You Can Do It...Or You Can't

More and more, I see people who are afraid to try, afraid to experiment, afraid to touch something as yet unknown.

There's an old saying that goes, "You won't know until you try." And that's so true. Think about it, if people didn't experiment, we'd probably still be living in the dark. We might be chewing gum (the result of a fortunate accident), but we'd still be peeing outside in the dark.

I can do a lot of things. Most of those things, I do mediocrely, but some things I do pretty well. I learn by doing, by experimenting, by testing, by touching. I taught myself guitar. I took piano lessons for a year, then self-taught after that. I can skate, surf, box, and juggle, among other things. All learned from trying.

People who experiment are proven to be the best problem-solvers. I bet you know someone who's afraid of computers. They might be older, and they may be afraid that if they push a button, it's the equivalent of this:

It's not! Go ahead and push those buttons to find out what they do. You most likely won't break anything, so go ahead and just...experiment.

Look, even the bunny isn't afraid! Here he is, examining some code he's just written:

Now,  clearly there're some experiments that aren't ever a good thing to attempt. You shouldn't experiment with obvious danger, like bringing anything into your body that can kill you, or by learning to walk a tightrope by stringing a thread across Niagara Falls and taking that first (and last) step. Putting questionable and potentially flammable things in microwaves is a notoriously terrible idea.

And maybe messing too much with DNA can bring about some horrific consequences, like a spider with enough intelligence to follow you from room to room like a terrifying little brother who constantly bites you.

Or equally awful, but more on the annoying side:

And again, one last example of something no American should EVER try:

Oh. Crap. We already did. Remember, some things you experiment with (but shouldn't) could have lifelong consequences...or at least eight years of awfulness.

But, as for almost everything else, don't be afraid to push buttons. Find out what happens when you push the button on the upper right corner of your remote control. Experiment with features in MS Word, or Apple iMovie. Try out that new mohawk. Pick up a paintbrush and paint. It doesn't have to be good. God knows, my painting is horrible. But, the thing is, I try. I experiment, and I let my curiosity take me where it wants to go without self-imposed limits.

I think gamers have an edge on success, if they take what they learn from their games and apply it to daily life. Although, just one of those buttons on Trump's desk is way too dangerous.

Gamers are expert problem-solvers. They inherently know the game must progress, and so when they encounter an obstacle, the experimentation begins (for those who don't use cheats available online). They try, fail, and try again, not giving up until they've found the weakness in that thirty foot tall ogre, or until they've pressed the right sequence of buttons to call their dragon out of the sky.

If they apply those problem-solving skills to everyday life, they're more likely than not to discover the truth in "where there's a will, there's a way."

They will succeed, and have fun doing it.

Whether you find joy in cooking, video games, hiking, or golf-- experiment. Don't follow the recipe. If it's safe, go off the trail. Don't let golf pros tell you how to swing a club if you hit the ball just fine your way.

So, don't be afraid to try. Be afraid of DNA-altered spiders that can fling it's multitude of babies in your face (that would be the worst). And be afraid of vegetables. But don't be afraid to do things yourself, to push buttons, or let your curiosity guide you.

Still, it doesn't hurt to be just a little cautious...

Oh, and James, remember this post when you see my hair tonight. :)

Soooo...hello again

Look, some cruel parent (probably a dad), taught the family bunnies a trick while the kids were at school.

I've taken a couple weeks off to work on another project, and to let my hand heal a little. It's coming along nicely, and I think the doctor lied (or was just incompetent since he wasn't an orthopedist) when he said I'd need 6-8 weeks in a cast for my tiny fractures. Dr. Kollmer told me the brace would be fine, and I hardly ever need it anymore, but still wear it sometimes.

I took the sand bags out of the heavy bag and re-stuffed it. It's much softer now. So, I've been shadow boxing , jump-roping and half-swimming for exercise. I want to go skating this weekend if James is up for it.

We've been spending a lot of time with Joe driving us around in the car--he'll be able to get his driver's license soon. Since he has such limited driving experience, we're also enrolling him in driving school since the driver's ed class was full when we registered him at school.

