Micheal Miller works for the dry cleaner/laundry service that we use. He drives the van to pick up then return Z-D’s dress shirts once they are clean and pressed with light starch. Nice guy, very reliable.
It’s my habit at the holidays to give a monetary tip to our laundry driver guy, who this year happens to be Micheal Miller. Thus I did that two weeks ago.
• • •
Growing up I was the child of older conservative parents and was taught that one must always send a written thank you note to the gift giver upon receipt of a gift. This concept of proper behavior was ingrained in me to such a degree that for a few decades I judged people harshly who didn’t send a written thank you note.
It seemed like a slap in the face to me. Disrespectful, even.
Of course over the years society has morphed away from Emily Post expectations plus I’ve grown more forgiving. I don’t hold myself or other people to the high standards of my childhood. In fact, I’ve come to reevaluate what matters to me when I give a gift to anyone for whatever reason.
I’ve decided that I like the giving part more than the being thanked part. I do what I do because I think it’s important to do so, not so I will receive a written thank you note.
• • •
Still, when I found a written thank you note pinned to an empty laundry bag hanging from the hook by the door on our front stoop, I was pleased to see it and said out loud to myself: “Micheal Miller has good manners.”
It was a sincere spontaneous remark. A blessing even.
One that put me in a happy place for the rest of the day as I mused on what seemed to me to be a random act of kindness, a throwback to a different era when a written thank you note was the done thing.
Such as this handwritten message of gratitude scribbled on a piece of paper by an almost stranger.
IF AFTER 900 POSTS on The Spectacled Bean you know anything about me you know that I adore images that summarize what’s going on.
While it’s true that I’m a wordy girl at heart, I’m not a word-exclusive snob so I find a visual image, such as the one I’ve shared here, can get to the point of a situation quickly and accurately.
Make it snappy, I say to my wordy self as I compose posts for this blog; tell the story in whatever way conveys your message clearly, I remind myself before I add an image.
Yep, that’s how I talk to myself when writing a personal blog post. Scintillating? Not so much.
ALSO, FOR THE RECORD, I found this image in a file on my old computer and realized I’d made the image in order to learn how to make a Venn diagram but had never used the image for anything because, I guess, once I’d learned how to make a Venn diagram I had no need for said image.
A Tuesday, a day of the week that sometimes can be difficult to embrace wholeheartedly.
A Tuesday on which I want to return to blogging after a long hiatus but am feeling awkward about how to start writing again.
This particular Tuesday to be exact.
THUS IN KEEPING WITH the concept of SIMPLIFY, my #OneWord365 for 2020, I thought for blog post #901 I’d write something light and easy, something sincere but a bit silly. Something that acknowledges that it’s a new year on the calendar but confirms that I’m the same old me.
Something, in fact, that might be construed as a catalyst for comments and conversation about your approach to blogging OR your word of the year OR your opinion of Tuesdays.
What’s new with you, kids? I’ve been away far too long.
ONCE AGAIN OUR VOTING PRECINCT has been assigned to a different polling place. In the 20+ years we’ve lived in this community we’ve voted at:
the VFW Hall [smoke-filled with parking in a field used for their monthly turkey shoot];
the Country Club [time-consuming with parking at nearby Methodist Church, involved a shuttle bus taking us to the country club’s front door and then back to our cars];
the Elementary School [smelled like chicken sandwiches, had limited parking but nice landscaping to look at while waiting for a space];
the Non-denominational Christian Church [easy ingress and egress, adequate flat parking, short walk to front doors, only there one year];
the Greek Orthodox Church [difficult ingress and egress, limited parking on uneven sloped lot, many shiny gilded-gold objects inside building]; and
the Presbyterian Church [no deets yet].
BUT FOR TODAY
HIM: Where am I voting today?
ME: With the Presbyterians.
HIM: Which Presbyterians? The ones near us or the other ones?
ME: The ones near us. The ones who were hidden down the lane.
HIM: They’re not on the lane anymore?
ME: No, they’re in the same place on the lane but they’ve built a big driveway to the road, so that’s how you get to them now. They have a big welcome sign on the road.
HIM: How do I get there?
