my eyes. I firmly stated that the wild life had taken over and I was at its mercy.

And therein was my downfall.

After borrowing an extension ladder, my very best friend and hubby cat walked about the rooftop. He tottered like an acrobat across every inch of the roof trying to ascertain just where a wide-bodied raccoon would be able to gain access. I expectantly watched him, again from the safety of the ground. finally, after finding not even a shingle loose, he came down. As did I.




Still, not willing to give up my argument that there was danger to be found in the top story of the house, I insisted that he take the ladder into the house and venture into the very abyss of peril. Grudgingly he did so. With cautious steps up the metal rungs of the extension ladder and firmly clutching a flashlight – nay, a heavy flashlight - in his hand, he unceremoniously poked his head, hair by hair, into the darkness of the void.

Hearing and seeing nothing he dared to go further. I stood at the bottom of the ladder, sighing that I had a knight in shining armor to ward off the beasts of the wood and waited. His body disappeared into the attic and I held my breath.


Hubby's face suddenly popped above the hole in the ceiling and he smiled. “There isn’t anything up here but mice, hon.” And I let out my breath somewhat indignantly but secretly relieved. “How do you know?”

He quickly climbed down the ladder and instructed me to take a look for myself. I’ll tell you it took all of my courage and then some to mount those rungs and peer about the dusty innards of the creaky house. But I did, and discovered a maze of little mouse corridors crisscrossing everywhere through the insulation like rodent superhighways, complete with bridges and blockades.



So that’s what had been keeping me from sleeping!

As I climbed down the ladder the thought struck me how similar the hallways of those little, albeit heavy, mice were to the mazes of just about any office building.

And then I stopped as a thought struck me - and then shook my head.

“Naw, we are all more than mice in a maze – we are here to learn and discover what life has to offer. We crisscross our own hallways in pursuit of happiness, to gain enough money to live on, and to enjoy that pursuit."

I nodded in agreement with myself, because the next day I had documents to type, and emails to send, and people to smile and greet as I passed them in the hallways. I had money to make, for heavens sake!

And even better, I was sure I was going to get a really good night’s sleep that night knowing that I didn’t have the beast from “Alien," or even a furry little Monty Pythonesque bunny over my head.





However, before I climbed into bed I knew I would need to sit down and have a heart-to-heart discussion with those darned Amazonian cats. They would surely be a bit petulant, being caught sleeping on the job and all. I was sure that, abashed, they would probably slink off to find a dark alley, where they could hone their rodent-hunting skills a little bit better.

Well, it's off to bed because work awaits!


Say “Cheese!"




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Inside Trading

I don’t think I will ever forget it – the phrase a friend of mine said to me several years ago. And I distinctly remember the day she said it to me. I was in a rush when she called and asked if she could drop by to tell me about a new endeavor she had become interested in. I hurriedly said ok but instantly remembered that I had a long list of other very important things to do that evening. I almost retracted my invitation but after a quick thought I was sure it wouldn’t take too long to listen to what she wanted to tell me about, especially when she realized just how busy I was, so I hastily said goodbye. As I hung up the phone, I put down the bills I had been looking at while I had been talking to her. Dinner needed to be cooked, the house definitely needed to be picked up before she got there, I needed to make sure the kids had their homework done and dammit, my feet were hurting from the high heels I had worn to work that day. And I knew once those things had been taken care of there was so much to do after that.




I raced through my first set of chores and was almost finished when the doorbell rang. I ran to the door, opened it up and there my friend stood, broadly smiling at me. That’s the thing. She always smiled at me - so positive and supportive and wonderful to be around. As I invited her in, the question briefly crossed my mind about why I had waited so long to see her. But then it was gone as I ushered her into the office. As I sat down next to her on the settee she asked me what I had been doing. I rolled my eyes and sighed and told her I had been so busy I had little time to think. And the worst of it was, I admitted, that I really hated my job. I dramatically recounted to her the day I had just had, of all the people I had to deal with, of all the things I was expected to get done and how I was unappreciated and how little I was being paid for all of my hard work. She looked at me, blinked her eyes twice and that’s when she said it. Yes – The Phrase. “What are you trading your life for?” My mouth hung open without words to fill it. I mentally backpedaled. “What?” was the only thing I could utter. She smiled at me again. “What are you trading your life for?” Those seven words hit me like a ton of bricks. Indeed. What WAS I trading my life for?

Seven simple words but words that meant so much – I took her question to heart.

Since then I have mentally tried to change my life. I’ve tried to make it simpler, tried to brush away the little things and to enjoy them as much as the big things. I’ve learned that en error isn’t a mistake, it’s just a harder lesson. Tried to think about how quickly life disappears and how easy it is to make it do so. Tried to know who I am inside and out and to accept, without judging, who people are outside and in. Tried to tell the people I love how much they mean to me and tried to appreciate the days I have left with them.

Sure, I often forget that I am trading my life for something. But when I remember, I hope now that I am trading it for things far better and happier and grander than those days when my house needed to be spotless for a guest, and my kids needed to get their homework done before dinner. If I’m trading it for a goal, that’s a good thing. But if it’s just biding time, it’s not. I know that there are priorities to enjoy, people to love, and life to live.
So - What are you trading YOUR life for?





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