Quitters Know When to Say When

A friend of ours just published a book and we were the first (that we know of) to find it at the bookstore and of course, purchase it. It's a very good non-fiction self help book about following through with your dreams by actually taking steps and making plans and sticking to the plans, all the things that I am not good at at all.

As you faithful readers know, I'm a quitter.

You know not because I told you, but because you have witnessed my repetitive new whatevers and most likely you were just waiting for me to lose interest, change my mind or take to my bed. You watched me take up knitting and quit knitting, numerous times. You watched me change my home decor over and over until there was nothing new I could do with it, which forced me to move to Canada so I could have start with a blank canvas.

You've been right along side of me while I wrote a novel probably betting amongst yourselves how long it would take for me to give up that project. And even though this turned out to be one dream/goal I actually did realize, I then vowed to send it out to 3 publishers a day. And surprisingly I did. For a while. I sent it out to 3 publishers a day for a week or two, and I was actually relieved when one or two publishers were mildly interested enough to ask for several chapters or even the whole manuscript, but the relief was mostly because I had a great excuse to break the daily submission vow which of course I promptly did.

Look, I have a short attention span, people. Hell, I can't even stick to one header on this blog!

And in my defense, and the defense of other quitters out there, the world is an amazing place.

So amazing is this place that how is one supposed to decide on one thing to pay attention to all the time, to put all effort into? How can you promise that you will keep doing whatever this one thing is when there are all kinds of other shiny things to look at out there?

Look, we all have goals, at least in our heads. And quite frankly, some of those goals are best kept in the head because of the reaction from others these goals would prompt when spoken aloud.

When I was a little girl I learned early on that when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, it was best to size up your audience before responding. If your audience was made up of your parents and friends of your parents you gave a rather generic, expected response, such as nurse, teacher, mommy. If you felt your audience was of the more open minded variety, or if they were under the age of ten, you could announce your dreams of being a dancer, a fairy or a movie star.

Truth is, you didn't really plan to hold any of these jobs because back then becoming a grown up took a very long time and you figured by then no one would remember what you vowed to do when this time arrived and so you could just continue planning Barbie's life instead. Which of course is what you always hope happens - and most often it does. I can't remember even one instance in my life when someone said to me "Remember when you wanted to be a acrobat?"

Ok, to be truthful, this merciful amnesia didn't always happen on it's own. There is always one annoying relative who had so little of her own life that she has devoted too much time and brain storage to remembering everything you used to say and do as a child. When dealing with people like this you have no choice but to put the Memory Loss and Confusion spell on them.

A simple spell really. All you have to do is change your dream/goals every week and be sure to let them in on your latest venture. Pretty soon their heads spin around and their eyes turn to spirals and they forget everything about you except perhaps your name and if they still remember your name you can correct them, like by saying, "Um, it's Angela. Not Annmarie" and they'll look only slightly befuddled and then apologize.

It's a fantastic spell - simple enough for beginners. There is some rather cool incantations that must be spoken with this spell, though so it's best to wait for the official instructions which will of course appear in my latest venture (the idea for which I came up with just fifteen minutes ago.)

I will write my first non-fiction book dedicated to quitters everywhere, to those tortured souls who just want to keep changing their minds without anyone nagging them. Who boldly take up new interests and careers and who just as boldly say nevermind. Whose lives are made up of a series of trials and errors and yet they still manage to wear good shoes and afford Starbucks. Who never worry about answering the what do you do question at cocktail parties because they're usually too busy putting food in their purses they've done just about everything, at least in their minds, for at least 3 days and they also have seen a lot of movies, have very very good imaginations and most often, a knack for the storytelling.

So. There you go. You are once again witness to my latest venture. Now to settle on a title. Try these out for size:

Older Than ThirtySomething

Yesterday we got our sorry asses out of bed, went out for lunch and then went to the bookstore where we purchased the first season of "ThirtySomething" on dvd which we watched when we got home sometime after we both worked out (he respectfully in the gym on the professional equipment and me with Jane Fonda and a bunch of woman with outdated hairstyles wearing thong leotards,) and before, after and during a little wine and some dinner.