I've been working on some writing projects which are mostly in the market research phase right now. I've learned so much during the past few years, and there's a lot of ideas swirling around in my head.

I'll be posting some wittier posts in the near future...I just have to sort out a ton of information and think about what tidbits of current thought I want to give out.

I miss the medical field. I mean, I really miss it. I miss x-ray and the clinical environment, so I put in some applications for some part-time or full-time positions.  Sometimes you have to try something new to see if it's for you or not. And I'm not confident the eBay thing is for me. My passion has always been the medical field, and writing, and animals, so that's maybe I should concentrate on one or all of those. I've been working on my resume, and it looks really, really good.

Not much else is happening. We spent a quiet weekend at home, watching movies and doing some household things.

One thing I did this weekend was attempt to find the combat artist/war correspondent, the mysterious "JF." So far, I haven't been able to find someone with those exact initials, but this guy's drawing looks similar.

I've also been reading about symbology. One of the many interesting things I learned was about how every authentic Persian rug is unique. The rug makers had patterns to follow, but they would deliberately weave in a "mistake," so that none were ever "perfect."

Also, some of the patterns were drawn without the designer's hand ever leaving the page--a sure sign of a "magic" symbol. Hidden symbols were also a key part of the rugs. Symbols included carnations (happiness), parrots (love), camels (wealth), and pomegranates (abundance). 

Even the colors held rich meanings. For example:

Green represented hope, paradise, and spiritual renewal. However, they ususally used very little green, because it was a color the Persians associated with someone in power, like Mohammed. When they did use green, they'd use it in very low-traffic areas.

Yellow and gold represented the sun, life, power, and wealth. Since these dyes were rare and expensive, weavers usually reserved these for royalty. Some weavers even integrated strands of precious metals, such as gold and silver, into rugs. 

The rich red colors come from the madder root (genus Rubia, as in ruby). The vibrance of this highly desired color made those fortunate owners associate it with courage and good luck.

Even the more common colors had significant meaning:

• Blue: power or solitude
• Brown: fertility
• Orange: humility, piety, and worship
• White: cleanliness and purity
• Black: destruction and mourning (usually used in outlines)

I thought that was pretty cool. Those rug makers took their job seriously, and I wonder if rug makers today are just as meticulous...

Skate Night Video

Had a great Skate Date Night. It was the first tine in ten years either of us have skated indoors, so at first we were pretty shaky. We were invited by one of the owners to come Sunday nights for the adult night where they learn tricks and stuff. So we might go if James's blisters on his feet are better.

We skated from 7:30 to 11:00 pm, and man, that takes some endurance. Anyway, this session served the purpose to get our "skate mojo" back. At first we were both still a little shaky, but there was a time (when I was about 16) when skates were just an extension of my legs and I was pretty good.

Only small glimpses of my teenager years, but still not bad for my first time in ten years. And I didn't fall even once. I won't tell you how many times James fell, but it was three times. Lol. To his credit, I had a couple close calls after enough people fell and sweated up the floor. James had rental skates on, and those suck, so once he gets a decent pair, he'll be flying around that rink.

In the videos, I'm the one with the pool hair, the plaid shirt, and jeans, sweating like an idiot because I wore such wrong attire for the occasion. Lol. Enjoy.

And here's James's turn on the floor.

By the end of the night, we were pooped. 

At least I was. James was getting some pretty intense blisters from those sucky skates, but when we stopped for a Coke Zero at the convenience store, I walked in like an old lady. Lol. 

I thought I'd be sore yesterday, but surprisedly, I didn't. I can't wait to go back!

A Good Dream

The other night, I had a good dream about my mom. It was very brief, in the final moments of sleep before waking, but it was very vivid...and comforting.

In the dream, I was at home, and in another room when she walked in the front door. She called my name and I dropped what I was doing and ran out to see her. She was healthy, and she brought home one of her favorite take out meals--KFC.

