Pearls of Wisdom

I'm going to admit to something that is going to sound bizarre, and I know it's bizarre, and I fully embrace my hypocrisy when I saw that I don't believe in the supernatural and I don't believe in anyone who says they have interactions with ghosts even though I fully believe that my dead relatives visit me in my dreams. There, I've said it. Dead grandparents and uncles visit me in my dreams. I don't expect you to believe me. My therapist certainly doesn't. He thinks that whatever message the dead bring to me in my dreams is a way for my Unconscious to inform my Conscious that it has something important to say. Which might explain some of the messages, but not the messages that I've gotten for other people and that later come true. But let's not dwell on the Twilight Zone experiences, let's, instead, talk about a message that my dead Uncle Larry gave me in a weird dream that included a horse stable and a chimp.

In the dream, my cousin Lauren and I were walking through a modern'ish looking horse stable, which isn't strange since Laur and I took riding lessons as a child. The stable was pristine white and glowing in light. As we reached the end of one hallway, a chimpanzee/human hybrid that was dressed as a stable boy showed up and took me around the bed to a particular horse that I was supposed to see. Lauren in the meantime, was left behind. Around the corner, stood her father (also deceased). He said nothing to me as I pet the horse. But when I turned around, Uncle Larry was there. My uncle -- by the time of this dream -- had been dead only a few months. But he, unlike any of my dead relatives before him, was anxious and had lots he wanted to tell me. Which was interesting because alive, he was kind of a know-it-all and you couldn't tell him anything, so it's not surprising that he had lots to say now that he kinda did know it all, if you know what I mean. What surprised me about this dream, is how sick I felt through the whole thing. How vivid and fully realized. How desperate he was to tell me things. After I awoke from the dream, I felt dizzy and disorientated. I sat up, walked over to the dry-erase board and started to write stuff down. All the key elements. Only then was I able to lie back down and go to sleep. The next morning, disturbed by the Uncle Larry dream, I went back to the dry erase board and found these:

Trust yourself and your decisions.

and

Time is an illusion - there are only pockets of now

There were a few other things, but they were more messages for other people than they were for me, but these were definitely for me. While the first message: Trust yourself and your decisions applied directly to something that was happening a year ago and gave me a sense of calm, it's the second message that I have to be mindful of almost every day of my life. You see, I've always lived in the future. "When I'm forty..." I would say. Or, "when I get married..." But these things were always very far away and not important. In fact, I often felt like I've just gotta get through Now, in order to get to the good stuff Later. As my mother used to say to me, "stop wishing your life away, kid."

The way my uncle explained time was like a pearl necklace. Each bead is a moment or experience of your life, and they're strung together on a line. But each pearl is in and of itself important and should be made the most of. Sooner or later, the string ends and you come back to the beginning. His point was, no moment of time was bad, only what you put into it. So, if you're not putting anything into it except for impatience to get onto the next pearl, because, you know, the next pearl is somehow better, you're wasting it. You're just wasting your life one pearl at a time. Which is really sad if you think of it, and if you knew my uncle at all, you would know why it was imperative that he give me this message, because he wasted his life.

I haven't told many people this story, mainly because it would include me confessing these dead people dreams and how imperative they feel to me. And secondly, whenever I have an epiphany, it feels like a firework in my head, but once I say it aloud to someone else it feels like a cliche. I know this, because when a friend asked us to write inspirational sayings on her FB wall in order to help her get motivated to change her life, I wrote, "Time is an illusion. There are only pockets of now. Make those pockets count" it felt cliche and flimsy. Like I had sold out something that meant something to me.

Maybe that's the point of the dead people dreams. Maybe some of them aren't supposed to be shared. I guess if the message isn't supposed to be given to my mother, or my cousin, or a close friend, then the message really is just for me. Whether it's my Unconscious or my dead Uncle Larry, I should just keep them to myself. (And from now on, I will, too. Ahem...)

