I’m sure there is a school of intellectual discourse that holds that worry isn’t cool because it’s fruitless. Worry doesn’t change what will or won’t be; it only makes you miserable. I’m sure I believe it.

I’m sure I have always loved the poem Desiderata since I first read it posted on one of the secretary’s bulletin boards at the first job I ever had. It talks about not giving in to worry:

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

I’m sure I believe it.

As sure as I am of these, I’m also sure I’m a worrier. A gut-clenching, heavy-hearted, deep-sighing worrier.

Like my dad. Not at all like my mom. She takes after my grandpap, who seemed to define the word happy-go-lucky. I sure didn’t get the h-g-l gene.

I’m sure the moments, minutes, hours, even years of my life lost to worry have never accomplished a darn thing. Nothing desirable anyway.

So why does it persist? Do I lack the faith…the intellect…the soul of a poet? All three?

If I pray to stop worrying, does that mean I have faith?

If I constantly tell myself it’s useless to worry, does that mean I’m smart?

If I keep going back to Desiderata, does that mean I have hope?

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its shams, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what a lot of things mean. But I do know that that, at least, is not something to worry about. I wish I could convince myself that nothing else is either.

Let not your heart be troubled.
~ John: 14:1

The spring chores seemed insurmountable. Weeds everywhere, wild onions especially (how DO they spread so much?), and the yard is a mess. The sweet woodruff, which is a really nice groundcover, has become a bit of a nemesis. It’s great filling in under the trees and shrubs where nothing else will grow, but it is also aggressively swarming over the hosta and other perennials and needs to be cut away every year (sometimes twice a year) before it chokes them out. Imagine pulling up 2-3″ thick carpet that’s been glued down — that’s what it’s like to pull up sweet woodruff. Amazingly matted.

I felt pretty defeated after a long day of that a couple weekends ago.

After this past Sunday, though, things are looking up. Mike has already edged a lot of the back yard (the first of at least 3 times we’ll do that), so that always makes things look great.

See that dark swath in the yard to the right of the light? I’m trying to ignore that — it’s weeds that have taken over — ground ivy, I think. Now blooming purple at least. I am so not a lawn person…

More stuff is up and getting greener — including buds on the peonies before I even thought about getting the ring supports out for them. Had to try to retrofit…just a ring this time; no neat little weaving a grid for the stems to grow through.

The hosta now have breathing room. I can feel them sighing in relief not to have the sweet woodruff choking them.

I planted 8 new little things here and there, including these Siberian Wallflower, which are supposed to grow to 30″ but are now only about 10″. Pretty silvery foliage.

And this adorable Saxifrage…I’m a sucker for the tiny pink flowers perched on their dainty stems. We’ll see how they do — I’m asking a lot of them — expecting them to grow and spread in the small border next to the driveway.

And 3 more autumn ferns. Last year was my first year planting these and they are fantastic — actually lived throughout the winter (which, I don’t know if that’s typical or only because winter was mild). My neighbor even commented on them, “Are those ferns hardy?”

I hope they’ll do OK in the shade garden — it doesn’t look so good this year. Maybe got hot too soon? Even my favorite Bugloss are much smaller. Or is it just too early yet? This weather is very confusing for me, so no doubt for the plants, too.

My biggest fear is the scraggly trees (neighbor’s side) that make it a shade garden will die and so will my shade garden.  It’s a favorite little spot of mine.

I don’t think I lost anything over the mild winter, though. But it’s strange — because things are still small, it looks like I have more room to fill in. I know full-well that’s not the case. In a month or so, I won’t have much room to dig at all, let alone add all the plants I’m itching to buy.

Some of last year’s purchases look good; others are still iffy. This Kolkwitzia (which, what a great name) is a good-looker — such a pretty chartreuse.

The jury’s still out on this hypericum (a form of St. John’s Wort grown for its berries — the orange-ish ones you see in bouquets). It looks mostly dead, but has signs of new life. Not sure if I should chop it back or not, so I’m waiting to see what happens.

I’m partial to this lungwort — a hunk my neighbor gave me a few years ago that has never taken off, but continues to bloom every spring before dying back when it gets too hot. Hers is gigantic and beautiful…not sure what mine is lacking to make it spread.

This cheerful one looks vaguely like a dandelion, but is actually a perennial I planted last year that’s doing well so far. I can’t remember the name, although I just saw it again at Lowe’s the other day. Oh well, goodoldwhatsitsname is quite a pretty little springtime treat. (UPDATE A FEW DAYS LATER: Not that anyone cares, but the name came to me in a flash — it’s called Leopard’s Bane, so named, I learned, because it was once thought to be poisonous to animals. And it’s also been used medicinally — but don’t ingest to much, because it’s toxic. I think I will just confine myself to looking at it.)