And the thing is - when we both last watched that series we were both the ages of the younger, main characters. Now we're the ages of their parents.

I could totally relate to them then (except for the fact that back then I so wanted to be a yuppie and was not able to - due to circumstances and relationships I do not wish to speak of here) and I can totally relate to them now.

Sign of a timeless show.

My Boxing Day Resolution

Dave has occupied the sofa all day, called in for pizza at 3:00 and says he's having apple pie and ice cream for dinner.

Happy Boxing Day!!

In other news, I am beating most of you to the punch by getting this whole New Years Resolution out of the way and proclaiming boldly and loudly that every morning I resolve to write in my book. (This would be book number two not to be confused with book number one, still with the maybe-interested agent and soon not to be exclusively with her anymore.)

Day one was today although it is not yet the new year (that's how badly I want to beat everyone to the punch this year) and it was a good start, since I recreated a scene I lost when my hard drive crashed a few months ago.

Stupidly I think that this was "the thing" that was stopping me from moving ahead with this project as I was pretty upset about losing even a little of my work, but now that is out of the way and I am left with no more excuses only promises and you guys as my witnesses.

And finally I have to report that this is my second boxing day in Canada and the second time I have not participated in any sort of boxing, whether it be of the packing or the punching or even the shopping variety.

I'm a rebel that way.

Don't Gimme No Back Talk, Sucka

Yesterday we began our Christmas adventure by almost buying the biggest turkey on the planet. Our farm store informed us via email (which seems wrong somehow because our farm is run by Mennonites and I thought they were like the Amish and technology was banned) that the turkeys were running a little large this year and they would "understand if we wanted to cancel."

Dave and Janine afraid of a pumped up turkey? I don't think so, my friends. We bravely drove our Zip Car over the to the store, properly prepared with my extra large tote bag and empty egg carton to recycle because I am so evolved in that save the planet kind of way, as you may or may not know.

Anyway, we boldly marched up to the counter and verified our identification by telling the counter clerk our name. She then went out back as we waited with barely-able-to-contain anticipation. Ok, I kind of didn't really contain very well it as I might have squealed a little.

She eventually came through the door again with a very very very large parcel. This, people, was our turkey, our massive, Guinness World Records worthy turkey, the Mr T. of Birds. No, really, someone, somewhere said "I pity the fool who tries to cook this turkey." I'm not kidding, someone must have said that.

In the moments that followed, including the moment that the turkey was put on a scale and the scale (not easily fooled) refused to register the weight, I started to worry. I mean the leg on this turkey looked like a human leg, and that thought make me feel a little nauseous .

I started thinking about what time I would have to get up with the turkey in order for it to be done on time. I started worrying about being left alone in the kitchen with that turkey at 3:00 am - seriously that leg could knock me unconscious and/or possible kill me instantly or leave me brain damaged and bruised at least. I began to sweat.

After it was decided (best guess ) that the turkey weighed approximately 32 pounds, I had serious, serious reservations. Dave picked up the turkey (he's been working out lately) and we went to the corner to have a conference. I thought about our modest sized refrigerator, our great, but not giant oven, all those leftovers, as well as the previously mentioned scary--revenge seeking-dead-thing factor.

The clerk, sensing our reservations offered to see if there was another smaller turkey we could swap for. Not even a half second passed before I said yes. She suggested that perhaps they could cut Mr. T in half and sell 2 half-turkeys. I told her that was a great idea, knowing full well that even half that turkey could chase you down and bash your head in if he wanted to. Let's face it, this turkey escaped Thanksgiving. Surely he was a perfectly acceptable size back then. This was one smart bird, a sly, cunning mutant version of the usual dumb-ass variety.

Luckily there happened to be a less intimidating 27 pounder in the back and we gladly said yes and promptly secured him into our car seat which was safety approved for children weighing 20-40 pounds.

