No Matter Where You Look, Nothing Rhymes with Orange

Posted on by carynjune

“I’m sitting on the train eating an entire bag of pretzels. Not a little bag. A big bag. This is on top of the 4 or 5 or 10 chocolates I ate at work. And the Mexican food I had last night. And the bowl or two of cereal I’ve taken to snacking on after dinner. ” I wrote that several days ago. Since then I’ve had several bags of pocky sticks, 2 donuts, 2 slices of pizza, 4 chocolate-covered cherries, a bag of m & m’s and a couple of boxes of Mike & Ike’s. WTF? What the hell is going on here? It never ceases to amaze me how much I profess to want something and how little I will do to actually get it. I’m a relatively intelligent person. I know that eating badly and not getting enough exercise are not good for me. I am aware that my dad’s big belly contributed to his heart attack. I see how unhappy my mom is because as she aged her boobs and her pelvis got closer and closer to each other and nothing fits her. My knees hurt, my back hurts, my shoulders ache, and I make that little grunting noise every time I sit down or get up. There are two paths I can take. I can stay on the road I’m on. Gain my 10 pounds a decade, wear muumuus and spend the rest of my life watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory and playing Candy Crush. Or…I can run. Or walk. Or swim. Or dance before bedtime. I can write, or fly a kite. I can read, take the lead. I can study or call a buddy. Jump off the shelf and love myself. Volunteer, lend an ear. Get off my ass, take a class. Create, meditate, perspire, aspire, yearn, learn. Not waste time with things that rhyme. Sorry, things got a little Dr. Suess-y there. But we’re never to old to change our minds. To try something new. I do not like eating healthy and exercising. I do not like them in a house. I do not like them with a mouse. I do not like them here or there, I do not like them anywhere. The point is life is full of things we don’t want or don’t like, or think we don’t like even if we’ve never tried them. Some, like exercise and turning away the m & m’s , I’m never gonna like. But, others, you never know until you try. “You do not like them, so you say, try them, try them and you may.”*. Right on, Doc.

*Green Eggs & Ham, Dr. Suess

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Old Flowers
carynjune

Feets, Don’t Fail Me Now!

Posted on by carynjune

Being the Jill-of-All-Trades that I am, one of my side jobs is working for my sister-in-law’s catering company. The running joke amongst my colleagues is me and stairs. When loading and unloading crates of supplies and pans of food, I can carry my weight. Until I hit the stairs. Porch stairs. Walkway stairs. Up, down, one step or 20. If I’m loaded up and I come to a step, I’m paralyzed. I take stairs every day. I run up and down subway stairs, the stairs to my office. What is it about this particular circumstance that stops me in my tracks? Well, I think I’ve figured it out. I can’t see my feet. And if I can’t see my feet, how can I trust that they will do what they are supposed to do? Maybe they’ll trip. Or slip on a patch of ice. Maybe they’ll miss a step and I’ll fall and break my neck. Maybe they’ll decide they have somewhere better to be and take off. The point is if I can’t see what’s happening, I can’t be sure. I can’t trust that the feet I’ve lived with for 57 years are going to manage the steps just fine even if I can’t see them. Better just to stay on flat land. Where it’s safe. And flat. And nothing bad ever happens. It’s not particularly interesting. But there’s nothing waiting to trip you up. No slipping or sliding, no flailing and falling. The truth is, though, if you never trip and fall, you never learn to pick yourself up and try again.

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Fall or Fly
carynjune


Now I Get It, Mrs. G!

Posted on by carynjune

There was this customer who frequented the establishment where I worked years ago. An older woman, let’s call her Mrs. G. Mrs G had buried two husbands and worked all her life and was quite well off. She was still attractive, had an apartment on Fifth Avenue and people to take of her in her old age. She seemed to have it all. Well, except for her youth and two dead husbands. But she was perpetually cranky. Bordering on mean. I didn’t get it. She had all of the means to sail comfortably through old age, why was she so crabby? Now as those of you who know me are painfully aware, I came out of the womb cranky. I’ve never understood why some people seem to have it all, and some don’t. I’ve spent my whole life wondering why I was gypped in so many of life’s departments. I’m not thin, I’m not pretty, I have no money. I have an entry-level job, and no prospects. I’m good at a lot of things and great at nothing. And I can’t wear beautiful shoes. Seriously, couldn’t whoever was handing out the door prizes at least have given me nice feet? So, I get why I’m cranky, but Mrs. G? C’mon!! Now, let me just interject here. I know that crankiness is a self-fulfilling prophesy, a kind of what comes first, the chicken or the egg, the “I’m cranky cause I was gypped”,or the “I haven’t always gotten what I want because being cranky is just a good excuse for not getting what I want”. I’m well aware, in my head, that I wasn’t gypped. I have as much beauty, talent, and yes, even potential to make more money as the next person. The difference between me and the successful, adorable person next to me, is that she believes in her success, her adorableness, her potential for greatness, the plain and simple fact that she has every right to be happy. And I’m just not quite there yet. That’s it, folks. And perhaps, if, just for a minute, I step into Mrs. G’s expensive shoes, maybe I’ve not only outlived my husbands, but most of my friends. Maybe, my kids aren’t close by and the only person I talk to is my caregiver, and she’s getting paid. A lot. Maybe I know I’m being cranky and judgemental, but it’s a habit I’ve picked up over the years, like smoking, especially when I’m scared or frustrated, and it’s hard to quit cold turkey, or ask for help. Interestingly enough, I have a lot in common with Mrs. G. She’s no longer with us, so she doesn’t get the chance to give up the habits that we know aren’t good for us. The snarky put downs, the temper tantrums, the face that is always scowling, (my mom was right, it is gonna freeze that way!), the cranky person who pushes people away, when what she wants more than anything is for people to like her. And nice-looking feet. Is that too much to ask?

