Tag Archives: suburbia

So many love/hate relationships, so little time. Gratitude Experiment: Day 62

I must preface this post with the fact that when refer to ‘love/hate’ relationships, I’m using the word ‘hate’ for effect.  It’s not one of my favorite words.  But this is how I describe relationships with things that I love but that also cause me great angst at times.

Top ten (in no particular order)

1. Friendly neighbors.  Love em, really I do.  But when I am in my sweats (I work at home) looking scary and am clearly running head-down out to put the trash at the curb or a letter in the mailbox, I don’t want to chat (unless I know you well). Even with my friendly neighbor who I think is mowing his lawn in his robe this morning.  For real.

2. Having teenagers.  Love my kids dearly, more than anything.  But so many times, their curtness, voice tone and attitude can drive me bat crazy.

3. Home organization containers. They should sell these on porn sites. I get more enjoyment out of going to The Container Store than most places I can think of.  Buying organization stuff is like crack for me, if I was an addict, or even really understood what crack was.  I think sometimes they just provide better ways to hide my disorganization.

4. Big SUVs.  I love how safe I feel in them, how much I can pack in them to go to the mountains and the ego rush I hate to admit that I get from being taller in traffic.  But the gas consumption kills me.

5. Decorative pillows on my bed and sectional.  They look awesome and I love buying them. Another addiction.  But man are they are a pain in the ass.

6. Vitamins and supplements.  I have all the best intentions of taking them when I buy them. But I despise taking them.  More waste.

7. Photographs.  Love, love, love pictures.  But I am in constant turmoil about how many photo albums I am behind on at any given moment.  Yes, I still love photo albums.  Are they passé along with hard copy everything else? Never for me.

8.  Blogging.  This new world is fascinating and insightful. And I’ve connected with bloggers who I know I’d love to do happy hour with on a weekly basis.  But how the heck do bloggers get anything else done?  This is the deepest rabbit hole I’ve ever come across.

9.  Marketing emails.  I write marketing copy for a living;  I should know better, and be immune by now.  But those damn 50% off until midnight emails still manage to suck me in, as well as way too much of my time and money.  (Although I just did finally turn off my new email notification pop-ups, after thinking about how much I needed to for the last few years.)  Another addiction. Better than crack, I tell my husband.  Is there a theme here?

10. Facebook.  Love it on some days, hate it on others.  Great way to stay in touch with old pals and learn about all things current and interesting.  But if I see any more negative, bashing emails about anything political, football or otherwise, I’m going to poke another eye out.  (If people think they’re doing their teams or candidates any favors, they’re sorely mistaken.) And people who post new glamour shots of themselves regularly on Facebook?  I really don’t get it, but clearly I have a different purpose in mind for Facebook. Although my niece has always told me its the perfect venue for egotists.  Yet I take offense to that since I often enjoy Facebook for the voyeuristic benefits (Yikes, did I just say that?  Didn’t mean it as creepy as it sounds).

Whew, I feel better. Thanks for playing. I’m sure there are more of these relationships that I could think of if I let this rabbit hole take me down any deeper.

What do you have love/hate relationships with?

All hail to snail mail. Gratitude Experiment: Day 61

Today I am thankful for those who still embrace the concept of snail mail once in a while.  Though twitter and email and other electronic methods are of course uber-efficient and help us stay more connected than ever before, it’s hard to argue against the power of tangible words on a page.  And the occasional letter or card by mail, in my opinion, is the greatest expression of thoughtfulness, creativity and gratitude.

Handwritten letters and thank you notes are something my mother ingrained in me early on.  And I recently found boxes in her basement where it would seem that she saved almost every letter I ever wrote her.

I have always been thankful that my mother taught me the value of the written word.  My kids probably aren’t so thrilled about it at this point, as my son has a list of thank you notes to complete. But they will be later.

The transfer of hand written documents by an intermediary dates almost as far back as the invention of writing itself.  The development of formal postal systems occurred much later, with the first organized service for transferring written documents in Egypt, where Pharaohs used couriers to disperse their decrees in the territory of the State in 2400 BC.

Now as the internet transforms the way people communicate, mail volumes worldwide are on the decline.