And then I woke up. So, although the dream was very short, it reassured me in some way, and I feel better prepared for Tuesday's year mark since she passed away.

In other news, James and I are going out for date night--to a skating rink. :)

Post Hurricane Incentive

So, we invested in some new sports equipment last weekend. We got this:

So, Monday, I started a new workout routine. The bag is really heavy, with very little give, which makes for a hard workout. I'm starting with three minute rounds which consist of three minutes on the heavy bag, then three minutes of jump rope/crunches, then repeat, for thirty minutes. 

It's hard. By the end of the three minutes on the heavy bags, my jabs are like butterfly wings. I never realized how hard a three minute round is until I started boxing a few years ago. But, it's fun, and releases stress, and makes you strong. So I like it, and am looking forward to getting back in really good shape in time for Halloween.

Speaking of Halloween, James finished my mage staff and we ordered the components of our costumes. I'm going as a steampunk mage, of course, and James is going to be a steampunk archer. I can't wait to win some contests. Lol. 

I mean, how is this staff anything but spectacular? 

Pretty sweet work, there. James could make money making and selling these things. We just need to find a whole bunch of lamp stands like this one. Lol.

Oh, and I found a super cool old handmade necklace in a box, which will go perfectly with my costume. It's unique, for sure. Lol. I'll take a picture nearer to Halloween.

Oh, we got tennis rackets, too, and walked down to the court in our neighborhood over the weekend. It was fun, and we both did okay for the first time. 

I'm also trying to eat better, substituting mac n cheese for turkey sandwiches for lunch, and not eating as much junk.

Dreams of My Mother

As many of you know, my mom died in September last year--the 26th. As the anniversary of her passing approaches, I've been dreaming about her--every night.

When my dad and grandparents died, the dreams I'd have afterward all portrayed them as happy, at peace, and healthy.

When I dream about my mom, she's still sick, still dying, and sometimes sad.

I realize on a psychological level there can be more than one reason for this, and the one that fits best is that I was my mom's caretaker in my home for six years before she died, and another three years before that living nearby, but in separate homes. When my dad and grandparents died, I was younger and living in different towns.

It was hard, especially for me-- a homebody who doesn't talk much--to bring my mom into my home. I felt it was my duty. The Bible tells women to care for their widowed moms, and I took that duty seriously, despite my brothers and sister-in-law advising me not to do it, for my own sanity.

My mom could really be a handful. She was vain, selfish, and a little paranoid. She'd been that way ever since I could remember, and being her only daughter, she leaned on me when she couldn't lean on anyone else.

Now that she's gone, I'm glad she did, but at the time, I could get pretty annoyed with her antics. My friend and former boss, Karen, was a great ear to vent to, because she helped me understand the medical aspects of my mom's craziness--terminal COPD patients often didn't have enough oxygen in their brains and as a result, could be some of the toughest patients. They tended to be "ornery" (Karen's word), and they couldn't be reasoned with.

In the last year or so prior to my mom's death, Karen's knowledge helped me be a little more compassionate, a little more sympathetic, a little more empathic toward my mom. Karen, I know you still read my blog, so thank you, my friend. (And text me so we can plan a get together with Karen K!)

But man, my mom knew how to push my buttons--over and over like an Alpha male rams the elevator button when he's late for a meeting two floors up.

I don't yell often, but there were a few times she tweaked my last nerve. I wish now I hadn't yelled, but that's in the past. The last several months of her life, I think it finally sunk into my head how much she was suffering, and how many regrets she had.

She opened up her very private thoughts a little to me in the last year. For example, the love of her life wasn't my dad--it was a guy named Jack McBride. My mom treated my dad pretty terribly--my brothers never forgave her for how she behaved when my dad was dying. It wasn't nice at all, but she's still my mother--she birthed me, raised me, and now it was my turn to take care of her.

