Is Patience Really a Virtue?

I think I've lost the will to be patient.  I would pray to God for patience, but I'm afraid to do that because he might send me more irritations to allow me more opportunities to develop this lost virtue.

I'm not exactly sure when my final bit of patience left me.  I think it leaked out of me bit by bit.  Crazy drivers, parents who don't watch their kids, lazy employees, being asked questions when I'm trying to focus on something else, broken dishes, malfunctioning appliances, car problems, self-serving managers, poorly prepared restaurant food -- the list can go on and on.  If I had a visible meter, I could almost see the needle dipping into the danger zone at certain times.

My patience leak was a relatively constant drip until I introduced the tolerance portion of my brain to caffeine.  That turbo coffee shot pressed my internal buttons like a kid playing Super Smash.  When that lovely energizing chemical entered my bloodstream, my perception of life totally changed.  Even inanimate objects gave me offense -- the stupid table that hit my knee cap, my cell phone that reminded me that I had an appointment, my eyeglasses that kept sliding down my nose. 

Woe be to the person that said the wrong thing to me when I was at the height of my artificially induced energy.  Every comment was taken as a slight or insult.  Don't give me any constructive criticism as that would unleash a large muscular green monster.  Veins would pop out of my forehead, my eyeballs would shoot fire and my lips would curve into something from Mr. Sardonicus.  I really couldn't help myself.  It's almost like I was having an out-of-body experience.  Untamed, unfiltered words would fly from my mouth spewing burning acid on my victims.  Unfortunately, my family, my boss, and even strangers have seen this alter ego -- my Mr. Hyde.

Fortunately, I didn't let it get to the point where Hyde had incited road rage, loss of a job or estrangement from my family.  All I needed was for one of my victims to remind me that I was being a perfect monster.  Immediately, a switch flipped and I was back to my normally semi-patient self.  I then would go through the guilt phase of my recuperation where I had to apologize to everyone for being unbearably grouchy -- even if the original flying-off-the-handle event may have been justified in some form.

It got to the point where my family would not allow me to speak when in the fast food drive through -- we all know that the folks that work in these places are trained to irritate.  I'd been given instructions to keep my face in a passive mask when I was cut off on the roadway or when someone flipped me off because I was driving too slow.  I began to find these growing limitations on my freedom to express my irritation with the entire world somewhat annoying. 

It was apparent that my ability to handle the caffeine -- and daily nuisances -- took a sharp turn south when I turned 40.  I'm sure you've all heard that things start to fall apart at that age; and I was no exception.  I had to make a choice; continue the slow burn of daily impatience that could turn into  volcanic episodes at any time, or do something about it.  So I decided five years ago to quit caffeine...and have been off the stuff for two months now.

I figured that once I kicked my Diet Coke habit, I'd turn into Snow White and birds would alight on my fingers and flowers would grow in my hair.  Nope, didn't happen.  Don't get me wrong.  It's definitely better -- at least I think so.  But I still have a long way to go to obtain my goal of saintly patience.       

I'm not worried, though.  I know the problem isn't me necessarily.  It's my fluctuating hormones.  After that, I've got old age to blame. 

Child's Play

The older we get, the more we look back at our past -- seeing it almost as if written in a third person novel.  Although it's not unusual for my mind to wander, and it does very frequently, most of my wandering is reminiscing about childhood.  Little mental vignettes pass through my mind, stopping like a ViewMaster.

I remember playing games with my sisters.  I wasn't much of a board game player.  Actually, no one wanted to play with me.  I couldn't focus for any length of time to finish the game.  I'd start to fidget and distract my sisters.  I'd end a Monopoly game by making noises in the crook of my arm and make believe someone had a gas problem.  Throwing the pink, green and blue paper money around also helped speed it along.  I'd end up losing all my money first so I could go and hide in the pantry to eat sour cream and onion potato chips before dinner.  

One of my least favorite games was Operation.  I wasn't very good at it.  Because I needed to concentrate really hard to pull out the wrenched ankle, when the buzzer went off (and it invariably would), I'd be scared out of my wits and jump up pulling the little tweezer wire out of the plastic game board.  

Most games didn't survive long in my hands.  The corners of the boxes would be taped and re-taped because someone sat on them or tried to cram them onto the top shelf in the closet.  The inside box cover would be filled with my graffiti of unflattering pictures of my sister's faces and body parts.   I'd lose pieces of them or repurpose them in some of my make-believe play.  Cooties worked well as pets for my GI Joes.  I'd tie a piece of yarn around their plastic peg necks and the other to Joe's hand.  He would drag them around until they lost all their legs or a part of their thorax.  