Yet even as email is often used for thanking potential employers after job interviews, discussions with top executives have shown that those who use handwritten notes are more noticed by potential employers compared to the hundreds of emails received and quickly read and deleted.  And those skills transfer over to success in many careers where the handwritten word has been proven to help executives lead others and form deeper relationships with customers and prospects.

I will be using snail mail as a complementary method for communication for as long as I am lucky enough to have a dependable postal service at my disposal.  And I treasure each handwritten note I receive, knowing the thought and effort required by the sender.

Today, though I terribly miss my Mother’s regular letters which I received for the last twenty-five years, I am grateful that she taught me the power of the hand written word.  And thankful to receive as much personal snail mail as I do.

Do you remember how excited you were to receive mail as a child? And do you still get a little excited when you receive a package? I’m guessing so, if you’re anything like me. When was the last time you sent or received a handwritten note?

Living with MacGyver. Gratitude Experiment: Day 60

My husband is known by my family and friends to be rather resourceful.  And this is an understatement. He can deconstruct, construct or fix just about anything. And he’s always prepared.

He could hang a 200 pound mirror on your living room wall using a toothpick, some hairspray and a shoe. He could wire your house for sound using spare stereo wire from his first car in 1985 (that he saved just in case), with one of my cosmetic mirrors, some pipe cleaners and a belt to string the wire through the walls.  And if your ceiling fans didn’t come with remote controls, he would figure out how to make some out of spare buttons, a wire coat hanger and a Barbie arm. Clearly I’m exaggerating for effect here, but you get the idea.

He  loves to drive in crazy, snowy weather and becomes almost giddy when we find people stuck in the mountains in their two-wheel drive cars needing a tow.  That way he can use all the gadgets, cables, gloves and flares that he keeps in the trunk. He might even fix them a hot toddy while they wait for the tow, using the full bar he has set up in a box in the back of the car for our trip, heating it with the cigarette lighter and a piece of tin foil.

When my first car’s engine actually caught fire after we were first married years ago, he had a fire extinguisher at the ready in the hatch back (who has this in their car?).  Then he and his dad took apart the entire engine, taking Polaroid pictures of  the parts on the driveway as they disassembled them so that they could put it back together with a new head gasket.   There may have been some hairpins and dental floss holding things together under the smoke-tinged hood, but it still ran like a champ after that.

And if you’re ever stranded in the wilderness, have no fear. He could make you a tent using aspen leaves along with the spare chopsticks, clothespins and bicycle parts that he might happen to have in his backpack.  And don’t worry about first aid supplies, water or food to get you by for a week, he’s got that in his backpack too, plus an inflatable raft, a spare tire, a mini air compressor and a ham radio.

I often give him major grief about being so prepared and then nine times out of ten I’m thrilled when he pulls whatever I need out of that damn backpack.  Rain gear for all of us, bottles of water, sunscreen, bug repellent  and probably ingredients for a Western omelet in case we come across a place where he can start a fire using the flint and steel fire starting kit he keeps at the ready.  Otherwise he would use concentrated sunlight and his watch crystal (that he would remove with his Swiss army knife) to start the fire. He’s like our own SurvivorMan or Bear Grylls , but we don’t think we can get him to drink his own urine.

And much to his chagrin, he is also my 24/7  computer technology support.  When I’m frustrated with my computer for its inability to read my mind, or sync all my calendars, or keep up with the 63 windows I have open at the same time, he can fix that too — blindfolded even.  Okay, I’m exaggerating again for effect, but hopefully you get the idea. And no, nothing kinky is going on while he is fixing my computer blindfolded.

As an added bonus, he is also the kindest, smartest, funniest and handsomest (is that even a word?) guy you want to have around next time you are stuck in an elevator without power, stranded in the wilderness without shelter or trapped at a social function where the bartender doesn’t know how to make a dry gin martini.

Today I am ever so grateful that I live with MacGyver.  And that McGyver has a lot of patience with his sidekick.

It’s all relative. Gratitude Experiment: Day 59

This is another one of my all time favorite quotes. And it is so very true.

This quote, by Ralph Waldo Emerson, shows up in random places around my house depending on who needs it within their line of sight the most on any given day.

Emerson was an American essayist, lecturer, and poet, who was a leader in the Transcendentalist movement in the  mid-19th century. At its core, transcendentalism was about the inherent good in man and in nature.

