Getting the Scoop

We see the signs everywhere around our city, exhorting us to “Scoop Your Pet’s Poop” or “Please Clean Up After Your Pet”. Unlike the little violations many of us commit every day — crossing your neighborhood street in the middle of the block, buckling your seatbelt after rolling out of the driveway, throwing recyclables in the trash — not scooping your dog’s poop (is there any other kind of pet poop to scoop?) can bring an “eewww” kind of bad karma. Do YOU want to be the one to step in the poop? you wonder nervously as you dutifully pick up the little bombs from the sidewalk.

Oh, we’ve all had those moments when we hesitate halfway down the block, leash in hand and pooch happily trotting by our side, as we remember we forgot the plastic bag. Well, we think with relief, the creature just relieved herself in the back yard a while ago. I’ll risk it.

And, inevitably, just as you round the corner for home, your pup stops and assumes the position. Panicking, you look around to see who’s watching. At least I can move it into the bushes so no one steps on it, you think, keeping a little bit of bad karma at bay. So you grab a nearby stick and flick the jewels over and out of plain site.

But I’ll wager you’ve never had the kind of karma kickback I had the other day.

The husband and kids were walking to get ice cream, and I decided to take our terrible but cute terrier, Cookie, along for her daily constitutional. I grabbed the leash with a plastic bag already tied to it and called Cookie. As we made our way down the sidewalk, about halfway to our destination, she stopped and dropped while the others went on ahead. No problem. I reached to untie the bag from the leash, but accidentally let it go as Cookie raced toward the kids, me calling out to them to catch her. OK, I thought, turning back to study the product. This is to the side a bit and not in the middle of the walk, so I’ll just scoop it when we walk back by.

A little while later, ice cream in hand, we all headed back up the street. As we reached the drop spot, I glanced around. Ah, there it is, over to the side. This time I handed the leash to my daughter first and then untied the bag. Leaning over to do my duty (ha), I neatly knotted the bag and took back the leash. We had walked a few steps when suddenly I felt something under my shoe and stopped in my tracks.

“Ewww, I can’t believe this! Someone didn’t scoop their poop!”

Everyone looked down as I lifted my shoe in disbelief. Shit, I thought (appropriately). This happens to me now? Even after I scooped my own dog’s poop, like the model citizen that I am??

Staring further at the ground, I noticed another canine mine just inches away. It looked somehow… familiar. I glanced at my poop bag, suddenly lighter, and it took only a few seconds for me (and now everyone else in the family) to see that it was empty. There was a hole in it and the poop had quickly fallen out, somehow just enough in front of me that I had, yes, stepped in it.

Scraping my shoe while my three kids and husband chuckled over my mishap, I couldn’t help but analyze what had happened. What were the odds? How did I manage to fling the poop at the exact spot where I would step milliseconds later? Maybe I possess some sort of hidden talent? Is there a prize for that?

Clearly there were no neat and tidy answers to these knotty questions. I just hoped it was the end of my karmic payback… or should I say, poopback.

“Little Bombs” by Aimee Mann

Van is Still the Man

My husband says when we were dating many years ago as 20-somethings in DC, I informed him, “People in Washington don’t dance.” I’d love to dispute it, but I know in my then too-cool-for-school-and-beyond mode this was my excuse for not dancing.

I have always been a bit self-conscious when it comes to dancing and marvel at those who can let loose — and look good doing it. I see my son practicing moves in front of the mirror now and think, good for you. I was even too cool for that, back in the day. Oh, I remember dancing in front of the wall of windows in our den when I was a kid, admiring the reflection of my show-bizzy tap and jazz steps, but that was me trying to emulate Ginger Rogers in the movies, not Britney Spears on the dance floor.