Marbles from Chinese Checkers or Parchesi would end up rolling under beds to be lost forever among the dust bunnies. Some just disappeared like some sort of marble fairy would take them away in the night.  Many of my marbles would be chipped and scratched from being used in the yard.  I'm sure my Dad encountered many of them as bullets flying from the lawn mower.

But indoor games were really a rare occurrence -- saved for rainy days.  Most other days were spent outside.  We could spend hours sitting on our swing set.  The white, purple and rust colored poles supported two swings, a teeter totter and a glider.  The late comers would be relegated to the teeter totter.  Back and force we'd swing, higher and higher, until we made the swing set posts go thwomp.  We tried to time our swinging so that the two swings weren't moving at the same time to prevent the back of the set from lifting off the ground.  So we tried to alternate our swinging...we were very scientific.  Unfortunately, it didn't work and my dad had to add little ball and chains to each of the posts to anchor them to the ground to stop the set from tipping over. The thwomp would sound when the anchor pulled taught and the post fell back into the ground.  Too bad the oil industry couldn't harness the power of little girl swing sets to drill for the mother load.

We'd sing songs -- songs my mom taught us from her childhood and popular songs from the radio.  And we would talk about make believe things.  If we looked at the sky when we were at the swings highest point we could be birds flying off into the sunset.  If we closed our eyes, we could be captives on a pirate ship.

The swing set served as a rocking chair when we were sad, a piece of exercise equipment when we needed to burn off the second whoopee pie before we went in for dinner, and an excellent theater seat to view our neighbor's cows.  Prime swing viewing was when our gentleman farmer neighbor would cut down his hay and bail it.  The day would start with his tractor moving through the grass with a sort of large hair trimmer on the side of it.  Then would come another tractor attachment in the back with little metal finger combs to line up the stacks of grass.  Then the wondrous bailing machine.  The bailing machine made such a unique noise...a sort of a hooumph, hooumph.  It had a sort of silly dangerous sound to our young ears.  It was exciting when those green bails spit out of the end of the machine and fell to the ground.  The field would be littered with fuzzy cow food blocks and the aroma of alfalfa.

Make-believe came so easy to us.   Old tin can tops (bent in half by Daddy) were excellent whittling tools for peeling bark off of sticks and could also be used to cut up grass and other vegetation when we were cooking like Mommy.  What amazing food we could make with a little water, dirt and cut up grass.  I can almost smell the wet dirt and fresh cut greenery.

To be a child again....when distraction was encouraged.

Grocery Shoppers Anonymous

I have a strange addiction to grocery shopping. Some people like to buy shoes, cars or electronics. But me, I love to stroll through the aisles filled with shiny boxes of breakfast cereal and cookies.

Pulling into the parking lot of the store is an adventure in itself. I usually go to the store with my sister in her late model Honda Odyssey proudly displaying the dings and scratches of many parking lot skirmishes with other cars, yellow-painted concrete barriers and shopping carts. Ever leave a store and wonder if a dent or scratch on your car door was new or just something you hadn't noticed before?

I walk in the store and try to detach my selected shopping cart from the thousand of others that are connected together by the infant seat belts. One hard yank and a pinched finger later and my cart is free from its brothers. Need to check the wheels to make sure they work okay. Wheels that seem pretty smooth and easy to push now, might turn into a manual lawn mower in knee high grass when the cart is filled with bottled water and gallons of milk. This one's good. I envision the bubonic plague on the cart handle so I pull a half dried sanitary wipe from the dispenser near the door and try to scrub the germs into oblivion. Wonder if the friction heat in combination with the alcohol will burn the bacteria into microscopic toast.

Starting in the dairy section I work through my shopping list. Its necessary to take a deep breath before attempting to pull milk from the cooler. Patience is a virtue here as I might be tempted to use elbows and the front edge of my cart as a battering ram to get near the one-percent milk. Years of crusted milk spills hang onto the cooler shelves along with dust and human hair. I pluck a carton from the fray and inspect it quickly to make sure my choice is not guilty of adding to the gray debris stalagmites Fortunately, I'm clean...and so is my carton.

No deli meat this trip, the line is way too long. We'll have to settle for canned meat and peanut butter for sandwiches this week. No lunch is worth dealing the pulsating irritated group of humanity in front of the glass case. Anyway, Murphy's Law would have me pulling the number behind the person asking about the salt content and preservatives in the meats and then ask for a quarter pound of each type of ham cut extra thin.

I'm not allowed to go down the cereal aisle until the twenty boxes of fibrous, fruity and just plain junk breakfast fare in our pantry are down to ten boxes. As I pass, I can see gleaming packaging beckoning me with seductive words like "heart healthy", "no GMO", and "high fiber". How am I expected to resist their lure? After all, don't the food companies pay tons of money to their marketing people to make sure that we (the consumer) are hypnotized by their magic words? Resisting the terrible temptation to buy a box of Sugar Fruity Fiber Pellets, I slowly keep walking to the next aisle.