The key tenets of Transcendentalism are that everything is a reflection of God and that people are basically good.  Also that contemplating nature can allow you to transcend the real world and go to a higher, spiritual level. That individualism and self-reliance are better than following others or depending on tradition. And that a person’s true feelings and intuition are more valuable than book knowledge.

Other key figures in the movement were Walt Whitman, Henry David Thoreau (also said to have possibly written this quote), Margaret Fuller (the first woman to earn a living at full-time journalism) and John Muir (I just learned this about John Muir and it makes perfect sense since Muir Woods is my favorite place in the world.)  Oh how I would love to have dinner with this group.  Wow.

I am grateful to have had a wonderful discussion with my sons about the Transcendental movement earlier today– and frankly floored by their knowledge of it and beaming with pride because of their depth and compassion as human beings.

Also grateful to have these lovely words to remind me of the importance of perspective in this universe. Thanks for reading.

16 pros and cons on your kid turning 16. Gratitude Experiment: Day 57

Good news: My oldest son is about to turn sixteen.

Bad news: This makes me feel a little old.

Good news: I will now be a car shuttle service for him much less often.

Bad news: The thought of paying for gas for another vehicle makes my stomach a little weak.

Good news: I am very lucky that my son is a great driver.

Bad news: Teenage boys are WAY more expensive to insure as young drivers than girls.  That seems a little sexist to me.

Good news: If we help him get a car we will have a huge carrot to work with behaviorally speaking.

Bad news: Whoever said girls were easier than girls as teenagers did not know my son.

Good news: My dad’s theory about teenagers having cars with the smallest back seats possible and the least room for passengers now sounds like a genius idea.

Bad news: Shopping for a car that will be reliable but won’t indulge your child is a tough balancing act.

Good news:  Craigslist rocks.

Bad news: It’s hard to know what to believe when it come to buying cars.  Suddenly CarFax isn’t so factual.

Good news: There are still a few people who sell their cars privately and who are very honest.

Bad news: Once he is driving I will have a new list of things to worry about.

Good news: My insurance agent said that the Dodge Caravan minivan is the cheapest car for us to insure him to drive.

Bad news: I’m afraid my son might endure bodily harm if he drove a Dodge Caravan minivan to school.

For all this perspective, I am grateful.

Reaching for Gratitude. Gratitude Experiment: Day 55

So it’s been a long day. My oldest son is seriously making me crazy beyond comprehension, I was a shuttle service for my kids today far more than usual despite the paid work I needed to get done, and I found the TV remote control that I’ve been missing for two days in my purse this afternoon.

It’s been that kind of week. And yes, I have a big ass purse.

So this is going to be short. I am grateful that I found that damn remote control. Embarrassed to admit where I found it, but glad I found it. Must have fallen off the bed on Sunday and into my purse on the floor next to my bed. Again, not proud of the fact that I just realized this today, but thankful.

Now it won’t be necessary for me to have a flashback to my grandma’s house watching her TV with huge rabbit ears and actually getting up to adjust the volume (the horror!) every time I want to turn down the bickering on my ever so critical Real Housewives of New Jersey episodes.

I’m also grateful that one of my besties (from my panty hose and purple pant suits days: https://lifeonwry.com/?s=panty#) is coming to visit tomorrow. I am lucky to have such wonderful friends who accept me despite all of my idiosyncrasies and all of the remote controls in my purse.

I promise I’m not nuts. But if I wasn’t a little, you probably wouldn’t find this near as interesting. Which is why I am ever so grateful for you, my readers. Thank you!

P.S.: Also thankful for the beautiful sunrise that I saw this morning and slowed down carpool traffic in order to snap a few pictures of. Life is short, we better enjoy it.

Weekly Photo Challange: Happy. Gratitude Experiment: Day 53

This week’s photo challenge is Happy.

Below are some things that make me happy: my pups at my feet, the mountains, the beach with a Corona, Muir Woods and chilled martini glasses.

Also my turquoise and gold Ainsley teacup collection, my curios from friends in my little mediation corner and 1984 911 headlights.

Of course family also makes me happy, and my friends, and the smell, sight and feel of anything horse, as well as nostalgia,  kitsch, painting and cool mountain air in the fall.  So many others but these are some good ones.
What makes you happy?