ME: Go down the road past the street that takes you to the United Methodists, but not so far as to make that sharp right turn into the Roman Catholics. And for goodness sake don’t go around the curve and make a right into the Bible Believers Baptist Church compound. Who knows what weirdness is behind the bunker they’ve built around that building.
HIM: OK. So where do I turn to get to the Presbyterians?
ME: It’s easy. When you see the big welcome sign on the left, turn left, and you’ll be in the right place.
HIM: Are you telling me directions to the polling place or voting advice?
ME: Both, I guess. Get on the road, go left, and you won’t go wrong! 😉
HAPPY ELECTION DAY
May you find your polling place without trouble. May you say *yes* to the school levies and mental health issues and support for the less fortunate. And for the love of all that is good and holy, I beg of you, may you dump the Trumpian chumps.
You see, last week I was in a productive mood. I was busy, but not overwhelmed. Happy, but not dippy. Energetic, but not the most organized I’ve ever been.
Thus it came to be at one point in the late afternoon, while I was whirling around the house, doing the things, thinking the important blogging thoughts, that I realized I’d forgotten what I was doing.
Just standing there in the middle of the room, immobile. Alone, no one else around to give me a prompt.
Thus as a way of getting myself back on track I said out loud to myself:
“Do the thing you were supposed to be doing when you realized that you hadn’t done the thing you were supposed to have done and stopped to do that thing.”
And guess what?
I listened to myself, did what I said I should do, and got back in the groove, because apparently when it comes to keeping the productivity choo-choo train on the track I need to use convoluted sentences to communicate with myself.
~ ~ ❓ ~ ~
Questions Of The Day
Had any good conversations with yourself lately? Did you listen to yourself? And how’d that work out for you?
In light of this theme here’s something I’ve been thinking about. I’m unclear about what I should do when I’m in situations like the following one.
I was at a doctor’s office, in the examining room, with a medical assistant who was settling me onto the examining table, getting things ready for the doc.
When she reached across me to grab the blood pressure cuff I noticed that she had a tattoo on her inside left wrist. What caught my eye was that the tattoo was of a semicolon.
As you probably know, that is the tat one gets when you have, or someone you love has, engaged in self-harming behaviors; OR when you or a loved one have attempted to commit, or possibly in the case of a loved one succeeded in committing, suicide.
[More on the semicolon tattoo meaning here and here.]
In general I’ve found that people with visible tattoos seem pleased when you notice the tattoo. They often have a story to tell about their tattoos and I’m willing to listen.
However, in this particular case I was reluctant to say anything, so I said nothing and just smiled like I didn’t know what I was seeing.
So my questions are:
Would you consider a visible semicolon tattoo to be an invitation for conversation about what it means to the person with this tattoo?
Or would you not say a word about it unless the person with the tattoo brings up the topic?
Anyone got any experience with or advice about how to handle this type of situation? I feel like there might be some kind of modern etiquette involved here, but I don’t know what it is.
Stop calling, we have a winner for the most boring Project ever.
• • •
Welp, I’m back.
And living in a house that has not one, but two, electric paper shredders in it.
Try not to be jealous.
You see, last week when the ungodly hot and humid heat wave hit our region, I was in need of a project to keep me entertained + cool. Zen-Den had the week off so he was wandering around the house, in need of something to do.
Hence it came to be that we decided to go into our unfinished, but cold, basement and start doing something we should have done years decades ago. Yes, we bravely opened the drawers in the many filing cabinets down there and sorted through the documents contained therein.
Meaning that we found: bills and checks and insurance documents and warranty information and furniture sales receipts dating back to the early ’90s and… in what was the biggest surprise to me… all of my late mother’s federal and state income tax filings going back to 1984.
[She’s been gone 22 years. I was executrix of her estate. I thought I’d destroyed all of her documents before we moved here in ’99, but obviously I had not.]
Anyhoo, in the process of going through all of these documents we decided to invest in a second shredder so that Zen-Den could sort through files while I shredded the paper, feeding both shredders simultaneously like a champ, to keep things moving along at a fast pace.
And to keep life interesting.
Or as interesting as it can be, under the circumstances, while sitting in a dusty basement being responsible adults, shredding our past, for hours on end.
• • •
Question of the Day
What’s your most boring project ever? Did you put it off for decades? Were you compelled to do it because of lousy weather?