So my husband might find it interesting — and my kids mortifying — to hear what happened the other morning when I met up with two friends walking dogs in the neighborhood park. “Tess” was holding an iphone up to her ear, trying to hear Neil Young’s “Til the Morning Comes” that “Dana” was playing. Loving any excuse to hear music or get a recommendation, I leaned in and listened too. Then Dana insisted on playing a Van Morrison song, and for the next 20 or so minutes, we proceeded to walk our dogs around the park, playing music from our iphones and reminiscing about favorite songs from the ‘70s and beyond. Maxine Nightingale’s upbeat “Get Right Back” took us right back, as did the intensity of Kate Bush (“Wuthering Heights”) and Tori Amos (“Cornflake Girl,” from the ’90s).

Eventually, having trouble downloading a song from YouTube, Dana directed us back to her car parked on the street so she could play a CD on her stereo. It all started off benignly enough. We stood on the leafy sidewalk, the car doors flung open, and listened to Morrison’s meditative “Whenever God Shines His Light.” Then she played Elton John’s folky “Captain Fantastic and Brown Dirt Cowboy,” which I’d never heard. We were in the mellow singer-songwriter era, hanging out as though at a tiny tailgate party, although the tunes emanating from the auto were so loud that we glanced around for annoyed neighbors.

“Wow, those are some powerful speakers,” Tess remarked. We laughed and looked at each with raised eyebrows.

Suddenly, Dana ducked into the car and cranked up the disco-y “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk, and before you could say Studio 54, the three of us were shaking our hips and waving our hands overhead. We boogied on down and showed off our moves as Tess demonstrated a line dance I suspect was her version of the once-ubiquitous “Bus Stop.” (Boy, am I aging myself here.) By now, the dogs had plunked themselves down on the bricks, gazing up at us like kids waiting for their parents to stop socializing at the soccer game.

We ended our impromptu dance party with vows to do it again soon (the Dog-Walking Dance Club?), and I left feeling energized and thankful for my just-nutty-enough friends who could cut loose on a weekday morning amid the towering trees and passing cars. I went home and immediately put on Van Morrison, downloading a few favorite songs I reveled in during college days.

I thought about how it’s so easy to stay wedded to routine, to never veer from the familiar path, to conform to your own notions of yourself. Who could have predicted that when I stepped out on a little jaunt with my dog that morning I would wind up dancing in the streets?

No surprise, Van says it best:

“When it’s not always raining there’ll be days like this

When there’s no one complaining there’ll be days like this

When everything falls into place like the flick of a switch

Well my mama told me there’ll be days like this.”

Love these fall days like this... — Love fall days like this…

Music Extra: Two Van songs below!

Tears II: Beyond Sweat

I say I don’t cry often, but then I think about the times I do cry, and it’s mostly when I’m moved by something, not sad about something, and then I think to myself, I actually cry a lot. And in that context, I love crying.

This past Sunday, a friend I’ll call Joan and I ran the 10K race that was part of the Marine Corps Marathon. We weren’t into putting a lot of pressure on ourselves (at least not overtly — that would ruin the “fun”), so therefore hadn’t talked much about the race until that week. We casually agreed that after we finished the race we would find our friend who was running the marathon for the first time and cheer her on.

But I confess that at the end of the 10K, which started on the Mall and ended in Arlington, I was mostly thinking about going home. Not only was I sweaty and getting cold, but it was also my son’s 13th birthday. I was feeling a bit guilty for not being there. Furthermore, how were we going to find our friend along that 26.2-mile route that extended up into Virginia? How would we get there? Once there, how long would we have to wait to see her? Did I mention I was cold? And that I’d ditched my hat before walking out of the house?

Then there was the issue of ultimately getting home. Most of the surrounding streets were closed because of the marathon, and I live more than a few blocks from a metro station. I’d just run 6.2 miles, after all. Instead of shrugging at the idea of more walking, I was balking.

Fortunately there was a Starbucks near the 10K finish line, which is practically where the line to order started. As we waited for a precious latte from surely the most profitable Starbucks on the planet that day, Joan repeatedly dialed our friend’s husband, who wasn’t answering.

Finally, as we started slurping down our hard-won hot drinks, he called. We should go back down to the Mall and catch her around mile 18. Easy, we thought. The Metro was across the street.