Weekly Photo Challenge: Mine. Gratitude Experiment: Day 52

The theme of last week’s WordPress weekly photo challenge was Mine — where you post a picture of something that is uniquely yours.

I’m a day late, but I selected this old GE photo cube that I got from my grandmother’s house after she passed away.  When I was little I was fascinated by this cube that she always had out.  It has photos on each side and a speaker on the top, with an AM/FM radio that doesn’t work anymore.  I thought the radio part was so very cool and I loved to play with it (hmmm…possibly why it doesn’t work anymore).  This was back in the days before Shutterfly and all of the sites that let you make photo gifts.  It was far ahead of its time.

The cube has a picture of a house I lived in during my early years one side, a photo of my grandmother, her sister and two of her friends on another side, a photo of me when I was probably four years old with my cat Rascal on one side, and my favorite side has a photo of my Dad carving a pumpkin with my sister and I.

This photo cube reminds me of my grandmother in all of her leopard print and gold lamay glory.  She made flashy work like no one else could ever pull off because she had a larger-than-life attitude that influenced her every moment. She could play the piano more beautifully than I’ve ever heard anyone play.  And she had a whistle that was so magnificent and strong I can hear it now.  My dad got her whistle and I love to hear it.  She was also a complete bridge-playing bad-ass and could remember numbers like nobody’s business.  I wish I had asked her to teach me bridge.

She also had a beautiful voice unlike any other. I loved the way she said my name and the way she talked. She called my Gypsy during the summers of my college years when I changed residences often.  She loved it when her Gypsy would pull up in her driveway to say hello.  She’d always offer me “Cokie Cola” and cookies and we would sit at her ice cream table and visit while the koo koo clock on her kitchen wall tick-tocked loudly behind us.  Then at certain intervals her antique clocks in the living room would chime in a series, making their own little familiar symphony.  I can hear those chimes and smell her house now.  The aroma of little scented soaps filled the house because it seemed like she had them everywhere in sweet little china dishes.

The picture of my dad and sister and I all together is my favorite side of the cube because it has us all together in it, which I love the thought of.  Also because I love carving pumpkins and Halloween is my favorite holiday.  And as you know, I have a special relationship with pumpkins as mentioned in a previous post (https://lifeonwry.com/2012/10/04/watch-out-for-flying-pumpkins-gratitude-experiment-day-50/).  And the yellow appliances, our outfits, our haircuts and the looks on all of our faces remind me of the innocence of my youth.

This photo cube is uniquely mine and I cherish it.  It sits not far from my computer where I write this blog each day, on a shelf with other things uniquely mine and sentimental.  For all this, I am grateful.  Thanks for reading!

Mike Foxtrotter, this has to stop! Gratitude Experiment: Day 51

This morning I was running late for a meeting and getting ready far too late to comfortably make it in time.  And that’s usually when it starts.  Words that would make most people blush begin to fly out of my mouth as I fumble for my mascara and search for my iphone that invisible elves continue to misplace every morning when I need to leave the house.

This is all much to my husband’s amusement.  He often laughs quietly (for fear of his life), sometimes muttering that he thinks he would hear less cursing if he were suiting up in marine barracks each morning.

Today after my explosive rant while hurriedly applying makeup with one eye on the clock, searching for my phone  and changing clothes at the same time, he suggested that I might think about substituting my litany of four-letter words with military alphabet terminology:  “Foxtrot!  Where’s my mike foxtrotting phone?  Delta it.”

Yesterday after I broke a glass in the dishwasher and exclaimed a few niceties, he asked,”Is that how Honey Boo Boo would say it?”   This is getting serious.  I know I need to clean up my act.

At least I’m becoming more aware and I think I have some semblance of control.  I actually do know when to limit my Sierras, Foxtrots and Deltas in certain circumstances when it would be totally out of line.  So why am I unable to harness that kind of self control more often?  Maybe I need to be checked in somewhere.

This afternoon I asked my almost sixteen year old son if I cursed too much.  When he told me “Well, yes Mom, you do, but it’s sort of but it’s funny.”  I threw out a curse word before asking he was serious.  “Sierra… am I that bad?”  I didn’t even realize the irony.