Social Coordinator

Back when I was in high school, I became known as the "social coordinator." I'm not quite sure how it happened or even what I coordinated. All I know is that whenever someone came up with an idea to do something, they would float it by me, and I would go forward to tell everyone what a great idea it was and how to execute it. Back then, I thought I was ingratiating myself with my friends. I was making them happy. In hindsight, I realize that I was the Queen Bee of my clique and I totally didn't exploit that for my own purposes. I thought because I was fat and didn't have a boyfriend, I held no power. Except, you know, I was the captain of the cheerleaders and all my friends always wanted to sit next to me in assembly. My biggest problem: I wanted everyone to like me. Because I didn't find me very likable, I thought no one else did either. (*Sigh* How much time do we waste hating ourselves?)

Social coordinating did not end in high school. It extended past high school into my twenties. A friend of mine was dating a guy from another town, and she had girlfriends and he had boyfriends, so it only made sense to merge the two groups. Somehow, though, once again, the power shifted from the couple who had brought us together to me and -- we'll call him -- Karl. Karl and I never dated, but we became a platonic power couple of sorts. For years, I called him Senator (because he wanted a career in politics) and I was laughingly called the Senator's Wife. (And, quite frankly, I think we could have pulled it off in the way that political power couples do. Oh, DC, I never knew you....) This lasted for about five years until people started marrying and moving away. And then I got a job at the police department and that was the end of my social coordinating responsibilities. Sort of.

At the police department, I went from the girl who coordinated all the social interactions to the girl who was called every weekend to find out where I was going to be. Which party was I going to be at, which bar? At this point, I became a power couple with my co-worker, -- we'll call him -- George. George was a ton of fun, mostly because he had a drinking problem. And I was blonde and twenty-six and single so all the cops could flirt with me and I just thought it was funny because I was still fat and self hating so it wasn't like it was real flirting or anything, right? (*Sigh*) George and I became known as the Bobsey Twins because we were always together. But wherever we were was where the party seemed to be. This lasted for another five years until I moved to New York, at which point I completely rescinded my social status as It Girl. And, quite frankly, I did not miss it. In fact, I found the whole party thing exhausting and I was very happy to be home on a Friday night, and no longer labeled myself a "loser" because of it. I left the social coordinating up to others and showed up at the appointed time and place. Maybe it wasn't as frequent, but that as A-OK with me. And then I moved to L.A.

For the last four years, I have been going with the flow, very much like I did in New York. I met Andi who is a bit of a social coordinator, herself, and have just shown up where and when she tells me. But lately, I've decided I need to get married, and if I'm going to get married, I'm going to have to leave my apartment (Blergh!) And in order to leave my apartment, I must make plans. I mean, I can't just go outside and meet someone, can I? (Don't answer that.) No, no, no. So, I've dusted off my social coordinator role and put it back on. And quickly remembered something: I hate social coordinating! I mean, back in the day when I just hated myself, I would grin and bear through it. Now, though? Well, I kinda like myself better, and social coordinating feels a bit like self-punishing work! What I hate about it is the lack of responsibility on behalf of the other participants. "Do you want to go out to X on Friday or Saturday?" Yes, is the normal answer. "Does Saturday work for everyone? Should we meet at 7 or 8?" As for when and all that, no one cares and they leave it up to me. And while a control freak -- and, yes, I am one to a degree -- would appreciate this ultimate control over everyone else, I have also learned from experience that it allows other people to, well, flake out and blame you. "Oh, I'm sorry I didn't make it; I had something else to do before that and didn't realize that it might conflict. Seven was kinda early anyway." Yes, but you didn't tell me you had something before because if you did, I would have made it 8. Or, you could have said, "How about 8 since I have something to do before that and I might need a little time?" AGH!

The funny thing is I usually find one person who is as equally invested in the experience, whether it was Karl or George or now Andi. And there is a small consolation in that. As for the rest of the posse? I'll be at the Renaissance Faire on Sunday. Come if you like, but I'm not coordinating anything.