Except I was reliving memories from two years ago of large masses of people crowding the Metro entrance. It had been so menacing that my friends and I immediately retreated and started walking across Key Bridge. As Joan and I approached the turnstiles and joined the blob moving slowly down the escalators, I started to sweat again. “Um, I don’t like this,” I murmured, and Joan shot me a serious look. “Are you claustrophobic?”

“Um, uh, just a little…. I’ll be fine.” I forced myself to keep going, to push down dark thoughts of trampling crowds and being trapped underground and just shuffle forward. Once we reached the platform, the crowds thinned and I breathed a bit easier. But then the train arrived, and the blob moved toward the small opening of the doors, and I had this panicky sense of flowing over the top of the funnel — we’re not going to make it! I tried to draft off Joan, who subtly but deliberately pushed her way forward and around others simultaneously. Suddenly, we’d stepped through the doors. We were on the train.

“Wow, that was impressive,” I said.

“I lived in New York. I’ve learned a few tricks.”

On the train we miraculously found ourselves standing right next to one of only two other 10K runners on our “team” — I spied his t-shirt sporting “Team Swab-a-Cheek,” a nonprofit which helps find matches for bone marrow donation. We introduced ourselves and laughed in amazement that among 30,000 runners, we ended up right next to each other on the Metro. [Plug: Go get your cheek swabbed and possibly save a life. It’s simple: http://www.swabacheek.org]

In a few short stops, we found ourselves at the Smithsonian. We made our way to a spot along the route at the Mall, and waited for the husband somewhere in front of us to alert us to our friend’s impending arrival.

In the meantime, we watched. I realized I was not prepared for the show that was playing right before me, for the sheer humanness that was parading by. For the sweat and determination on the faces, the ease with which so many seemed to run, as though they had just begun and hadn’t covered 17 miles, 9.2 more to go…. For the costumes, the clown wig, the full-body green suit. For the signs, the flags, the strollers — a marathoner pushing a child in a stroller! For the cheers of the crowd, the urging on, the “you can do it!” screams around us.

I was not prepared for show of heart. Most moving were those who’d lost a limb or were disabled in some way. The amputee hand-cycling on the recumbent bike flew past me so quickly I barely had time to register what I saw. Fallen comrades’ and lost loved ones’ photos were plastered on passing t-shirts. Panting, out-of-shape runners with causes scribbled on their faces trotted by.

Eventually, we spied our friend approaching, looking energetic with her earbuds in, as we waved and yelled loudly. Suddenly she turned toward us, arms rising up overhead, a wide smile brightening her face. She later said seeing us for that fleeting moment got her through the rest of the race.

The whole scene got to me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Being there amid that crowd of marathoners and cheerleaders, inspired by their strength, will and determination — it was beyond words. Tears would have to do.

Most amazing marathoners — Most-amazing marathoners

Music Extra! Great and not-obvious song from my running playlist (“tears” in lyrics!):

“Engine to Turn,” by Tift Merritt. Check it out, below.

Little Things

In this entry I randomly select a song title from my itunes library as a writing prompt.

Song Title: “Live and Die” by the Avett Brothers (from The Carpenter album)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about living every day, staying in the present, making the most of those moments. A friend’s tagline on her email is: “Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” Being someone who likes to have big things to look forward to (don’t most people?), this idea prods me a bit. In rushing to get on to the “big thing”–like the annual beach getaway–I sometimes don’t realize that there is beauty and depth in the little thing. Often these little things have to do with my three little things–my kids.

Besides not having a mountain of patience, I’ve driven enough rings around the Beltway, made enough mac n’ cheese and hot dogs, and presided over enough “word study” sessions to feel like I’ve earned the right to not always enjoy those “little things.” At bedtime, I’m literally willing my kids to sleep, like a marathoner with the finish line in sight, as if that will make any difference in what they actually do. I usually end up surprised and frustrated when they don’t seem to have received my mind-controlling messages and suddenly appear in the kitchen for that life-preserving glass of water that will sit untouched by their bedside all night.