In a fellow blogger’s recent post, Cursing: An Editorial Style Guide (http://imissyouwheniblink.com/2012/04/26/cursing-an-editorial-style-guide/), his guidelines for optimum profanity usage are explained.

Below is rule number one:

***

1. Show some ingenuity.

Contrary to what you may have heard, using profanity isn’t necessarily a lazy way of speaking or writing. Using the wrong profanity is lazy. Choose all words with equal care, I say. My mother, who by the way is one of the classiest dames you’ll ever meet, has been known to brandish curse words in entirely unique ways, inventing whole new parts of speech. She always has the right expression for a situation. For example, walking into an unkempt room: “Holy shitstorm, it looks like the ass end of destruction in a typhoid whorehouse around here.” [Exit with flourish.] What does it even mean? I don’t know. But somehow I can picture it. She is a genius. Always be creative and specific.

***

I can only hope that one day my boys will refer to the ingenuity of my profanity with the admiration that this blogger has for his mother’s.  I know my college roommates have that kind of admiration for me to this day. I had some doozies my freshman year. They still quote me on a couple of key phrases that broke records for profanity ingenuity.

Today I am grateful that at times I am self-aware enough to know when I need to work on improving my less than ideal habits.  And for my family’s patience while I do so.  Thanks for reading!

Watch out for flying pumpkins. Gratitude Experiment: Day 50

by Scenic Reflections

Warning: The following post is a work of NONfiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are NOT products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely real. (This actually happened to me and I am not making it up.)

October has arrived and I am starting to see Halloween decorations in all the stores. Each October for the last 30 years (except for the last two), my Mother has sent me a Halloween card that says “Watch out for flying pumpkins!” She probably bought the cards, as well as some little Halloween gifts, at least eight months in advance and had everything wrapped, stamped and ready to go each year on September 1st.

Halloween is my favorite holiday when the semi-suppressed kid in me goes hog-wild decorating with creepy stuff that scares really little kids. But I must admit the lack of that tradition of a card for this last couple of years has been bittersweet since the Alzheimer’s grim reaper came to visit.  At any rate, I  tell this story at least once a year explaining why my Mom always sent me a card that said “Watch out for flying pumpkins” each year.

As I was growing up, one of my closest friends was almost as big of a freak as I was.  Actually a few were but I’m going to focus on one of them for now. I had a way of attracting them.

In sixth grade, we didn’t want to admit that we still had closets full of Barbie condos, cars and outfits, so we began disrobing them and being creepier than we already were.  We would prop them up on mailboxes and trees naked on the path between our houses ( she lived up the hill a good ten or so houses away).  We always attached notes with disturbing sentiments to amuse each other. That way whichever of us was walking would have to see them and collect them for reuse at another date. (We brought Barbie arms to each other’s weddings for photo opps of Barbie’s arm in our wedding cakes.)

We even put one in the middle of the road one time with ketchup on it like it had been run over.  Cranky Mrs. Clapp from across the street (our version Mrs. Kravitz) found me less than amusing and came and told my mother about it. What a buzz kill.  Fortunately my mother already knew I was warped.  It was in the genes.

At any rate, one year my friend and I wanted to go trick-or-treating even though we were in the 9th grade.  We wanted to be those creepy way-too-old kids that come to the door for candy and make people want to lock the door early.  Clearly we thought we were hilarious.

I wore a super realistic (or I thought so at the time) ‘old man’ mask and a man’s sports coat, and used a golf club as my cane.  I cant’ remember what my friend’s get-up was, but I’m thinking she was equally disguised so no one would realize what freak geeks we were trick-or-treating in high school.

As we strolled up and down the streets on our neighborhood Halloween haunt, suddenly a speeding car came racing by us. It kept turning around at the end of the street and racing by us again.   It was a navy blue Honda Prelude (I can’t believe I remember but I can see it now). It was a 1980s version before they came out with the new body style which I thought was super cool.  (The new body style had a “moon roof” and I used to tape magazine ads of it up around my dad’s office and house to give subtle hints of my auto preferences.)

Anyway, about the third or fourth time the Honda Prelude zoomed by us, I decided ( in keeping with my character) to wave my cane in the direction of the car and yell “Slow down you meddling kids!” full-on Hanna Barbera style.