So, Merry Christmas Mr. T. Hope you enjoy wherever you end up, whether whole or in pieces. I'm sure, if you had come home with us - and after I wrestled you into the roaster and you realized you were behind the wheel of the Mercedes of all Roasters you would have accepted your fate, and gone towards the light without a struggle.

But still, I'm glad you're not here because you creeped me out.

Due to the Holidays...........

Over here today!

My MusicTheory

You know, you'd think if you were married to someone not only in the music industry but also with a masters degree in music you'd at least get to play around with musical instruments once in a while.

You know, like maybe, just for fun, he'd show you how to make cool screaming sounds on an electric guitar. Nothing too serious, mind you, just some crazy sounds. And maybe you'd add a little rock star movement to the mix, and a bandanna headband, perhaps some fog, a few pyrotechnics and of course some good reefer.

Yes, you'd think it would be easy like that. But it's not.

And you know why? The more a person like Dave knows about music, the more appalling the idea that someone who knows absolutely NOTHING about music would actually just want to have a little fun. It is unthinkable to Dave these types that I a person would be content to learn 2 cords and jump around a little.

I mean I could understand the hesitation if I thought I the non-musical person actually believed that it was this easy - that learning two cords, leaning wayyyy back and then bending over and sweating a little was actually playing music.

Well, then, of course if I were Dave the Music Major, I'd be rather insulted. But you know, if he considered that The Music Major's Wife, might be growing tired of answering the inevitable question posed to her by the newly acquainted "Are you musical too?" with a tired "No, I just appreciate it," - and that maybe just once she'd like it to go something like this,

"Are you musical too?"
"Yes"
"Really? What do you play?"
"Screaming guitar."

well then I think the Music Major might just put his principles aside for a bit and indulge her stupid little teenage fantasy.

Yes, it's a cautionary tale, my friends. Many have witnessed this scenario time and time again. I mean what can you expect when the majorly musical and the musically retarded insist on marrying?

And too often we have all seen this end badly - predictably. We watch and wait for the telltale signs - the new underwear, the piercings, the electric guitar appliqued t-shirt (one you can really play!), long hours locked in a room play the same 2 or maybe even 3 cords over and over, the too many late nights out with "the girls," sneaking in the house at all hours of the morning, smelling of sweat and weed, not to mention the whisperings of others who wonder why oh why would she resort to a novelty t-shirt when she had the Major Award??

Age old questions, my friends, and sadly ones that may never be answered.

(But do feel free to try.)

Ben Franklin Was Not A Stripper

Kristy made a startling confession the other day which prompted this blog entry. She said when she was a little girl, she used to think that the guy on the Quaker Oats label was Ben Franklin.

I, for one, was shocked to hear this. In fact, I can only liken the feeling I got in the pit of my stomach and the uncontrollable racing of my heart to the feeling that came over me only one other time in my life and yes my friends that was when I discovered that bunnies do not, in fact, lay eggs. Not even chocolate ones.

You see, I still thought (until the other day when I read her blog) that the guy on the Quaker Oats package was Benjamin Franklin, and come to think of it, I never once gave a thought as to why Ben Franklin would be associated with oatmeal, except that he was a Quaker.

Or was he?

I decided that at fifty one years old it was about time I stopped living in a fantasy world and get the facts. So I did. I typed into Google "Was Ben Franklin a Quaker?" and I got more than I bargained for.

This one site, a Ben Franklin FAQ, told me pretty much all if not more than I ever wanted or needed to know about Ben, including the fact that he was not, nor had he ever been a Quaker.

Benjamin Franklin was not a Quaker. He was baptized in 1706, at the Old South Church congregation's Cedar Meeting House on downtown Washington Street, Boston. Built in 1729 as a Congregational church, Old South was the largest building in colonial Boston.
In Philadelphia he occasionally worshiped at Christ Church, the Church of England parish established in colonial Philadelphia in 1695 and later reorganized into the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America.