Even prettier close up.

I’m also trying to breathe new life into this poor weigela by giving it a new home.

It used to be fantastic and huge — 5 ft tall and wide (a “dwarf” that didn’t know it). But it grew too big for its original spot and I moved it, much to Mike’s chagrin.  Here’s how it looked right after the move (October 2009 — the one on the left).

An exhausting move of two giant "dwarf" weigela who outgrew their old home and will now anchor a new bed-to-be in the front yard (assuming they live, which Mike will kill me if they don't)

It’s struggled ever since, poor thing. I hope it recovers now (and yes, Mike is not happy with me).

Its partner is doing slightly better, so it’s allowed to stay put out front for now. I wanted to move it, but the roots were thick, and I was afraid of killing it for sure this time. I had already dug the hole in the back yard for it, so now I have to find something else to put in that spot.

I can’t think of a nicer problem to have.

April prepares her green traffic light and the world thinks Go.
~ Christopher Morley

The first time, a young man with his girlfriend or wife walked by us in the aisle, left his big cart, and came over to help us with our task. Just a couple minutes later, another guy walking by asked if he could help us. Outside, the woman loading her purchases into her car next to us offered her help, and not a minute later, a man walked over from his car parked in another aisle to help. It was so darn nice. (Maybe it means I am looking really old and incapable these days, but regardless, it was nice.) And it made me more conscious of doing the same in similar situations where I can offer a helping hand.

That’s all. Just a little slice of life that really stood out as a highlight of the weekend. That must be what is meant by the term “perfect strangers.”

What this world needs is a new kind of army — the army of the kind. 
~ Cleveland Amory 

Two things about our exchange struck me.

First: He and his SO have been together for about 25 years. Twenty-five years and they still find things to chat about in the checkout line.

Contrast this to Mike and me: I usually grocery shop alone, but when Mike and I are together, and we’ve crisscrossed Walmart 27 times and lost each other 3 times, we are anything but chatty by the time we hit the checkout. Usually I’m thinking about how much I don’t want to go home and put all this stuff away, or about how hungry I am, or how full (because we shopped after eating out), or how quickly I can put my jammies on. I have no idea what Mike is thinking about, because, well, I don’t really care. We have been together about 9 years.

Second: They are a team and handle self-checkout with ease and aplomb.

Contrast this to Mike and me: We only do self-checkout at Lowes or Home Depot and only if we have a small number of items. A typical exchange goes like this:

1. Approach the self-checkout computer. Stare at it awhile before figuring out we need to press Scan Your First Item to begin.
2. Run the item over the scanner 3 or 4 times before it works. Whoever isn’t doing the scanning snarls “Hold it THIS way. Don’t tilt it like that. Here let ME do it.” and then grabs the item out of the other one’s hand.
3. Repeat for however many items we have.
4. Occasionally get rebuked by the machine for not putting the item in a bag, or not moving it to the right spot, or not doing something. When this happens, snarl at the other person for not doing it right.
5. Stare at the screen when we’ve scanned all the items, trying to figure out what to do next.
6. Snarl at the other person to select Finish and Pay.
7. Stare at the screen trying to figure out what to do next when presented with 27 payment options.
8. Snarl at the other person to select Pay with Lowes/Home Depot Credit Card.
9. Stare at the screen, which tells us to finish paying with the keypad.
10. Look confused until we interpret this and locate the keypad.
11. Swipe our card (the wrong way) while the other person snarls to do it THIS way.
12. Complete the transaction (at last).

Not exactly a model of teamwork/efficiency. Dysfunctionality, yes. Teamwork/Efficiency, no.

Clearly, Mike and I are the Bickersons whereas our friends are the Nelsons or the Cleavers or (I’m searching for a modern “congenial couple” equivalent and can’t come up with one).

I hate that we’re like this. Seriously, we frequently snip and snap at each other over stupid stuff. Something my sister once called me out on, saying basically, “You should hear what you sound like.”

I know. It’s not pretty.

WE know it’s not pretty.

I’d love to change it, but realistically, it’s pretty much a part of our relationship.

We can snip and snap one second and be all, “Hey, did you see this article?” or “What do you want to do for dinner?” the next second. Our squabbles don’t usually turn into anything bigger, and we actually know we’re doing it. We frequently do the snip-snap-snarl over something stupid, look at each other and start laughing.

We are both stubborn. We are both passive-aggressive. We both feel that we’re right most all of the time.