The next thing I knew I woke up on a couch at my neighbor’s house.  The house that now had splattered pumpkin all over the driveway.  Luckily they called my Mom and when I came to, she was staring down at me as I lay on the couch.  My friend had probably crapped her pants by now thinking I might be dead, I can’t remember.  But I’m thinking she’ll remember when she reads this post.

I had a gash on my nose from where the stem of the pumpkin made its impact and it knocked me out cold. Those meddling kids had been throwing pumpkins out of their speeding car that night (super smart, almost as smart as I was yelling at a car and waving my fake cane).  My mom and her boyfriend (now my stepdad) drove me to the Emergency Room in his super cool white Firebird. As we walked in , I kid you not, my mom said to the nurses at the front desk “My daughter’s been hit by a flying pumpkin.”

The nurses at the station did everything in their power not to break out into hysterical laughter at my expense. I was sort of out of it, but that part I will never forget. Complete teenage mortification was in process and it was only getting started.

I got to miss school that next day.  The ER doc told them I had a concussion.  I sort of remember my Mom waking me up in the middle of the night to make sure I was breathing.

Word got around school about what had happened to me.  Nice, my nerd cover was WAY blown.  Turns out the person who threw the pumpkin was an upperclassman named Doug that I sort of had a crush on (I promise I am not making this up).  What are the odds? Word got around that my dad was a lawyer, so he got scared and called me at my house to apologize.  That was a super fun conversation to have with an upper classman.  I was mortified.

It all ended well and makes a great story to tell that explains the “Watch out for flying pumpkins” cards.  I am grateful that I survived the Pumpkin Incident (sounds like a Charlie Brown holiday special)  even though I miss receiving that card every year. I’m also celebrating my 50th post – half way through my 100-day gratitude challenge!   What are you grateful for today? Thanks so very much for reading!

Top 10 Reasons Not To Have Petite Friends If You’re Not Petite. Gratitude Experiment: Day 48

I will preface this post with a note that I am not of Amazonian proportions. In fact,  I am an average sized person if not a tad less bulky than average.  But growing up in my family, 5’7″ actually was Amazonian.    I towered over my mother and sister for much of my life.  Yes, they were short, cute, petite little buggers and I heard quite a few wisecracks from them over the years (although it was advantageous to be taller than your older sister).

As an adult,  I have formed wonderful friendships with a few petite, some might even say tiny, friends. But I’ve realized this doesn’t do my vain ego any favors.  Too late to change direction on those friendships for sure, but I can apply these findings to potential petite pals in the future.

At any rate, here’s why:

1. There is no way I can be in a photo with these petite pals and not look like I am a giant who is getting ready to eat them.

2. I’m destined to have a “big eater” complex at restaurants with them whenever I reach for the breadbasket (let alone the New York Strip and loaded mashed potatoes).

3. My large head,  especially next to them, looks freakishly out of proportion in photos — especially if, heaven forbid, I end up in the foreground of the photo.

4 . There’s not any clothes swapping or borrowing going on with these mini mates.

5.  If I was to try on their jewelry – their rings would barely fit my pinky finger I’m pretty sure.  Not an ego booster.

6. There’s not any shoe swapping going on with these bite size buddies either.  And I’m convinced that shoe manufacturers either produce less attractive shoes in size 9, or they just look far less attractive when that long.

7. Sometimes aforementioned photos end up on Facebook and I wonder if it’s because I make them look great by size comparison.

8 .  There is the distinct possibility of jail time for me after violent reactions to any one of them complaining about feeling too big or fat (even though I know it’s all relative).

9. Few clothing items that look good on my pint size pals will look good on me when found in my size.  Let’s face it, clothing designers like the way their clothes look on small framed people and they design them that way.

10. When in photos with these friends, I usually have to lean or kneel down a bit so that I don’t tower over them or end up out of the picture frame.  This usually ends up creating an even more awkward looking photo — like I have a hunchback or spinal curvature condition.  Super sexy.

That Randy Newman Short People song kept going through my head as I was writing this post.  I wondered what his motivation was for the lyrics and thought about how controversial and mean it would sound today.  After a little research, it turns out that he was referring to people with short tempers who are small-minded.   Or that’s his story and he’s sticking to it.

