A Lucky Find

"I like the sound a typewriter makes."

-- Paul Auster

Typewriter keys 2-15-14

"There on the landing sits the typewriter. It is clogged with dust, the ribbon dried and flimsy ... He realises he can replicate in his head the exact sound it used to make. The clac-clac-a-clac of the metal letters hitting the paper, the ribbon raising itself each time to make the impression. The machine-gun fire of it ... The ding every time the carriage reached its limit. The whirr as the page was snatched out, then the rolling ratcheting as a new one was wound in."

-- Maggie O'Farrell, 

The Hand That First Held Mine

Whenever I go to buy art supplies, I usually walk a couple of doors down and take a spin through the thrift store. It's like a treasure hunt, and I've made some pretty good finds there. I'm a particular sucker for Barbies, action figures, good leather belts and old cameras. But yesterday, still empty-handed after my swing through housewares, I made a really good find. 

Well, Leo made it.

He spied a lovely, compact little electric Smith-Corona "Coronet Electric 12" typewriter on a shelf strewn with cast-off lamps and electric juicers and a bunch of light-up Exit signs (still in their boxes). The sticker on the typewriter said $1.79. 

Leo: (excitedly) Let's get it.

Me:  (cynically) Let's see if it even works, first.

It was adorably retro, from the '70s, dove gray and baby blue. It was a little dirty, but it had a ribbon in it. There was an outlet right behind it, so we plugged it in and switched it on. Leo rolled a wrinkled receipt into the carriage and waddaya know? It worked. And pretty darn well. The ribbon still had plenty of ink and the keys all worked. Leo announced "We're takin' it," unplugged it, tucked it under his arm and we headed for the checkout.

With tax it came to a grand total of $1.92. 

I love typewriters. I miss them. I miss the sound of them. And even though this one plugs in, it's older. It isn't fancy or sophisticated. It sounds and works very much like a manual machine.

Several years ago an elderly friend gave me her husband's old manual Smith-Corona, a vintage one from 1939, which he used in graduate school. It was still in its case, pristine and perfect. I was beyond thrilled to get it, even though I had to scour the Internet to find ribbons that fit it. 

I type letters on it, mostly, when e-mail isn't personal or private enough. If you receive a typed letter from me, it probably means that I like you a great deal.

Leo was still pretty little when I got it. His bedroom is right next to my workroom, and there were nights when I was typing noisily away while he was down the hall in his bed. 

Me: Am I keeping you awake, Buddy? I can quit if it's bugging you.

Leo: No. Don't stop. I like it.

Sound is a powerful emotional trigger. A specific sound can evoke memories that transport you instantly to another time and place. There are sounds that annoy and irritate, sounds that frighten. And there are sounds that soothe and comfort, sounds that elicit pleasure. 

For me, like for Leo, the sound of a typewriter is a good thing. 

Until she retired, my mom was a professional secretary, trained at the renowned Katharine Gibbs College in Boston. She could type like a fiend, and perfectly. My dad typed on a giant, heavy, Royal manual, a leftover from the high school typing classroom when they switched over to IBM Selectrics. He was a big guy and he banged and smashed the keys, shaking the whole dinner table which he used as a desk, cursing when he goofed, glopping on blobs of Liquid Paper to cover his mistakes. 

Since we brought it home, our new typewriter has been plugged in on the kitchen island. Leo can't leave it alone. He typed a letter to his brother and keeps messing around with it, typing nonsense just to type. 

He types exactly like my dad, noisily and with just his index fingers. He has the cursing down pretty well, too.

Computers and keyboards and "touch pads" are silencing the typewriter's voice, and there will, sadly, come a day when children won't even know what a typewriter was, much less how one sounded.

Not on my watch.

For whoever dumped off my new typewriter, it had most likely become a useless and obsolete relic that was just taking up space. I looked it up online and they're selling for about $95. For me it's worth even more.

I'm glad someone at least cared enough to bring it to the thrift store -- which is kind of the retail equivalent of the dog pound -- so that Leo and I could adopt it, rescue it.

Whoever you are, you did a good thing.

Loving Myself

"Self-love, my liege, 

is not so vile a sin, 

as self neglecting."

-- William Shakespeare, Henry V

Coffee for one, 2-14-14

 "Whatever you are doing, love yourself for doing it.

Whatever you are feeling, love yourself for feeling it."

-- Thaddeus Golas

"You yourself, 

as much as anybody in the entire universe, 

deserve your love and affection."

-- Buddha

On Valentine's Day a year ago I was a hot mess. I definitely wasn't feeling the love. At all.

It was more like I was feeling the loathe.

And nothing greases the wheels of good old self-loathing like a day that revolves around romance and happiness and giddiness and L-O-V-E. When you're in that loathing state of mind, somehow rubbing salt in the wound feels good. It's fucked, I know, but when you're in the midst of it you can't help it. You just grind it in there, the coarser the better.

