Help! I'm Blogging

A college classmate invited me to stay at her house while I was attending graduate school last summer. She wasn’t someone whom I knew well as an undergraduate, although I did know who she was during those years, so it was enormously generous of her to open up her home to me, someone who was little more than an acquaintance.

For most of the three weeks, I house-sat while she and her family were on vacation. I looked after Leo the lizard, for whom I occasionally hunted crickets in the garage. Two cats kept me company as well, although they pretty much kept to themselves. Leo was my main man.

The reason I’m writing about my stay, however, is not to point out my classmate’s kindness or her children’s unusual menagerie; it’s to remark on my friend’s commitment to physical fitness.

Her family’s lifestyle is active. They swim, roller blade, bike and ski. My classmate has a mini workout room set up in her basement, with  resistance bands, weights, a treadmill, stationary bike and balance devices, among other things.

When initially I took in the whole setup, I’ll confess that my secret response was an eye roll, which of course, was entirely defensive on my part. My increasing inattention to my own physical fitness makes it easy for me to judge someone else’s efforts to live a healthy life.

My friend–for I considered her such by the end of my stay–explained that she had met with a physician who told her that she had a choice as far as her health was concerned. Although she would likely live a long life, the quality of that life depended considerably on her commitment to a healthy lifestyle that included physical fitness.

I’m forever grateful for this lesson she extended, although right now I don’t seem able to take up the gauntlet. I’ve gone from marathon runner to someone with a huge gut, barely able to pick up the dog’s waste. Yet I continue to resist taking the steps to feel better.

Do you manage to keep physical fitness a high priority? What inspires or keeps you from doing so?

Reluctantly, I took on the mantle of organizing the Mount Holyoke College European Alumnae Symposium, Warsaw 2013. In theory, I’m  utterly delighted to do it. It’s just that being in charge and organizing things is low on the list of things I love to do.

I suspect that some people have taken the absence of my waving pompoms about planning the event as a lack of ability. Some have assumed I suffer a dearth of ideas  for the symposium theme. Please note: Not the case.

Yesterday, my uber organized husband marched me around Warszawa for day two of looking at possible venues. They range, among others, from 5 to 3 star hotel properties.

As I wrote to a beloved friend in DC yesterday, it was all I could do not to giggle when the very kind lady at the 3 star hotel showed us one of the lower grade accommodations. The beds were at best, four inches above the floor. Ninety eight percent of the symposium attendees would need assistance getting out of them.

I could only imagine the university president lowering herself into one of them, only to wake the next morning having dreamt that the Iron Curtain descended during the night.

Don’t get me wrong: I cannot wait to usher 100 smart women into Warsaw to soak up its history and charms while contemplating riveting and relevant topics of a most intellectual nature. I just want to wave my wand and have someone take care of the details.

Know the feeling?

It’s Friday. I thought you all should enjoy a little snack. Mniam, Mniam.

Any guilty culinary indulgences planned ?

When you write something, particularly a blog, you’re always curious about who reads it and what they think. Most bloggers, of course, use a plug-in to gather reader statistics. I know it’s “easy” to set that up, but I haven’t managed to do it. Not yet.

My reluctance to set up my reader stats doesn’t mean that I am any less curious about who my readers are, what they think and how often they come back for more.

Is Anybody Reading This?

Of course a blogger’s dream is for people to leave comments. They provide the hard cold evidence that someone has actually read a post and that perhaps it’s made an impact.

I am enormously grateful to the handful of dedicated readers who regularly comment on Help! I’m Blogging. Those ten people know who they are. Their support fuels me and inspires me to continue.

Some of us, of course, fear that we’re not good enough. Many of us experience it, whether writers or not. We’re not good enough to merit: a readership, a particular job, a relationship, a what have you.

Yet we all have a short list of things we aspire toward, and many of us secretly harbor a sign that we’ve “made it.” The sign could be a dress size, a job title, a salary level, a particiular residence, car, spouse or number of children.

For my blog, my aspiration is to attain a smart, engaged readership. In its ideal state, the readers include writing peers whom I admire. Right now I don’t think I’ve quite arrived. I don’t think those particular writers read my posts. But hey, we don’t always get what we want. We get what we need.

My husband reminds me how much I admire humility and detest its antithesis, so I guess I’m in a good place, regardless of what those stats will show me someday.

How do you manage to keep on keepin’ on when you suffer doubts and a perceived lack of outside approval?

Art Nouveau Window Treatment from the Plock Museum

Today should have been an easy day. I had a light schedule and just a few things to accomplish. But you know what those days can be like, don’t you?

The tide can turn and suddenly you’ve been pulled far off the coast of productivity. Before you know it, the day is over and you’ve accomplished nothing, and your anxiety is mounting because even the easy things didn’t get done.

Part of what makes life in Warsaw challenging is the gray weather, of which we’ve had at least a 5-day run this week. When the skies conspires against you, it’s hard to stay motivated.

So today, when I should be producing polished pearls of prose, nothing comes out. I don’t have a single idea that excites me.

What do you do when that happens? How do you get your mojo to return? How do you flag the lifeguard on the beach to let him know you’re drowning and need rescue?

That image reminds me of the summer of 2008. I was swimming in the Atlantic Ocean on a Sunday. The water was crowded on that hot day. It was high tide and the waves were decent, but there was also a hell of an undertow, too.

I grew up swimming at the Jersey shore and from an early age have had a healthy respect for its power. As an 10 year old, I had been banged around by a couple of big waves out on Fire Island, so I knew the fear of drowning.