Today, despite my whining, I am very grateful for all of my friends, large and small.  And for my readers, short and tall.

Traveling the world through WordPress. Gratitude Experiment: Day 47

I The city of Surabaya. Pictures from Wikipedia Commons

Being Freshly Pressed  filled my inbox for a few days, made me privy to fascinating debates about voting rights, and gave me a great ego trip.  And, I came across a few people with whom I have a heck of a lot in common with and many who are wonderful writers.

Even better, I was downright fascinated with the ability to participate in a pretty civil discourse with people from at least 13 countries, especially given that my post was somewhat political in nature.

In the past three days I’ve had over 300 views per day, with 363 just yesterday. That is crazy.  But very cool.

WordPress let’s you breakdown your visits or views by country. This is yesterday’s breakdown for my blog views by country:

Country                       Views

United States                     232

United Kingdom                   23

Canada                               13

India                                  12

Argentina                            10

Indonesia                             5

Japan                                   5

Philippines                            5

Germany                              4

Italy                                     4

Armenia                               4

Lithuania                              4

Ireland                                 4

One fellow blogger who liked my “Register to Vote” post lived in Surabaya and their blog was available in Malay or English.  I didn’t recognize Surabaya as a place or Malay as a language, so after a quick Google search, I learned that Surabaya is Indonesia’s second-largest city with a population of over 2.7 million (5.6 million in the metropolitan area), and the capital of the province of East Java. It is located on the northern shore of eastern Java at the mouth of the Mas River and along the edge of the Madura Strait. It turns out that Malay is the national language of Indonesia, Malaysia and Brunei, and it is one of four official languages of Singapore

I also learned that Indonesia is the fourth most populous nation in the world. And the number of people who speak Indonesian fluently there is quickly approaching 100%, making Indonesian, and thus Malay, one of the most widely spoken languages in the world.

Okay, enough with the geography lesson.  But it is fascinating.

In the end, I enjoyed participating in a conversation with so many interesting people from so many countries across the world.  Who would have thought that could happen so easily?  I sure didn’t.  And for that I am grateful.

Channeling Mr. Rogers. Gratitude Experiment: Day 46

 

After a wonderful weekend with friends in the mountains, I’m breathing a little lighter and my shoulder muscles aren’t begging  for more Advil.   It’s amazing what a change of scenery, friendship and ridiculous laughter can do for the soul. (As well as good food and wine.)

And how terrific it is to be reminded that I live not far at all from mountain scenes that are living oil paintings and sunsets that songs are written about.  It gives me an even clearer idea about that high John Denver was singing about.

I know is sounds like Mr. Rogers has taken over my keyboard to describe his neighborhood.  And I might as well ask  “won’t you be mine, won’t you be mine, won’t … you be … my neighbor?” But I’m completely serious.  We all have plenty of doses of splendor and beauty not too far away if we make time to notice.

I finally got to witness the glory of autumn’s bright yellow Aspen trees dotting the majestic Rocky mountains as the sun was setting. The pictures I took on my phone through my cloudy car windows didn’t do them justice at all.  The colorful displays were more spectacular than I had imagined and I tried to take it all in. Don’t worry, I wasn’t driving.

I got to drive from one side of the Rocky Mountain National State Park to the other, all the way up and over the Continental Divide,watching the tips of the Divide’s snow topped mountains weave in and out of view.  I saw more Elk than I could ever imagine and heard their crazy orchestra of bugle calls to each other (think Ricola commercials but with huge elk making the noises instead of the Swedish guys in plaid shorts).  It’s mating season and the bugles are blaring.

I was able to swallow my fear long enough to peer out my car window into canyons far below over the steep sides of mountain pass switchbacks without a guardrail in sight.  I got to laugh with friends and family, and forget about house projects, work deadlines and school projects.  I even got to ride horses against scenery more breathtaking than I can describe during an afternoon that made my heart fuller and my eyes a little wider.

The business of life takes over in my little suburban world, and I forget about all of the natural splendor in my proverbial backyard. I also forget how to not sweat the small stuff, as the popular book says.  It really is all relative and it just takes getting outside of yourself long enough to realize it.

For this reminder, I am truly grateful. And for channeling Mr. Rogers.  Won’t you be mine?