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Life, Interrupted
carynjune

One Man’s Trash…

Posted on by carynjune

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This is scrap metal. Right now, it’s basically garbage. Put it together in just the right way and it becomes something beautiful. Sometimes. Sometimes you have to take it apart and try again. And again. Today I got a rejection email from the Rhinebeck Arts Festival. Less than two weeks after I applied. No wait list, no we love your stuff, but…Just no thanks, your credit card will not be charged, we wish you success, but it won’t be here. This felt bad. This made me cry. This made me wonder why I’m spending so much time and money when I clearly SUCK!! This made me think about quitting. This made me eat an entire box of Weight Watchers ice cream cones. Oh, I can hear you now, “rejection is a part of the creative process, everybody goes through it, you’ll get in next time! Work harder, prove them all wrong!” Yeah, maybe tomorrow. Tonight, I think I’ll just wallow. Good thing the ice cream cones are gone. And that pile of scrap? Right now it’s just garbage. But put together in just the right way, it becomes beautiful again. Sometimes. And sometimes, you have to take it apart…and start again.

S. O. S.

Posted on by carynjune

I am having hot flashes. 9 months into menopause and I am hot. And not in the “hubba-hubba, girl, you look GOOD!” Kind of way. As well, my anxiety level seems to have ratcheted up a notch. Now, I have been taking anti-anxiety medication for 13 years. Medication which, coincidentally is now being advertised as a drug that alleviates the symptoms of menopause, including hot flashes. Are you with me so far? Not only is it not alleviating my hot flashes, it’s not doing such a great job on my anxiety, and I’m not sleeping well. So I’m hot, I’m tired and I’m having bouts of teary hysteria in the work place. My hair looks terrible, my skin is shiny and I’ve gained 6 pounds since Thanksgiving. Oh, well, that might be the donuts. And the pizza. And the chocolate. And the nachos. I’m a mess. I’m trying to sail through these rough seas with grace and dignity, but I’m paddling a paper dinghy with just my short stubby fingers. I guess I’ll have to flash my light just a little brighter so someone can see. Or maybe just brightly enough so I can. Without getting hotter than I already am.

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Recycling a piece of Copper

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall…

Posted on by carynjune

So, I’m preening in the bathroom mirror this morning, thinking how good my recent haircut looks, when suddenly my gaze is focused on the spot right at my part, right in the front. Maybe it’s how my hair is parted, maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I can see a tiny bit of my scalp through my hair. WTF???!!! Oh no!! No! No! No! I am not having this! I am not losing my hair! This can’t beeeee! I hyperventilate for a bit and move a tad away from the mirror. Hmmm. That’s better. I apply mascara and notice a lash on my cheek. Ooooh. I make a wish. Wow! Another lash? Another wish! By the fourth wish, I’m just wishing my eyelashes would stop falling out and wondering if there’s a way to save them and hot glue them to my scalp. The fifth time I reach up to brush a lash off my cheek, it doesn’t come off on my finger and I realize it’s an age spot. I sigh and step away from the mirror before any more damage can be done.

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Rawhide Mallet for shaping metal and
smashing mirrors.

Ho Ho Ho

Posted on by carynjune

I Just finished watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” for at least the 100th time. I love that movie. When the whole town is singing “Auld Lang Syne” and throwing money at George, I blubber every time. Can you imagine what it would be like to see a world in which you’d never been born? Quite a gift, if you’re lucky. Not so much if that life looks the same, or worse, better
than if you were in it. I admit I find it hard to imagine the difference my small existence makes in the grand scheme of things. That’s not self-pity, or feelings of worthlessness talking. Whispering, muttering, talking under their breath, maybe. I’ve made no grand contributions to mankind, to art, to science, to the welfare of others. I have borne no children to carry on. I am no George Bailey. I suppose it’s worth reminding myself that even George Bailey was no George Bailey before Clarence came along and showed him just how George Bailey he really was. The point is, everyone is someone, however great or small their contributions , just by virtue of being alive. Everyone is here on this earth for a reason. Or so I’ve heard. Ya know. From Oprah. I’ll admit. I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to be doing here. Is THAT self-pity? Probably. Granted, if I weren’t here, I would never have met my sister-in-law in college, she would never have met my brother, and three of the most remarkable, beautiful, talented young women would never have been born. And maybe my purpose is to create jewelry, to write, to let whoever is wearing something, or reading this know that if they feel alone, and a little unimportant, and they can’t find their purpose, that maybe it doesn’t matter. What matters is that there is a purpose. And we’ll figure it out when we’re good and ready.