I’m sure the marriage counselors would have a field day with us (“words hurt;” “change your tone;” “Use ‘I feel’ language instead of ‘you never’ or ‘you always;’” blah, blah).

Yeah, we’re one for the books alright. A textbook case of how not to communicate with your SO. How not to behave with your SO. How not to interact with your SO.

There’s way too little we in this team and way too much me (errr him, errr us as individuals).

But you know what, it sorta works for us. We really do love each other, even though our words often don’t reflect that.

That’s not to say it couldn’t work better, or that we don’t need to keep trying to improve. It could and we do.

But, so far, 9 years in, it’s working. And I’m grateful.

I’m also grateful for my friends — the ideal couple — to remind us that it IS possible to still have something to chat about in the checkout line after 25 years. And that working together can be an asset rather than an exercise in frustration. They give us something to strive for.

And, most importantly, I’m grateful that even though there’s no we in our team, there is a mate. The right one for each of us.

I love being married. It’s so great to find that one special person
you want to annoy for the rest of your life.
~ Rita Rudner 

I’ve had a few such posts rattling around in my brain lately…

The one about there not being an I in “team” but for sure there’s a “me”…I still want to write that one.

The one about how much I dislike the trend toward videos rather than writing on the Web…I still want to write that one.

The one where I talk about being a little crispy (as opposed to all-out crunchy)…I still want to write that one.

The one where I finally get to show off our sunroom…I can’t wait to write that one, but we’re still a ways off.

The one where I explain how I’ve won the lottery and don’t have to work anymore…no wait, that’s the delusion.

So why haven’t I written them? The thing is, even writing for fun, as this blog is supposed to be, is still something of a chore. Organizing thoughts, finding the right words to express them, thinking, rethinking, editing. I wish it was effortless, but it’s not. Rewarding, yes. But not easy.

Eventually, I’ll push through and get all these ideas down on (virtual) paper. Maybe I’ll start tomorrow even. But not tonight. Tonight the writing muse is already tired, and the reading, surfing, solitaire-playing, mindless TV-watching muses have the helm. I like them, too. They ARE effortless, which gives the writing muse time to do her work, quietly, in the background, until she gets her time to shine. Maybe tomorrow even.

No matter where you go or what you do,
you live your entire life within the confines of your head.
~ Terry Josephson 

Now these powerhouses have decided to duke it out — if you choose to play in Highmark’s sandbox, you will be forbidden to play in UPMC’s, and vice versa. That’s the plan, anyway. The official split has been postponed for a year or so. But the effects are already being felt.

For example, we received a letter from my 93-year-old mom’s doctor’s office, saying that her doc and the other main doc in the practice had jumped ship and were joining UPMC. Mom could stay with the practice (and the new assigned doctors whom we know nothing about) or make the move with her old doc (whom we like and who has seen her for the past few years), but either way, her decision would impact which hospitals she could use.

This doctor thing is a big deal. Her previous doctors were worse than useless, having inexplicably changed her longtime blood pressure meds a few years ago, putting her on something new that made her dizzy and caused her to fall and break her ribs and require a lengthy hospital/rehab stay. In that process, we found a doctor we could tolerate (who listened when we insisted she needed to be on her old meds), and now POOF, he’s gone.

This hospital thing is also a big deal. We live in fear that something would happen to her that would require a hospital visit, and, if you live here, you pretty much know which hospitals you’d go to willingly and which you’d go to only if a body part has stopped or is broken or spurting and you have no other choice.

So, we can keep her doctor and cast our lot with a hospital system we’ve never preferred, staffed by doctors we don’t know, and that has none of her medical history. (I laugh at the thought that the records would ever make the move — we’d be starting over.) Or we can go with the new doctor, sight unseen, and *hope* we won’t be backsliding into the realm of the useless meds-switchers of yore, but keep the more familiar hospitals.

In the process, the whole notion of “what’s best for the patient” is lost.

All of us, not just Mom, are being forced to make these no-win choices. Yay healthcare reform.

“That’s some catch, that Catch-22,” he observed.
“It’s the best there is,” Doc Daneeka agreed.
~ Joseph Heller, Catch-22 

First, and best, a big thank-you to the commenters who responded to my rant about the Funky Llama wine rebate fiasco. After using their information to contact the PA Liquor Control Board (PLCB) and the new importer for Funky Llama, I received a replacement $5 rebate check yesterday from Allied Beverage Group, L.L.C., along with a nice letter explaining that, although it was not obliged to honor the debts of the former importer, it was willing to do so anyway “as a good faith example,” including refunding people for the bank fees they incurred. Now that’s definitely worth noting and shouting about, so thank you Allied Beverage for your excellent service, and I will be sure to patronize your products in the future. Well done!