We all know that today's the day when we're supposed to tell our loved ones that we love them. So don't fuck it up.

But let me just put in a "One Good Thing" plug for someone who who is really hoping to get a Valentine from you today. 

You.

When it comes to love, I'm not the super affectionate, romantic, gushy, demonstrative type. Ask my family. They'll back me up a hundred percent on this one.  I can do it. But it doesn't come naturally or easily for me. I have to try. I have to work at it. I have to focus, hard.

But as much as I have to work at giving other people my love and affection, giving it to myself is an even taller order.

I'm getting better. But it takes practice.

I don't know what you loving you looks like. As for me loving me, the short list looks something like this:

Take my pills.

Protect my sleep.

Exercise.

Talk to my counselor.

Be honest with myself.

Do my art.

Drink decaf.

Feel my feelings.

Don't beat myself up.

Read.

Cook.

Get massages.

Look for the good.

In my experience, there's no lonelier feeling than self-abandonment. While I was hating myself, even though other people were loving me, their love couldn't register. I couldn't feel their love, or receive their love, because I was hiding behind a pretty thick, self-made force field that made me immune to their love, so it just kind of ricocheted off, bounced back and whacked them smack in the heart, which hurt them. I didn't mean to hurt them, or want to hurt them. I just couldn't help it.

But today I can.

It has taken a long time, and it has been excruciatingly hard and sometimes it just plain fucking sucked. Sometimes I still can't believe I made it and in a million years I never thought I'd say this but here goes ...

Gulp.

I love me.

XOXOXO

A Glimpse Of Spring

"Thaw with her gentle persuasion is more powerful than Thor with his hammer.

The one melts, the other breaks into pieces."

-- Henry David Thoreau

Melting icicle 2-13-14

"Ice contains no future, just the past, sealed away."

-- Haruki Murakami, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman

I ain't stoopid.

I know there's more Winter to come.

I've lived in Ohio and Michigan my entire life, so I know that Winter always has a second act. And most likely, a third.

I know better than to get my hopes up when there's a brief intermission -- a momentary thaw. 

But that doesn't mean I don't still enjoy it when the big round thermometer nailed to our fence, basking in afternoon the sunshine, reads a balmy 40 degrees. Or when the icicles that fringe the eaves of our house in severe, jagged spikes get all round-tipped and melty. 

A tiny glimpse of Spring, no matter how fleeting, is like a little peek at the coming attractions.

But I'm a jaded Midwesterner, so I don't get too excited.

I've learned not to let my guard down. Not just yet. Not this early. 

Now's the time where I brace myself for Winter's sucker punch.

Because I know damn well that intermission goes quick. Winter is simply off freshening her makeup, spritzing her throat and taking a piss. The lobby lights are already flickering. The place will soon grow dark again and that bitch will climb back on stage.

What a diva.

Out-Swimming My Demons

"Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.

What do we do? We swim, swim."

-- Dory, Finding Nemo

Swimsuit 2-12-14

"Don't stop 'til you get enough."

-- Michael Jackson, "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough"

My demons have been breathing down my neck a little too hot and a little too heavy lately.

I don't know what you do when your demons get clingy, but I like to take the little bastards for a swim.

At first they think it's a fun adventure. They're like a dog on a car ride that hasn't heard the word "vet" yet. They're all jumping and excited, like "Yay, swimming! We love swimming!"

An hour and a half later, when I'm still swimming hard and they can no longer keep up, when they're exhausted and limp at the bottom of the pool, they're more like, "Fuck swimming. We HATE swimming."

That's when I know it's safe to get back out of the water.

When the weather is warm I like to take them for long bike rides. Forty miles of hard pedaling in the hot summer sun shuts up a chatty demon like nobody's business. When I can, and even though it hurts, I like to run 'em into the ground. Sometimes I take them to the gym to lift weights -- rep after rep after rep after rep until they finally pipe down.

I guess it goes back to when I first heard the phrase "exorcise my demons." I guess I misunderstood. I thought it was "exercise my demons." And so I do. Regularly. And hard.

I've been an endurance athlete for a lotta years. And long, hard exercise has always been one of my favorite coping mechanisms when shit gets difficult. It's a good pressure valve for me. It's good therapy. It clears my head. And I've always gotten off on wasting my competition.

So it's what I do. I keep swimming -- churning away -- until I can no longer see anything over my shoulder. Until I win.

Sometimes it takes an hour.

Sometimes an hour and a half.

Sometimes ... well, I go for as long as it takes. My shoulder aches. My hair is ruined by chlorine. My skin is itchy. The goggle marks around my eyes are permanent. Even after a shower I still smell like pool.

But I can breathe again. I can think again. I can deal again.