Even now, my 10-year-old daughter, who leaves for camp this weekend, is hanging around as I type outside on the patio. I try not to shoo her away too sharply–she will be gone for two weeks, after all–but my first thought when I see her is “not now.” She comes closer, and I uncharacteristically hold my tongue and wait to see what she does. She has showered and dressed and fastened a fake flower to the side of her wet, blond hair that is pulled back in a ponytail.

“Mom, can I see your phone?” (That’s where all the games are.)

I hand it to her and look back at my screen. She sits down at the table next to me and asks if I’ve seen a sweatshirt that she needs to pack for camp.

“Honey, I’m working on something. I’ll be happy to talk in a bit, and then we can take Cookie for a walk.”

She wanders over to the swing and sits. She’s not excited, not upset, just slouches in the swing with that fuscia flower in her hair, lightly pushing her feet back and forth. I think about what I’m writing and how this beautiful, contented (for the moment!) 10-year-old, excited and scared about her first-ever sleep-away camp, is soon to be a 10-year-old who will have had a two-week experience that I will have had nothing to do with, except for write the occasional letter and send a care package, maybe. She will come back changed, even if ever so slightly.

She ambles back over to the table, grabs my phone and starts to show videos of her and her sister to our scruffy terrier, who lies at her feet.

“Mom, look at Cookie watching!” She is giggling.

And I am watching my daughter. It’s only a little thing, this moment in which a 10-year-old is delighting in showing her dog a video, but it’s one I’m paying attention to.

Think I’ll go walk that dog now.

Running, Writing, Striving

Note: This entry is not an actual song-title prompt, but this song is on my running playlist and came on when I was thinking about the topic, below.

Song Title: “Doors Unlocked and Open” by Death Cab for Cutie (from Codes and Keys album)

As I lope along the shoreline, compulsorily glancing out over the glistening sea, it occurs to me that running and writing — both interests of mine — are a lot alike. Each requires an elaborate preamble that sometimes takes longer than the activity itself. Before running (especially at the beach) wind and temperature must be checked for optimum conditions, sunscreen liberally applied, shoes laced just so, playlist cued up, ipod running app ready. Then, when I’ve covered every other procrastination angle, I go to the bathroom … again.

During the run itself, I try to enjoy it, and sometimes that actually happens. I run with ease, not constantly trying to catch my breath. My body feels light and my mind wanders in a good way. Basically, I’m not slogging. But more often than not, my legs feel heavy, I frequently check time and distance, and I talk to myself as I would a whiny child: “Just to that yellow house,” “Only a half-mile to go,” “C’mon, don’t be a pansy!”

Similarly, I have to be in the “right” frame of mind to write. Usually this means bills have been paid, email checked (in at least the last 15 minutes), caffeine ingested, kids asleep or otherwise occupied, husband ensconced in his office, and no latest episode of “Mad Men” burning up the DVR queue.

When I finally start writing, there are those rare occasions when the words flow easily. But much of the time it is a start-stop situation, like a car with a bad battery. Sometimes I will get a text or call with an “urgent” issue. Every 20 minutes or so I have to get water or check my spam folder. A professional organizer once told me after some observation that I had about a 90-minute attention span. And she didn’t mean 90-minute increments. She meant for the whole time. That’s not SO bad, right? Well, ok, for a child…

But if I can get the battery going, I’m usually writing for something like that 90-minute span. Or at least to the point that I’ve feel like I’ve written SOMETHING. Sometimes I quit in the middle of a thought, so that I know where to pick up the next time. I heard Ernest Hemingway did that.

I love Anne Lamott’s comparison of the writing process to advice her father once gave her brother, who hadn’t begun a report on birds that was due the next day: Take it “bird by bird.” (That’s also the title of her book — one of the best ever on writing.) Running, and writing even, is just one foot in front of the other (even if your shoulders are hunched over) til you’ve gone far enough to catch your breath. And at that point, occasionally, it gets easier and you keep going.

I was thinking of the word “strive” and how it seems to encapsulate both “try” and “strength.” First, you have to have the intention — the desire to try — and secondly, you need the strength to take those first few steps.

The Stealth Napper

In this entry I randomly select a song title from my itunes library as a writing prompt.

