a pen and a cup of coffee

The other day, I was listening to an interview with Jason Reitman about his new movie Up in the Air (which I recommend highly-both the movie and the interview). In it, he said that among all the unemployed people he interviewed for the film, the biggest concern was not money but meaning. "When I leave here," they'd say to him, "where am I supposed to go; what am I supposed to do?"

I guess that struck a chord with me because those are the very questions I have been asking myself since losing my job nearly a year and a half ago. Because most of what I do on any given day goes wholly unrewarded and largely unnoticed, it's hard for me to feel I have anything of value to contribute; anything that would be of worth to anyone else.

"Do you know what I miss most about working," I said to a friend not long ago. "Dressing up and walking around the office with a pen and a cup of coffee."

"A pen and a cup of coffee?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "The pen means that there was something in my day worth writing down; something worth remembering."

"And the coffee," she said.

"The coffee means there was someone--in a meeting, around a conference table, in the break room--who might remember what it was."

conversation hearts anonymous

I've done it again. I've burned my tongue on conversation hearts. You know what I'm talking about: those painful little white bumps you get on your tongue from eating too many heart-shaped candies that say things like "sweet talk," "let's kiss," and "say yes."

Every year I promise myself I won't let it happen again; I will practice moderation and self-control. And every year I wind up back in the same place. The really sad thing is, I have a handful of hearts next to my computer even as I write this!

I'm thinking of starting a Twelve-Step group, Conversation Hearts Anonymous. I can just see the introductions now. "Hi, my name is Kelly and I can't stop eating hearts."

groundhog day

Six more weeks of winter. Need I say more?

why is it?

Everyday, in the hustle and bustle to get out the door, my children inevitably leave the front door open. I'm not talking a little bit open; I'm talking wide open. I'm talkng you could drive a semi through my front door open.

What gets my dander up is not the draft of cold air that wraps itself around my ankles as I settle into the first cup of coffee of the day, it's the fact that if that door is going to be closed at all I am going to have to do it myself. And what can really get my panties in a twist is the thought that that was why they didn't close the door in the first place. Because they knew I would!

Which makes me wonder: Why is it we are willing to do "whatever we can" to help the people of Haiti pick up the pieces after a devastating earthquake but we go ballistic if we have to pick our children's socks up off the floor one more time? And why is it we will clean for a neighbor in need but if our husband leaves the dishes to soak in the sink we fly into a rage? I wish I knew.

The best thing about a new haircut is it's new. The worst thing: it takes a week to get the hang of it and a month to learn to like it. Then it's time to go back and do it all again.

The best thing about this time of year? Putting on a jacket you haven't worn in a long time and finding money in the pocket.

The last days of summer...

Why is it the last few fleeting days of summer always seem to be the best?

Is it because, like this year, the weather finally cooperates giving us warm days and cool, comfortable nights?

Or is it because, knowing they are so fleeting, we do our best to savor them: lying a little bit longer on the beach, floating a little less purposefully on a raft, lingering around the fire pit for one last s'more.

Or maybe it's because, after months of doing, of running here and there trying to see it all and do it all, we have finally learned how to be. Just be.

It's something to think about while you're floating on your raft.