So, Ben Franklin was notorious for eating lots of oatmeal.

Or was he?

What did Ben eat?
Ben decided to become a vegetarian when he was 16 years old. He prepared his own meals, and mentions eating boiled potatoes, rice, hasty pudding, bread, raisins, and water. Quickly finishing his simple meals gave Ben more time for reading.
Ben later gave up vegetarianism; during the voyage from Boston to Philadelphia he ate fish.
Autobiography, Chapter 4: www.earlyamerica.com/lives/franklin/chapt4/index.html
www.history.org/Foundation/journal/Autumn04/food.cfm

Simple meals, yes. Specifically oatmeal, no.

Ok, so maybe Ben grew oats.

Not quite.

What businesses did Ben have?
Ben was a printer and a postmaster.

I know!!! Ben invented oatmeal!!!

Afraid not.

What did Ben discover?
Ben's discoveries include: the gulf stream, whirlwinds, and the electrostatic machine.

So, even though we know that Ben Franklin was not a Quaker and didn't eat a lot of oatmeal wasn't an oat grower, didn't invent oatmeal and is supposedly not the guy on the oatmeal label, I conclude (after putting all the clues together like a good amateur girl detective does) that someone a long long time ago when Oatmeal was first discovered and put into a convenient package came up with the idea to use a "Ben Franklin like" image on the label because that someone thought he was a Quaker or that he loved oatmeal, grew oatmeal or invented oatmeal and told everyone so. This was back in the day before fact checking was an occupation and so everyone just nodded and said, "hey good idea," and next thing you know, old Ben sold out to The Man. When someone (who knows when) discovered the truth, Quaker just went about their business, having absolutely no intention of changing something that was obviously working for reasons I cannot explain.

I mean, really. Ben Franklin? Why would he make me want to eat Oatmeal - standing there with his large protruding belly and all? In fact, this description of Ben really makes me want to stay away from simple foods, and vegetarianism (with the occasional fish) forever.

What did Ben look like?
Pages 90 - 91 of Carl Van Doren's book, Benjamin Franklin offers the following comments on Franklin's physical appearance:

No certain early likeness of him survives, but what he outwardly was when he returned to Philadelphia may be imagined backwards from later portraits and various chance notes on his personal appearance. Strongly built, rounded like a swimmer or a wrestler, not angular like a runner, he was five feet nine or ten inches tall, with a large head and square, deft hands. His hair was blond or light brown, his eyes grey, full, and steady, his mouth wide and humorous with a pointed upper lip. His clothing was as clean as it was plain. Though he and others say he was hesitant in speech, he was prompt in action.

Anyway, if Quaker never claimed it was Ben, they probably just continued to deny (if asked) that Ben is the guy on the label most likely claiming he is just a Ben-like character from the same era as Ben, but not Ben. At all. I mean, I don't know how they answer that question, if asked and perhaps I should have asked them before writing this blog entry but I have only so much time to devote to this particular pursuit. I mean. Really.

Obviously this is a time in my life where myths are dismissed and dreams/illusions are shattered, so feeling the need to take you along on this journey, I will leave you with one last thing that Ben did NOT do.

Did Ben really say that beer is proof of God's love?
There is no evidence to suggest that Ben ever said that beer is proof that God loves us. However, he did have this to say about wine:

We hear of the conversion of water into wine at the marriage in Cana as of a miracle. But this conversion is, through the goodness of God, made every day before our eyes. Behold the rain which descends from heaven upon our vineyards; there it enters the roots of the vines, to be changed into wine; a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy. The miracle in question was only performed to hasten the operation, under circumstances of present necessity, which required it.

So, Old Ben, My Man Ben said it was WINE, not beer that is constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy. Now, I could have told you that, but I'm not Ben Franklin so why would you listen to me? Is my face on an oatmeal box? No.

Oh, and by the way, this isn't the only time that Ben was involved in a case of mistaken identity. Remember when Ben was mistaken for a stripper?