Song title: “Never Gonna Leave This Bed” by Maroon 5

I can’t say that I enjoy NOT being a morning person, but I also have come to realize that I cannot fight my “bio-ribbons,” (as one daughter calls biorhythms.) Contrary to what I used to think — as a teenager, college student, employee, wife, then mother — you don’t necessarily morph into a morning person when you “grow up.”

It’s kind of like growing up itself, actually. Over time, as you gradually adopt all the accoutrements of adulthood — a job, a professional wardrobe, a rent payment, a husband, a house, a dog-as-first-child — one day you find that everyone thinks you really are a grown-up. And you think, “I’ve fooled them.”

So it is being a night owl who must moonlight as a morning person. You wake up at 6:30 a.m., rouse the kids, make breakfast, rush out the door, and weave and bob through traffic to get to school on time. You go to that meeting about making snacks for the teachers and race to yoga so you can squeeze in your de-stressing and detoxing. You feel energized enough to go make that stultifying grocery store run. You walk the dog in the sun-filled park. You perk up just in time for the afternoon carpool.

But sometimes, after that morning carpool … you go back to bed.

Yes, on rare occasions, when I have that little pocket of time after morning drop-off and no appointments or responsibilities (glaring ones, at least), I’ve driven back home, beelined upstairs and flopped into bed. This is particularly the case if it’s been an unfortunate “no-coffee” morning — if my husband, who usually makes the coffee, is away and we’ve had a searching-all-over-for-the-math-homework-that-was-just-in-the-backpack kind of mornings.

This return to sleep doesn’t happen nearly as often as I’d like. But I like knowing it’s in the universe of possibilities. It feels illegal, in a good way.

Further confession: I’ve even found a quiet place near my children’s school to park the car, set my phone alarm, and tilt my seat back for a 10-minute catnap. Yes, I feel like those cabbies you sometimes see catching winks in their car, and I can relate.

Once, when the twins were infants, I remember arriving home bleary-eyed from an afternoon of errands with them both sound asleep in their car seats. A friend’s car was temporarily occupying our one-car garage, so I parked in front of our house, cut off the engine, cracked the windows, and reclined my seat for a siesta. Why fight it?

A few days later I ran into my neighbor, who smiled a little as she said, “I saw you in the car the other day. You and the babies — all asleep.” Her eyes widened.

Trying not to show how embarrassed I was, I just smiled back and murmured something about “If you can’t beat ‘em…”

I think our world would be a more peaceful, serene place if we openly embraced the idea of the catnap. Luminaries such as John F. Kennedy and Leonardo DaVinci apparently did. In fact, how about adding napping rooms to every Starbucks? If that tall, grande or venti latte’s not doing the trick, you could order up a 10, 20 or 30-minute nap. Extra dark. Eye pillow included.

Nightblindness

This is the second entry where I select a song title at random from my itunes library as a writing prompt.

Song title: “Nightblindness” by David Gray

I have had poor eyesight forever, or ever since I was in fifth grade, got glasses, and discovered the trees had leaves. I first wore wire rims, then classic coke-bottle glasses with brownish-purple plastic frames that I thought looked “cool” (read “hideous” and “why did my mother let me do that?”), which I wore through junior high school. After that I endured years of new-and-improved contact lenses — dealing with dry rubber eyeballs at the end of the day, searching for the invisible lens after dropping it, seeing the college boyfriend accidentally swallow one that I’d put in a glass of water. Finally, a few years ago, I got laser eye surgery, also known as Lasik.

It has been a godsend.

At the time, the doctor told me I was a “borderline” candidate, which meant that my near-sightedness was so bad (my prescription is -6) he couldn’t promise me 20/20 vision. And, he added, “You will definitely need reading glasses.”

For me, none of that mattered. The first time I didn’t have to poke a slippery translucent disc into my eye was my “Hallelujah” moment. After the operation itself (easy for some, but not my favorite, as my kids say), my newfound and naked vision was nothing short of a miracle.