Second, my new passport arrived yesterday — less than two weeks after I applied! This was a pleasant surprise. (The website advises 4 to 6 weeks to process routine applications and 2 to 3 weeks for expedited service. I feel sorry for those who paid an extra $60 for expedited service.) The only mystifying (and annoying) thing, is this note…

Not a problem on its own, but only when you flip it over and see the same message (I presume) in Spanish…

Why would the U.S. passport office need to provide a Spanish translation? Are there that many people traveling on U.S. passports who don’t know enough English to understand the English version?

If I were to receive a Spanish passport or a Colombian passport or a Venezuelan passport or a Mexican passport, would there be an English translation included on the paperwork? What about on a French passport or German passport?

Why does the U.S. seem to resist being an English-speaking country? Even for something as uniquely American as holding a U.S. passport? I’m sure it is not PC to bring this up, but for goodness sake, really U.S. State Department? Really?

Regardless, the task is done. I can cross off “renew my passport” from the mental list it’s been on for years and, even better, chalk one up to the power of the Internet (and good people) to right wrongs when you least expect it.

The secret of getting ahead is getting started.
~ Mark Twain 

This morning I surfed a bit to see what I had missed (turns out it was Nicki Minaj — who gave a bizarre and Catholic-offensive performance from what I read — and Paul McCartney singing Beatles tunes, which I’m SO sorry I missed). Anyway, what puzzled me most were the comments I read about the performances I had seen that left me wondering if we were watching the same show.

People hate Adele? Really? I guess not everyone likes a blues-y voice or non-rock music (or non-classical, non-jazz, or non-whatever-genre-she’s-not-that-they-like). And they thought her voice was obviously not recovered from her vocal chord surgery? Really? I don’t get what there was to criticize about her performance. Do they think live performances are supposed to sound exactly like the CD (even though hers, amazingly, pretty much did)? They thought Jennifer Hudson was “OK” in her Whitney tribute (“I will always love you”), but obviously holding back? Holding back? Good Lord, you mean she can sing even better than she did? No, she’s not Whitney Houston…but she did that song proud. (Although, I agreed with commenters who said it would have been better to have Dolly Parton sing it.)

You had people questioning the Beach Boys tribute…why Coldplay was there when they are “obviously” so unexciting and overrated…who’s Glen Campbell?…why can’t that lead singer of Foo Fighters even sing?…gosh, doesn’t that Bruno Mars get annoying?…and why the heck is there even a Grammy’s show to begin with? Why do those people need another narcissistic awards show so they can celebrate themselves?

For everything I liked, and everything I didn’t like, there were comments from those who felt completely the opposite.

And, that’s why I read comments.

Because it’s so easy to believe that your perception is the “only” perception and the “right” perception. That people must hear and see and think the same as you, because, well, it’s just so obvious. How could you not agree?

From politics to TV shows to movies to books (Amazon reviews) to climate change to fracking to music — we all have our own perceptions and preferences. I watch Fox because their spin on things generally agrees with mine; others watch CNN or MSNBC because they like that spin; others watch Colbert (and think it’s a news show) because they like his spin. It’s all got spin, even though, to fans, it’s simply and so obviously “the truth.”

More and more, I think the truth about anything more than indisputable facts (along the lines of “the earth revolves around the sun”) seems to be completely based on how you spin it.

But, I will say, to those of you who don’t like Adele or thought Jennifer Hudson gave a so-so performance: You’re just wrong.

There is no truth. There is only perception.
~ Gustave Flaubert

For the past year and a half, we’ve even had the applications filled out, sitting in a folder, along with the pictures we had gotten at Kinko’s, our old passports, and my birth certificate. My passport had long expired, so I needed to start from scratch. Mike is just under the window for getting a renewal rather than starting over, which can be done by mail rather than in person.

I found out last week that instead of going to the post office to do the paperwork, I could go to the courthouse, which was easier because, unlike the local post office, no appointment was required. So yesterday I gathered my folder and the checkbook and set off. After a bit of confusion and a wrong trip to the Deeds office (nowhere on the directory was there a listing for passports, and the guy in the Deeds office was nice enough to look it up for me and determine I needed to go down the hall to the Prothonotary), I was in the right place talking to someone who could process my application.

Started off great.

“Do you need the application?”

No, here it is, all filled out.

“Do you need a picture?”

No I have one (two in fact).

“My, you’re all prepared!”

I beamed proudly.

“Do you have your birth certificate?”

Sure! I handed it over.