Plus, I have abs like Dara Torres and a resting heart rate of about 40 beats per minute.

Take that, you little bastards.

Getting Back Up Again. And Again. And Again.

"Life has a way of taking its toll on the person you thought you were."

-- A.S.A. Harrison, The Silent Wife

Joe and the weight of the world 2-11-14

 "You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down."

-- Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon

I have to do something very difficult today.

I have to go someplace that was once an important, vibrant part of my life, and which is now a painful memory. 

I have see people I haven't seen in a long time, who were once some of my closest friends, who are now bitter reminders of profound loss, and shame, and abandonment -- people I have worked hard to forget.

It's like returning to the scene of a crash.

I don't want to do it.

But it's one of those things. Not a good thing. Not a bad thing. But in this case, the right thing. It's a thing I could avoid, but because it matters to someone else that I show up, I will, no matter how difficult.

I've tried hard to forget this painful time in my life, to bury the memories and the feelings. For a long time it felt like I was endlessly trying to bury an angry alive thing that kept clawing and scrambling up and out of its grave while I feverishly flung dirt at it and whacked it in the head with a shovel.

It's better now. I'm getting there. It still lingers in the margins. There are occasional shadows, ghosts. I still have dreams about it now and then. But it is no longer the incredible weight and terrible burden that it once was. Mostly, I barely think about it anymore. Unless something reminds me. And that's the primary trouble with today. I have to return to a haunted, crowded place crammed full of reminders.

It feels like someone has handed me a stinking load of the old shit, saying "Remember this? Try it out again. Carry it around some more. Feel its weight. Remember its heft? Put your back into it now!"

You might be asking where the good is in this not-so-good thing.

Well, the good thing is that fortunately I developed some muscle from carrying the shit around the first time. I am much stronger now. I have much better balance.  

And even though I don't want to hoist it again, I know it won't crush me this time. I won't crumble under it. It can't knock me down anymore.

Plus I have a strategy -- get there late, sit in the back, and leave as soon as possible.

I have someone to run interference -- my husband is all over it.

I have a getaway car -- so as soon as it's over, I can get the fuck out of there.

And so I'll go. 

And when it's all over, I'll move on, again. I'll walk out the door, again, relish the sound of it clicking shut, again, scrape the shit off my boots, again, jump into the getaway car and ride off into the sunset, again.

I've done it before, so I should be getting pretty damn good at it by now.

Seahorses In Love

" ... I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity."

-- John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

Seahorse pair, Greater Cleveland Aquarium, 2-10-14

"How joyful to be together, alone

as when we first were joined

in our little house by the river

long ago ..."

-- Wendell Berry, Entries

Ding! Ding! Ding!

With Valentine's Day just up the road, things are getting a li'l bit romancy here at One Good Thing.

So this is your reminder to get/do something nice for your wife, husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, partner, crush, obsession, lover, dominatrix, dog, cat, fish ... whoever rings your bell.

We braved the snowy roads and drove to the Greater Cleveland Aquarium yesterday. It took us an extra 45 minutes to get there because of the crummy weather. We got stuck in a traffic jam because of an accident. The Cleveland roads were shitty as usual, riddled with giant potholes that wreaked havoc on our suspension, and spines. But it was totally worth the trip.

Leo wanted to see the sharks.

I wanted to see the seahorses.

Of all the underwater life, seahorses captivate me most. And romance was definitely in the air (or in the water of the seahorse tank anyway), because they were wrapped up in couples like teenagers at a high school dance.

Everyone knows that male seahorses birth the babies.

But did you know that seahorses mate in monogamous pairs, for life?

And did you know that once they meet that special someone, they wrap their tails around each other so that the tide doesn't pull them apart? It's the seahorse equivalent of trading wedding rings. And once they're all wrapped up in each other -- literally -- they venture from their meeting spot to float across the ocean bottom with their tails entwined.

Mostly it's romantic and lovely. But it's also a little bit comical. Because linked seahorses don't always travel in beautiful unison, gliding like synchronized ice dancers. Often, the dance is super awkward and clunky.

As I watched this pair, every once in a while the bigger one (I don't know if it was the boy or the girl) decided to move to another piece of sea grass. And when it moved, it sort of dragged the little one behind like a tin can tied to the back bumper of a wedding limo. The little one got flipped around and turned upside down as the big one yanked it wherever it went. There's probably a ball-and-chain joke to be made here, I know.

Anyway, it kind of took the mystique out of things, which, in a way, felt realer.

Lifelong togetherness isn't all romance. It's a tug and a pull. Like a 3-legged race. Sometimes you're in sync, and sometimes you just aren't, and things can get awkward and weird and, yes, ridiculous.