However, a little over a year ago, I found myself squinting a lot. I mostly noticed because the little lines around my eyes had increased dramatically, and I was becoming alarmed. This had to be more than simply “aging.” And blobbing the most expensive eye cream (because that means it’s the best, right?) around my eyes day and night didn’t seem to help.

Additionally, at night while driving I realized all the lights were a bit blurry and I was sticking my neck out over the steering wheel like a turtle — as if that would make me see better.

Finally, I went for an eye exam, convinced that my vision had slipped about halfway back to “legally blind.” But actually, when the doctor told me the results — about 20/40 — she commented that it wasn’t “that bad.”

So you’re saying I’m just picky?” I joked.

“Basically,” she joked back (I think).

She added that it was possible my Lasik had initially over-corrected to better than 20/20 so I was used to seeing like Superman.

Well, maybe so, but I have to say, HD was working for me. So, I got glasses with the prescription she wrote, and I now wear them often while driving — and not just at night. I also use them at sporting events … and my kids’ performances … and, um, for watching TV. I definitely have not become dependent, though. I don’t wear them while sleeping or going out to dinner.

No, at dinner in order to read a menu, I now pull out the “cheaters,” those other glasses I carry in my purse, alongside the sunglasses (two pairs, in case I lose one) and the “night” glasses, which I had relegated to my car until I realized I really needed them for all that other stuff I just mentioned.

Lately, I’ve found myself walking into the house with my “driving glasses” on my head and then putting on my reading glasses at the computer, and realizing I look like a complete freak. Sometimes sunglasses are even hanging off the top of my shirt.

Yes, that seems like too many glasses. That’s what bifocals/trifocals are for, right? But then I’d have to say my Lasik was a complete waste. And besides, I really don’t want to wear glasses all the time.

Seeing “Past My Shades”

This is the first in a series of posts based on song titles. For each entry I will randomly select a song title from my itunes library as a writing prompt. The title itself, and not the song’s lyrics, will be the prompt, although occasionally the lyrics might be relevant to what I end up writing about.

Song title: “Past My Shades” (by B.O.B. w/ Lupe Fiasco)

Maybe someone wearing the sunglasses doesn’t see anyone or anything beyond himself or herself, is someone whose world view is skewed inward — so that all he is thinking about is his own fabulousness, his own brighter light, one that outshines everyone in comparison. Or maybe the sunglasses wearer is hiding behind the image she wants to protect, distancing herself from the world. What’s back there? It’s murky and dark. With both — and each in their own way — self-absorbtion is the theme.

This idea of self-absorption is something that’s come up a few times lately in my life. First, we are all self-absorbed to a certain degree. After all, we can only be within ourselves, our own mind, and our own bodies. Yes, we can empathize, and put ourselves in someone else’s shoes, but then again, if one is completely selfless, doesn’t that insinuate a degree of self-removal, of distancing, of lack of intimacy? A narcissist at least puts themselves out there for all to see and to understand — and to judge.

Which brings me to the idea of writers, memoir writers, specifically. Often writers are encouraged to tell their story — because everyone’s story is important. Each one of us, it is often said, has a story to tell. Plus, writing can be incredibly therapeutic (not to mention free). Yet in the act of doing so, aren’t we absorbed in self? Some would even say obsessed? What about the idea of getting outside of oneself as therapy, as really living?

When does honest self-exploration risk becoming shallow self-obsession?

Maybe when the shades are on. With them, the memoir writer could be seen as self-involved and over-sharing. Or maybe he is masking the parts of himself he doesn’t want the world to see. It’s selective revelation. One assumes some self-editing in the shedding of the layers, but is there an image the writer wants to project or protect?

It seems to me that at some point the writer has to toss the shades, to stop controlling and start trusting. And when that happens, what the writer is offering up to the world becomes less about himself or herself personally (and obsessively) and more about the human experience in general. As a wise person once noted to me, sharing is a generous act. It’s also an honest one.

In “The Art of the Personal Essay,” Phillip Lopate writes: “The trick is to realize that one is not important, except insofar as one’s example can serve to elucidate a more widespread human trait and make readers feel a little less lonely and freakish.”

Here’s to hopefully feeling a less freakish.