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Woman Praying
carynjune

Yes…No…Maybe

Posted on by carynjune

I’ve always been a bit of a quitter. I start things that I don’t always finish. As a kid I took one guitar lesson, a couple of painting classes. I signed up to dance in a talent show at the community center and just never went. Of course I’d never taken a dance lesson in my life, but I was convinced I could channel my inner Martha Graham and wing it. Until I wasn’t. I signed up to be a volunteer, because it’s clear from every Oprah show I’ve ever seen that giving back makes life worthwhile. I haven’t done a second of volunteer work and every time I see Oprah on TV or the newsstands, I want to kick her in the shins. Today, I walked away from
a group I’ve been a part of for several years. A group of 4 women who met in Weight Watchers and felt the need for deeper reflection and exploration. It has been a tremendous blessing in my life and I owe a lot of my growth to this group of women. But more and more, other things got in the way. And as another member pointed out, I didn’t fight hard enough for this little piece of time on a Saturday morning. I felt defensive at first, until I realized she was right. I didn’t have to like how that made me feel, but I had to face the truth. I wasn’t as committed as the other three were and yet I didn’t want to leave. Perhaps because I wouldn’t be a part of something. At least not that something. But when I decided to step away, I felt a great sense of relief. Until I didn’t. It is certainly true that it wasn’t working for me anymore. It is also true that personal feelings were making it harder to be objective. Leaving feels like the right move. Until it doesn’t. Or maybe it does, but it still makes me really sad. And that’s ok. Even when you are absolutely sure that moving on is the right choice, it doesn’t always feel good. So, how do you know for sure? How do I know if I’m listening to my heart or hearing only the monkey chatter in my head, moving on or giving up? Making the touch choices or taking the easy way out? How does anyone really know? Except for Oprah.

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On The Fence
carynjune

Where the Hell Did That Come From?!?

Posted on by carynjune

So this morning, as I’m getting ready, I decide to pluck a few of the wild eyebrow hairs I inherited from my dad. I get dressed, put on a little lipstick, and do a last minute check in the mirror and what do I see nestled in my hair? A big gray eyebrow hair. No big deal. I’ll just pull it off. This proves to be a little harder than it sounds. Every time I try and grab that sucker, it seems to get more entrenched in my hair. And the more I play with my hair, the more static-y and flyaway it gets. So now I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket and there’s a big gray eyebrow hair taking up residence on my head. These are the horrors of aging that no one ever tells you about. Oh, sure we talk about losing our parents, our spouses, worrying about retirement, getting sick, dying. But does anyone really speak of the truly scary stuff? The crepe-y skin on your neck. The lumps and bumps and hair that appear in odd places and never go away. The little “oy” that escapes you every time you get up. The hemorrhoids, the gas! Oh the humanity! There are those who embrace aging with grace and dignity. Who accept each line and crack as hard-earned, a sign of wisdom and beauty. There are those who hold on to youth with every ounce of strength and money they possess. They nip, they tuck, they wear the perpetual ear-to-ear smile and surprised expression of one too many face lifts, while their hands and their husbands give away their real age. I’m somewhere in between. I color my hair, I dress in a loose, funky style that I consider hip and young, but which my nieces probably roll their eyes at as crazy. Would I try plastic surgery? Maybe, if I had the money. But when I look at my face, including those ridiculous eyebrows, I see my dad. And that hair? The spare tire, the dowager’s hump? My mom. I am a patchwork quilt of those who came before me. And I will be part of the quilt that my nieces will wrap around themselves throughout their lives. And even when they are worn and faded and a little threadbare, they’ll still keep them warm.

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Patchwork Quilt Series: a Sample
carynjune

D Is Not for Diet

Posted on by carynjune

Yesterday, as the turkey cooked and my husband napped, my mom and my sister and I got to talking about getting older. We talked about our fears of getting sick, falling, not being independent, and we even batted around the “D” word. Fear of dying is universal, but what’s interesting is how different one person’s fear is from another’s. My sister spoke about the “how”. My mom mentioned seeing a billboard about a development with a planned opening of 2020 and thought with some surprise that she very well might not be here to see that. I realized, not surprisingly, that my greatest fear is being left out. I can’t conceive of a world I am not a part of, of milestones I will miss, of family that will be born who won’t know me. I remember years ago, there was a lot of buzz about the test of a super collider that could conceivably cause the earth to be sucked into a black hole. I loved this idea. If I have to die, I’m taking everyone I love with me. Nobody will have more fun than “Dead Me”, cause we will all be dead. I am well aware that this is a very self-skewed view of life and death. And I am not blind to the fact that if I live fully in today, try the things I’ve always wanted to try, not just talk about them from the streets of Someday, USA, I won’t be nearly as scared of a world in which I am a fond memory, an old photograph. And maybe, just, maybe, I will be able to look around at others’ lives without envy and longing because “Live Me” is having a ball.
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Woman w/ Beehive Howls at the Moon
carynjune