That doesn't mean you shouldn't still get/do something nice for each other on Valentine's Day. It doesn't have to be expensive or extravagant. Just make it one good thing that lets him/her know you remembered, and that you do remember, even if it's been a while since things felt mystical or romantic.

Just don't fucking forget.

This guy fucking forgot.

Not seahorses, Greater Cleveland Aquarium 2-10-14

Feeling Necessary

"I just want one person I can rescue
and I want one person who needs me.
Who can't live without me."

-- Chuck Palahniuk, Choke

Lego man rescuing a Lego bear 2-9-14

"He found something that he wanted,

had always wanted and always would want --

not to be admired, as he had feared;

not to be loved, as he had made himself believe;

but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable ..."

-- F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

Lego man rescuing a Lego bear (2) 2-9-14

"The way he's watching me makes me feel needed

like no one's ever been able to make me feel.

In a way, he makes me feel necessary.

Like my existence alone is necessary for his survival."

-- Colleen Hoover, Hopeless

I married an extremely smart, capable, self-sufficient, ambitious, efficient man who can do pretty much anything I can do, usually better, usually ahead of time, usually before I can even think about getting around to doing whatever it is, and usually before I'm even out of bed in the morning.

In addition to earning all the money and supporting our household, he handles our finances. He gets the kids to school. He gets the groceries. He runs the sweeper. He does the laundry. He folds the laundry. Not because I can't. But because he gets there first. If it was left up to me, I'd get there eventually. I'd get there sometime before we ran out of food and clean clothes. But he always gets there way sooner than I do. So he just does stuff. He sees something that needs to be done, and he does it. I see a thing that needs to be done and a thought flickers across my mind that a thing needs to be done, and then I walk past the thing, and get lost in a daydream, or an idea, or a project, and when I walk past the thing again, he's already done it. With hospital corners. Without anyone seeing him do it.

He's like a super-hero.

Don't get the wrong idea. He isn't a control freak. He's just a high-achiever. A perfectionist. A valedictorian who also graduated at the top of his medical school class who runs his own business. He's an Eagle Scout for Chrissakes. He saves lives. For real.

And I'm not complaining. I want to make that crystal clear. I sincerely appreciate all that he does, I need him to do everything he does, and he does a shit ton.

It's great. He's great. 

But honestly, sometimes being out-greated by someone so great can make me feel a little bit not-so-great --not so necessary, anyway. 

And that is not his fault.

He's so sweet, he has even tried being not so awesome, just to make me feel better. 

He's tried "letting" me do things, given back some of the duties that he's assumed over our 20-some years together. He's only trying to help. He's only trying to love me. But for me, it feels like pity. It feels patronizing. It's that feeling you get when you know someone let you win the game, when you know damn well they could have beaten you without even trying. 

He's tried to hold himself back, but I can sense him chafing under it. He's like a dog that sees a squirrel and wants to chase the squirrel because it's in his nature to chase the squirrel, but he's trying really hard not to chase the squirrel because he thinks it will make me happier if he doesn't chase it, so he tries to stifle the urge so that I can chase the squirrel even though every sinew of his body is twitching with squirrel-chasing impulse that he's pretending not to have. But I'm all like "Squirrel? What squirrel?" And even if I did chase the squirrel, I'd be a day late and a dollar short, and I'd get distracted by a sunbeam or a snowflake anyway and nobody would get any fucking squirrel.

I think he thinks I don't notice him trying so hard to rein it in, but I do. 

And I know he's happier chasing the squirrels, and buying the groceries, and running the sweeper, and paying the bills. I know it. He knows it. It's just the way it is. And I've learned to be okay with it.

Nevertheless, living with someone who meets all the needs can leave me feeling a little un-needed.

But there is one thing that I do for my family that nobody else does as good as me. There is one territory that hasn't been claimed. One last outpost that's still mine. 

The kitchen. 

Somebody has to feed the superhero.

And even though someone else brings in the groceries, that food would rot on the counters and in the refrigerator if I didn't transform it into deliciousness day in and day out. Whether it's Great Grandma's breaded pork chops, my own velvety-smooth avocado dip, my mouth-watering rhubarb crumble, racks of finger-licking fall-apart barbecue ribs, or homemade soup, or pizza, or chocolate chip cookies without the chocolate chips, just the way he likes them -- I've got it dialed in. 

My food is good, and it's not bragging if it's true. 

My boys don't need me for much around here. They're all very capable. But they do need me to cook for them or they'd be living on Cheerios and take-out.

I know my husband loves me. He's never given me any reason to doubt it. But sometimes, I wonder how much he needs me. And then I cook him a pot roast and the aroma hits him before he's even in the house. And when he walks through the door after a day of rescuing the world, I see his shoulders relax just a teensy bit, and then I enjoy him enjoying a delicious, satisfying meal that I made, and I know that I did that for him, and that he needed it, and that he needs me. 

It's a good thing.