On this particular day, in 2008, I was loving the waves, but I also realized I was getting increasingly tired. I couldn’t stand and I couldn’t get in to shore where it was less deep and I could walk out of the ocean. I’d catch a wave in and be within inches of being able to stand, but the powerful tide would pull me back out. I was surrounded by people but  suddenly felt panicked and a little embarrassed. I had to make a decision. There was a handsome, strong looking man nearby. I realized he was my only hope.

He was within arm’s reach, and I literally needed someone to pull me a couple of inches to safety. “Can you give me a hand? I can’t get in,” I remember saying to him.

It was one of those situations where my heart was pounding like hell and I thought, “I’m in big trouble and nobody knows it.”

I don’t find it easy to ask for help, and I feel for certain that guy had no idea that he saved my life, but he did.

Have you ever been in situations where you are in big trouble but nobody knows it and you’re afraid to ask for help?

There are certain events you don’t want to miss when you live in Warsaw, Poland. One of them is the annual Dutch festival, held each spring close to the Dutch queen’s birthday, April 30.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become increasingly enamored with things Dutch. It started a few years ago at Westside Market in Cleveland, Ohio. That’s where I stumbled upon Dutch licorice. The sales lady asked if I wanted salty or sweet. Salty licorice? Say what? I bought both that day and haven’t looked back since.

Dutch licorice. Awful stuff. Never try it. You wouldn’t like. In fact, if anyone ever gives you some, send it to me immediately. I will dispose of it safely. Never put it near your lips. It’s to be avoided. At all costs.

Just ask me. I am addicted.

Confiscated from last year's Dutch festival

Have you ever discovered a comestible that totally took you by surprise?

These Kids at the French School Sure Know How to Woo a Teacher

Last week marked the end of my first year of teaching at the Lycee Varsovie. My Thursday night students presented me with a monumental bouquet of flowers: long-stemmed yellow roses, some purple spiky blossoms and lots of greens. It was one of those moments when you realize the power of a bouquet. I felt so honored.

Mind you: When you’re me, you never feel like you did a good job. I can always second guess myself, but bottom line, I think the students actually did improve and learn a lot. I can’t say I loved every minute of my first year of classroom teaching. I had some stellar moments, but I had some less than stellar moments, too. In the end, though, I really liked the kids, and it makes me sad that they will go on with their lives, to other countries, and I will loose track of them.

That bouquet meant a lot to me, and I thank them for it and sincerely wish them the best in life. Adieu.

To date, probably the most satisfying period of my life was when I was able to give back to my mom in her old age. Mind you: My mom never really seemed old to me. Especially in her eighties, she was full of life and bursting with exuberance. By that stage in her life, she seemed ageless, even to her final days, when she passed at age 89 from sudden-onset terminal cancer.

That wasn’t always my perception of my mother. She gave birth to me at age 40, which, in 1960 was considered a fairly ancient age for a woman to bear a child. In fact my parents were always seen as old, especially when compared to those of  my peers, who were almost always at least a decade younger. It embarrassed me deeply that strangers occasionally thought that my father, who was 44 at my birth, was my grandfather.

By the time mom actually was “old” and had turned 80, she had to give up driving. So I stepped into a series of new roles, initially as her chauffeur. With time, as she slowed down on all fronts, I morphed into her full-fledged personal assistant. I was the office manager who paid the bills. I was the cleaning service who vacuumed and tidied the house. I was the gardener who pulled weeds and planted annuals. I was the errand girl. I arranged doctor visits. I was the caterer–and boy, did we have some rocking parties, sometimes just the two of us with bourbon and bitters in front of the fireplace listening to some awesome radio program. My most important role was drug czar. I dispensed the pharmaceuticals.

There were many Sunday nights when I sat at her dining room table surrounded by a small plastic handled shopping bag and bottles of prescription and over-the- counter medications. I was her drug dealer: filling 3-weeks’ worth of pill dispensers, her battery of arms fighting hypertension, hyporthyroidism and the effects of old age. Her daily drug cocktail? Her secret to longevity?

• Vitamin E (two gel caps)
• one aspirin
• one synthroid
• one Centrum multivitamin
• Norvasc
• lisinopril

There was something satisfying about hearing the ping of the pills dropping into each of the seven slots of the weekly pill dispensers and then snapping and sealing all seven lids in the weekly supply. On days when I had 21 days’ worth ready, I felt ahead of the game, but that was not always. There were often days when some of the backups had missing pills whose prescriptions needed refills. Those dispensers went into a separate plastic bag, ready for further filling at another date.

Do I miss the days of worrying if mom had enough Calendra’s bread, jam and butter for her breakfast? Bananas and coffee and coldcuts? No, not really. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t love doing it to some extent. My contract with her has ended, but every time I see an elderly woman on the sidewalk, I wonder if she has a me and who that lucky girl may be.

Our iceberg lettuce-addicted dog has eccentricities that extend beyond her culinary tastes. Here in Polska, where the cost of electricity prevents most people from using electric clothes dryers, apartment dwellers often air dry laundry inside their homes. A tree-hugger at heart, I support the practice and the opportunity it affords to decrease my carbon footprint.

What I didn’t realize was the immediate benefits that my dog would reap. At one point I noticed that as soon as we hung the laundry, she would position herself under the fully loaded clothes rack, sometimes standing motionless, other times slowly advancing and reversing, as if caught in an intermittent loop of play and rewind in a slow motion car wash. We think that she’s giving herself a gentle massage, and meanwhile we are waiting to see if she will start to fold and put away the sheets once they’re dry.

Do the occupants of your home exhibit any unexpected behaviors?