Wait a Minute, Mr. Postman

This morning, I woke up thinking about something very strange: the postman. Probably because DD came into my office yesterday and started to bemoan her lack of competent postal service. It seems her old mailwoman was an old-fashioned, dedicated, through rain, sleet, and hail type of mailman. DD even knew her name. But DD has since moved -- I do not lie -- one block over, and now has sucky mail delivery. I read -- or perhaps I was told -- that when the USPS had to make cut backs a few years ago, one of the things they did was cut back on postal carriers which meant that old mail carriers who got the cushy job of behind-the-counter were pushed back onto the streets, territories were expanded so that mail deliverers had larger tracts to cover, and some routes didn't have a designated mailman at all. Those routes went into rotation. Meaning, John, Gwen, Estelle, and Danny all share a route taking it one week (or month?) at a time. This last scenario sounds like what DD is experiencing as she says there is always someone different delivering the mail. But that also creates the problem that the mailman doesn't know the route. Doesn't know the names. Doesn't know that John and Mary Doe moved two months ago and their Forward Request has lapsed, so s/he is now delivery John and Mary's mail to Jack and June Smith.

What's the big deal, you ask? I pay my bills online, you say. All I get is junk mail anyway, you gripe. Well, it made me think of my Great Uncle Larry. My Great Uncle was a postman his entire life. Right after WWII, he got the job and kept it until retirement. Yeah, so, you ask? My Great Uncle was a bachelor. He owned his own home and when his mother passed away, he lived by himself, quite frugally, and successfully, about twenty minutes from the rest of the family, all the way up until he had a stroke. Now, because my uncle was in prime health, rode his bike everywhere, and lived successfully and without complaint for years, no one in the family ever checked up on him. Didn't have to. He'd just show up on holidays and tell us that everything was peachy keen. So, when he had the stroke, no one was coming for him. The only person that my Great Uncle knew was going to stop by the house was the mailman. My uncle dragged himself to the front door and sat there, waiting for the postal delivery so that he could get some help. He did not recall when he had the stroke. He did not recall how long he had to wait for the mail. All he knew was that if he was going to have any chance of getting help, the postman was it. The mailman arrived and called 911. My uncle lived for another four to five years, but never fully recovered and had to have constant supervision. The doctors said that he would have surely died of starvation or dehydration if he was left alone as his mobility was severely limited.

Back in the police academy they said this scenario was common. In fact, it's usually the postman who calls landlords, the police, and social services as s/he is on the front line of elderly care. They are the person the elderly see every day. So, if Gertrude no longer meets them at the end of the driveway, or Gus's mail is piling up in a box, or -- god forbid -- there is a strange smell coming from Eunice's apartment, the mailman makes a call and emergency services go into effect.

I know I made a point about the MTA bar car several days back, and now I'm clanging the bell on the mailman, but I do feel like something is slipping away. And not just a former way of life, the Mad Men existence, but an idea that we're connected and that we all need each other in order to survive.

Money Matters

I did something very silly last month. You see, I pay my bills online. But on Friday, I started to get phone calls from my credit card telling me that I didn't my bill last month. So, I went online and looked at my bank statement and saw that my virtual check did clear. I called the hotline number and the lady on the other end told me, yes, the virtual check did clear, but it was short...by $5 from the minimum payment. Because my APR went up and I didn't bother to look at the new bill, I just paid what I always paid, but I wasn't supposed to. So guess what? My APR went up again. So now next month, I get to pay $100 more to cover the new new APR which is about 24%. Would someone like to tell me how the hell the banks keep getting bailed out by the single girls of America?

I recently read an article about kleptocracy. I'm pretty much a moderate with noble ideas about the way the world is supposed to work. But these days, I'm becoming more and more discouraged. Even though I got a raise this year (which many people didn't and won't), even though I have good health insurance that my employer pays for, and even though I'm making my ends meet every month (though my liquid funds are drying rapidly), I want to know if things will ever get easier. When the "rich" and -- more aptly -- greedy are going to be reigned in. I don't believe that the central government should be telling me who I can marry and what to do with my body, but I do think they should tell corporations to keep their hands to themselves and out of my pockets. I'm getting pretty tired of it. And other than voting out every incumbent there is with the hopes that the new representatives will actually try to do something that doesn't give them personal gain, there's really nothing I can do about it. When did America start cannibalising it's citizens?