Bisquick is the next item on my shopping list. Where would that be...must be the baking aisle. Putting my cart in reverse, because I'd already passed that section, I walk down looking through the cake mixes, sugar and flour. Let's see, there's whole wheat flour, unbleached flour, cake flour, bread flour, rye flour, spelt flour, barley flour...but no sign of Bisquick. After all, isn't Bisquick a baking mix with one of its twenty-five ingredients being flour? Who set this store up anyway? Bisquick should be in the baking section. I ask one of the many helpful stocking people where I could find one of my scavenger hunt items known as Bisquick...you know, the stuff in the bright yellow box with the pancakes on the front. As soon as I said it, I knew before the clerk replied that my box would be found in the breakfast aisle. Guess what, back to the cereal aisle....can I handle passing through the cereals again? I send my sister to get it for me as I head to produce.

When I walk into the produce section I hear the song that plays when Link lifts up that little triangle thingee. All those shiny, brightly colored shapes. All those healthy and nutritious forms that you don't need to feel guilty about eating. They are so beautiful....I can't stop looking at them. I begin by picking out my avocados -- not too soft or too hard and they must have the little stub on the end or they'll ripen too fast. In the bag they go. Then the tomatoes. I search through the different varieties looking for those from the U.S. Nope, those are from Mexico...and those from Canada. At last I find some from the U.S. still stuck on their dried up old vine pieces. I often wonder if that is just another marketing thing to make us think they are fresher (even thought the vine is totally dried up) or if it is just an easier method to pick them up and put them into the bag. Personally, I find the vines poke holes into the tomatoes when you're driving home like evil little fingers.

I pick out a bag of tangerines, some apples, grapes and a bunch of bananas--being careful to watch out for tarantulas and other exotic spiders that might be lurking among the produce. Broccoli, brussels sprouts and cauliflower round out my cruciferous choices (which means "gas producing vegetables" in Swahili).

The store set up is pretty slick...they put the bakery section right next to the checkout. It's like landing on Boardwalk before you get to pass Go. No Baltic prices here, folks. The pies and cakes are expensive because they've got you in the carb trap. You pick out all your healthy fruit and veggies and then, wham!, you smell the yummy goodness of baked goods. After all, if you've eaten a meal of lettuce leaves and brussels sprouts, surely you can afford to eat a piece of pie. An apple pie and two packages of cinnamon rolls go into the cart. I give up...marketing wins!

I try to organize my purchases on the checkout conveyor belt, putting the heavy stuff first, refrigerator stuff next and last my produce and chips. I'm not often successful at getting my purchases on the belt quick enough. Personally, I like the cashier who talks to her bagger or the customer in front of me. It gives me time to line up my milk cartons. But sometimes I get an eager beaver who is trying to break the worlds record for quickest grocery cashier. The conveyor starts and stops in a staccato turning my cartons and boxes into falling dominoes and creating an avalanche of my carefully selected fruits. As I try to recapture my groceries, I need to keep an eye on the bagger. I see him placing my Windex into the same bag as my broccoli -- excuse me, but does your mom boil her broccoli in Windex?...then put it in a separate bag.

Back outside in the parking lot -- and I don't think I notice any new dents or scratches on the bumper -- my sister and I begin to load my treasures into the back of the van. I get a wonderful sense of satisfaction as we drive away. I know that my overflowing pantry and already-full fridge will welcome their new additions. I have this thing about running out of food. I feel good. We'll have plenty of fresh and tasty food to last a while....or at least until next week.

My Morning Constitutional

No alarm rings to get me out of bed.  I could never understand why people would want to be brought back to consciousness by a loud sound that in a state of half wakefulness could brings to mind a smoke detector, a school buzzer or an air raid siren.  Somehow I wake up at about the same time every morning -- with a little help from my cat jumping on my dresser and knocking glass objects on the floor in an attempt to tell me she was ready to eat.

Once out of bed, I run to the bathroom, throw water on my face, put on my sneakers and head for the door.

Keeping to an exercise routine takes commitment and time -- so I guess I'm already behind the eight ball there.  I wear my workout clothes to bed each night to reduce the risk that the thought of getting dressed will be reason enough for me to skip my walk.

I wrestle with my conscience (which I consider exercise in itself) -- imagining myself gaining 10 pounds, having to buy larger clothes and not being able to eat what I like during the day because I'm counting calories..  I'm an eclectic eater -- one day an order of french fries and ice cream is my lunch of choice.  Other days, I'll eat one of those frozen steamer bags of brussels sprouts all by myself with a bottle of Naked Spirulina drink.  Talk about needing simethicone and a larger waistband...