Anyway, my mom wanted me to find out if Jack McBride was still in Palm Beach and what had happened to him. I did a search for him, and found out he was a manager of a 7-11 in West Palm Beach. My uncle confirmed that was the right Jack McBride (there were several). I gave my mom his address and phone number. She said she wrote him a letter, but I didn't see it. I vaguely remember her saying he wrote her back, but I didn't see that letter either. I wonder what was said, because he didn't come up much in conversation after that. I have a feeling her lingering interest in him dwindled when she realized how much more successful my dad was, and that my dad provided her with a very comfortable life. Vain, I know, but there had to be some other reason she stopped talking about Jack McBride.

A couple years ago, when I was really frustrated with her behavior (I couldn't even go out with my friends to the local neighborhood restaurant without her making me feel guilty, and then, if I did go, she'd call every five minutes to ask when I'd be home), I vented some of those frustrations with a friend. He recommended asking her questions about her life, since she wasn't forthcoming on the subject of her youth and earlier years.

I thought that was a good idea, so I started asking questions. Some she liked to talk about, like how my dad would take her for drives in his rumbling sportscar. On other subjects, she remained pretty vague. She liked to talk about my grandad, who was the coolest gentleman I've ever met. My grandfather and grandmother had the perfect love--the perfect marriage. There was something about my grandad--a certain charisma--that one couldn't help drawing close to. My mom also liked to talk about her friends and how they'd sometimes go to stores to shoplift little stuff. I've never stolen anything in my life, so some of her revelations were eye-openers, for sure.

My mom and I were almost polar opposites. She liked to call me a "Plain Jane." I was a tomboy who wore tee shirts and sneakers. She never wore a sneaker in her life. She loved Final Net hair spray that made her weekly salon-styled hair stiff as concrete. I don't get salon styles (I can't sit still long enough), and I don't use hair spray, ever. My mom was a make-up queen. I never wear make-up, and when I do, it's minimal. We were very different people, and that sometimes ( well, often) strained our relationship.

Just before my mom died, she said she never had her "pink daughter." I think that's going to be etched into my memory forever. I heard that part very clearly, and her voice started to fade after that, but I'm pretty sure she said that I was better than a pink daughter. That brought tears to my eyes, and still does.

Growing up, I could've wrote this every day:

But, when she said I was better than a pink daughter, a lifetime of not meeting her expectations vanished like a shadow in a moment of cloud. And the timing was so...right...that shadow will never return, and the sun continues to shine.

I think that was the moment of atonement, the moment of acceptance and forgiveness, those words. And maybe it was at that moment she realized that despite our differences, I loved her VERY much and was there when she needed me.

So why is she still sick, still dying, in my dreams? Last night, I dreamed that I was younger, and I was hanging around a much younger Forrest. Him and his dad came over to our house, and Marvin showed me and my younger brother how to dip chocolate and vanilla wafers in melted chocolate to make them even yummier.

I took a handful to my mom, who was in bed. She was very weak, very...dim. I said, "Look, Mom, these cookies have been dipped in chocolate. Would you like one? I have chocolate and vanilla wafers. Which would you like?"

She replied, "Chocolate syrup?"

In my dream, I was ecstatic, because she wanted to eat. For days before she died, she had lost all appetite and wouldn't eat anything.

I said, "I'll find some chocolate syrup," and proceeded to bust through the pantry, tearing apart the shelves to find the chocolate syrup that would make her happy, even if putting chocolate syrup on a cookie was a sorta weird request.

And then my dream shifted as I began to wake up. Outside the bedroom, Zuri was playing in the thick carpet as she does sometimes, and the last seconds of my dream was Zuri pushing a small stuffed car around on the floor like she was "driving" it.

Go figure. Here's what Zuri's doing right now:

But the dream was both sad, and a shred hopeful, because it was an improvement from previous dreams. Maybe that's one of the stages of grief, I don't really know. I'm thankful that I got to tell my mom how much I loved her before she passed, and thankful for those moments of atonement.

But I miss her.

We have Internet!

We got our Internet, cable, and cell service back today. I'm sooo thankful!

But yesterday, I got a lot done--pool cleaned of debris, laundry, and other stuff that needed doing!