“Don’t you have the long form birth certificate with your parents’ names on it?”

(Stunned) No? Do I need that? I don’t think I even have one of those!

“Yes, I can’t use this (perfectly legit, original, state-issued birth certificate).”

(In desperation) Even if I have my old passport?????

“Oh, if you have your old passport, that’s OK.”

Thank you, Jesus.

“OK, let me make a copy of your driver’s license.”

Here. No problem.

“Oh. Wait. You need to fill out this newer application instead. See, your form is dated ’05 on the bottom? There’s a 2010 one you have to use.”

So much for having a neat, typed-on-the-computer-in-the-handy-fill-in-form version.

I trudged off to fill out the new form. Which, by the way, had EXACTLY the same information on it as the form I had already filled out.

“All set? That’ll be $110 made out to U.S. Department of State.”

“Now, I’ll give you the oath. Raise your right hand.”

I swore that yes, the information on the form is correct and that’s me in the picture.

“That’s it, except for our $25 service fee.”

Hmmm, didn’t know about that. I pulled out my checkbook again.

“We don’t take checks.”

Sinking heart. Rush of sweat. There was no way in hell I had $25 in my wallet.

I checked. A ten. A five. And 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9 ones. $24.

I glance in the change compartment. Nope, no quarters. Not enough.

“Oh, I only have $24 and some change.”

They looked at me blankly. One woman said, “There’s an ATM in the lobby. They’ll charge you though.”

“I guess I have to go back to my car. I have some money in the car.”

More blank looks.

So back in the elevator I go. Down to the lobby. Four or five blocks back down the hill to my car. Yep, as I knew, I had two ones in my cupholder.

Four or five blocks back up the hill. Through the metal detector (again). Up the elevator to the fifth floor.

A ten. A five. And 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9, TEN ones.

She gave me my receipt and I left.

So, a happy ending. A long-put-off task finally done. But it got me thinking. What would I have done in that situation? If I had been on the other side of the counter when I walked in, so prepared, doing everything I was asked, and coming up $1 short on the cash?

Would I have offered a dollar? Or as it turned out when I counted my change, 38 cents?

To be fair, I didn’t ask anyone to help me out. I never would do that — not in my nature.

But I like to think I would have offered the dollar anyway. Made a small gesture to help someone out (and make their day, really).

But, I can’t be sure. I hope I have the opportunity to prove it sometime when someone, a stranger, needs some change for the meter or their grocery order or something else trivial.

Because I really do think “pay it forward” should work even when you weren’t paid in the first place. Gotta start somewhere.

Lesson learned.

Each day, learn something new,
and just as important, relearn something old.
~ Robert Brault

That: We stopped at McD’s yesterday morning to use our 2-for-1 breakfast sandwich coupon. I got my coffee and was waiting for the young girl (teens-20, maybe a college student) to move away from the cream & sugar spot on the counter so I could move in. I watched in disbelief and fascination as she proceeded to load her coffee (a medium, at most) with no less than 10 (TEN) sugar packets and 4 (FOUR) creamers. My eyes got wider and wider as she methodically ripped and dumped packet after packet and the pile on the little corner of counter got bigger and bigger. She must be playing a joke on someone, I thought. “Here, so-and-so, I got you some coffee….ha ha.”  But no, she was just calmly ripping and dumping, as if she’d done this many times. I nudged Mike, to make sure he was observing this, too. After a while, she finally stopped, put the lid on her coffee, and left the restaurant. I tried to imagine what it would be like to drink such a concoction. Hot sugar water with a little coffee extract in it? I imagined her day…hamster on a wheel, talking a mile a minute like one of the Chipettes. The image stayed with me a long time…clearly my mind doesn’t have enough important stuff to think about.

The other thing: Why is it that Mike and I feel guilty for spending a weekend at leisure? We both work hard all week, and when the weekend comes, we feel we should be doing more, and more, and more. Especially with house projects (the endless sunroom and now, our basement stairs and lower “landing,” for lack of a better term). Yesterday was a lazy, mostly unproductive Saturday, and now, today, we’re lounging with our laptops, coffee, and day-old donuts, listening to the Roots and Rhythm Mix on YEP, and dreading the thoughts of getting up and doing something. What’s the adage…we’ll rest when we’re dead? Sometimes it feels like that, and I know I work way less and lead a way less busy life than most other people I know.

But, I better go and figure out how to spend the day productively…taxes to do, bills to pay, wood to sand, and far too many things to clean, straighten, organize, empty, throw away, or otherwise attend to. You know: this, that, and the other thing. Always another other thing.

That destructive siren, sloth, is ever to be avoided.
~ Horace