Heading down the driveway, I think about plugging my ears with music -- half for the beat to keep my pace from falling to the speed of the government processing my tax return and half to block out the sound of the traffic along my morning route.  But today I choose to listen to walk without them in an attempt to hear some of the more pleasant sounds of Spring.

When Spring comes around, when others anticipate the beauty of tulips and daffodils, I wait to see the young maple leaves turn into skeletal versions of their former selves falling apart to the rhythmic sound of caterpillar poop falling from the sky.  May showers don't bring Spring flowers in my neighborhood -- they bring tar colored slop onto the pavement -- turning walkways into a quagmire of banana peel like surfaces -- hazardous to postal workers and UPS delivery people everywhere.

I make my way through the traffic, avoiding the small, green worms hanging from the trees by silken strings -- creating the effect of a hideous chandelier.  The breeze brings with it an odd combination of lilacs and cat urine (the smell of the wet caterpillar excrement).  Families walk past me with worms in their hair and kids flailing their arms over their head in an attempt to ward off the inchworms and crying, "Watch out lady!  There's bugs in that tree!"

Potholes are everywhere.  Small mounds of asphalt crumbs and road substrate from the Revolutionary War make its way to the surface through these endless caverns in the road. Each small rock around the crater finds its way into the ridges in the bottom of my sneakers. I know these spaces are meant to help walkers grip the ground, but mine help my shoes turn into Fred Flintstone's roller skates. Every step adds new stones to my shoes making it sound like I'm wearing golf shoes by the time I take my final turn back into my driveway.

The last moments of my relaxing morning constitutional are used to remove the twenty rocks from the bottom of my shoes with my house key and carefully pick all the worms from my hair using my warped reflection in the storm door.  One final swig from my water bottle and I'm ready to face my day.

What day is today?  Oh great.  I forgot I have a conference call with our China factory at 9:00.  I'm going to be late.  What about my Egg McMuffin?

Maximus Distracticus...a blog for the distracted mind

So one day I decided that I'd chronicle some of my days, encounters, opinions and fractured thoughts to share with others that struggle with focusing, commitment and finishing anything.  I set up my Blogger page....and it sat there, and sat there with no posts.  I had a book I needed to finish because it was already late to the library, about 10 half-finished work projects, and some viewing of brain-numbing Disney XD to squeeze into the four hours I have available when I get home from work and before I climb into bed.

So now I'm sitting at my family's community computer.  I hear the TV in the kitchen, my Mom watching Fox News, I hear the constant cha-ching noise of my nephew's phone as competitive bids come in for a Loki figure he has on eBay and my sister yelling across the house questioning what is happening on the news in response to a tiny tidbit of information she heard make its way through the wall.  I might as well be sitting in Grand Central Station trying to write the next great novel.  Focus...focus...focus.

What do I write about?  Maybe my latest business trip to Chicago...filled with a million strange observations at Midway Airport...like the man sleeping on the floor at the gate with his dirty white taped up feet and stretchy abstract patterned pants that weren't quite covering his backside.  The pungent odor of a needed yearly bath very obvious...and my praying that this guy wouldn't get on the plane and choose to sit next to me -- one of the bad and good points of flying Southwest.  What can you do when you get on a plane and someone sits next to you that stinks?  Can you complain to the flight attendant and ask to be moved.  What if there are no more seats, can you get a smelly passenger refund?  Surprisingly enough, there may a "body odor" clause in your ticket fine print.  It was funny watching from across the gate area as different people moved into the only available standing space -- next to the odiferous man on the floor -- sniff the air, try to decide where the smell came from, look down at the exposed back end crack at the top of the 80's style stretchy pants, and move across the room to fresher air.

Maybe I could write about the computerized beverage machine at the noodles restaurant that I had to help three other patrons with so that they could get their soda before their noodles turned into a brick. Did you want zero calorie, no caffeine, extra caffeine, fruit flavor, no flavor, no bubbles...how do I just get plain water?  I give up...I'll just use the iced tea urn.

What about the white stretch limo at the hotel everyday carrying one passenger -- what looked to be a computer nerd from India -- from the hotel to some unknown destination and back again every day.  The door opening on the limo and a skinny pant leg emerging, followed by a plaid shirt decorated with an official looking access badge hanging from the breast pocket.  Ah, Ramesh, please bring up the car.  I need to get to the SAP integration team meeting before Krishma completes the program modifications in the OTC and IMWM module.  Stop by Starbucks.  I need to get my morning qahwah and girda (coffee and toast).

So I still haven't decided on how I will write in my blog.  Maybe I'll wait until tomorrow to come up with an idea.  Yes, I'll have chocolate ice cream tonight please....  You go ahead and take your shower first.