The Elusivity of Dabbling

Dabble.

I like the sound of the word.

But I'm quite sure I like what it indicates better.

Now if you run and google dabble, Mr. Webster will tell you that it means - first and foremost - to paddle or splash about in water.   But that's not what I'm referring to here. . .  I'm talking about the dabble that refers to taking up a habit or activity.  For fun.   Simply because you like it.

Like it?

Therein lies the problem.

For I'm not quite sure that I actually like anything in the traditional dabbleable arena.

I'm a vegetarian with crazy food aversions so I will not, perchance, be dabbling in the culinary arts.  I'm a failure at yoga, so I won't be dabbling with any yogis.  (I dare say that my propensity for sitting on a couch would rule out dabbling in any physical activity. . .)  I have no artistic ability. . .no oratory skills. . . no singing voice or physical prowress.

What will my dabble be?

Now we all know that I take to wine like a duck to water, so perhaps I could dabble in that direction (although, in my case, it conjures up the THIRD definition of dabble which involves totally submerging one's head in liquid to get a specific item . .)

 I could try dabbling in writing. . . or poetry. . . or blogging. . . or reading. . .  but we already know that those are nothing short of OBSESSIONS with me.

Can I dabble in complaining? I think not.

Oh to be a dabbler in macaroni and cheese!  But that also conjures up that OTHER definition of dabbling. . . the submerging one. . .

If all else fails, I can attempt to be a dabblista in vocabularianisms!

In any event, I need to find my dabble before my next-of-kin writes my eulogy. . .

. . . and lets it spill that I dabble

in the insane. . .

Here Lies Liz. At Least Her House Was Clean.

So I have arrived back home from my weekend in Massachusetts safe and sound.

And let me tell you that I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn't. . .

For all weekend long, aside from the whole fear of death through the flailing of limbs and splattering of organs, lurked the obsessive - but very real - thought that my house wasn't clean enough when I left it. Doesn't everybody just dread having the misfortune to die when their house is not in order. . . and then, horror of horrors, what would the next-of-kin think?

Suppose for a minute both Drip Dry and I were to die in a tragic multi-car pile-up the likes of which have never before been seen on the East Coast.  In that instance family and friends of unknown origin would be entering my house, rifling through the remnants of my earthly life, holding garage sales, trying on my jewelry, and claiming this very netbook as their own.  Do I want them encountering dust bunnies in the process?  No!  I want them to walk into my house and proclaim, This woman must have had her s**ff together, for I have never seen such a clean house in all my life!  For let us not forget, my friends, that the very same next of kin are the ones who would logically be called upon to write the obituary and deliver the eulogy at my funeral.

But for some reason Drip Dry just doesn't get it.

No, my husband subscribes to the theory that leaving the house for the weekend is a simple two-step process.  1) You pack.  2) You leave.

How could anyone in their right mind live by the two-step process?  What about the myriad of steps in between?

Why would you skip the step where you clean the dribbled toothpaste remnants out of every bathroom sink lest your grieving family mistakenly think it was an experiment and your obit would read, before their untimely demise the deceased and her husband had plans to enter the candy-manufacturing business?

What about  the step where you clean out the refrigerator before a one-night journey?  Would you want it known in your eulogy that you had been harboring a jar of capers longer than you have owned your youngest daughter? 

And the clothes hangers?  Why would a sane person leave hangers on the bed in the wake of packing?  Do you want an insurance investigator thinking you somehow lacked the physical prowess to hang hangers back up after placing an item in your suitcase?  What does that say for your driving skills?

And how about the bill paying?  Do you want the as-yet-unnamed executor of your estate knowing what you paid Macy's for the dress you wore to the fatal wedding? The very same dress, in all likelihood, they would decide to bury you in?  Do you want all the guests at the wake to know that the to-die-for-dress in that coffin was on sale for a mere $79???

What about the clean-up-of-every-last-bit-of-dog-hair-lest-the-next-of-kin-find-out-that-the-deceased-loved-ones-owned-a-dog?  Does that step mean nothing anymore? (Oh sure, I'm fully aware of the fact that 99% of the time we leave the dog home under the watchful eye of our niece next-door, and that the dog runs around generating more furballs with each passing minute, but suppose the tragic accident were to happen within a half-hour of leaving the house.  What then, smartypants?)

So I guess it all comes down to this:  Who wants to look down on the remains of their earthly life from within their new heavenly home and see all their good work spoiled by a few dust bunnies?

I don't.

And I'm close to being positive that they don't even allow dust bunnies in heaven anyway. .  .

Of course I'm the one who once smugly left her beach house thinking to herself. .  .There!  If a burglar breaks in and ransacks the house, at least he'll note that it was perfect when he started. .  .

I told you . . .my eulogy's not complete

My best friend's best friend passed away earlier today.

And I'm still breathing. . .

That's just one reason I love being a woman.

You see, once we outgrow those awkward years where being best friends is the end-all and be-all, we can benefit from the love and friendship of a whole host of best friends. . .

We have best friends from our early childhood days. . .and no one can ever replace those memories we share with them.

We have best friends from high school . . . or college. . . who share a whole different set of experiences with us.

We have best friends who we work with. . . who we live close to. . . and those who we share the perils and pitfalls of our lives . . . or child rearing with. . .

If we are really lucky we have a husband. . . or a sister. . . or a mother . . . who we can call best.

And I dare say. . . we might even have a best blogging friend with whom we share out innermost thoughts . . .

Whatever I am to whoever you are, I consider myself privledged to have a friend like you who will call on me in a time of sorrow. . . and I hope and pray you were able to find comfort in my brand of best. . .

Now that was deep!

My future's so bright, I gotta wear boots

In case you didn't notice, I didn't post yesterday.

Instead, I spent the night being jealous of this man.


Well, not actually jealous, because he's - well- dead, but let's just say. . . . envious of his accomplishments. (Yes, folks, I heard another eulogy yesterday.)

This quiet and humble man was a furniture maker, an engineer, a classical pianist, a clock-fixer, a painter, a world traveler, and - by the looks of this picture that his daughter painted of him - a coffee drinker. And what's more, he spawned generations of gifted artists to follow in his footsteps. His children and grandchildren are musicians, dancers, painters, actors, writers, and missionaries.

You know, about a month ago I purchased a pair of those crazy rain boots - brown with pink polka dots to to be exact - and I've been holding off on wearing them . . . waiting for the perfect rainy day so I wouldn't feel silly.

Mark my words. . . I'm wearing those boots tomorrow, come rain or come shine. And - from this day forward - I'm going to be joyful, life-loving bootwearer!!!!

That's them! The exact boots I bought and will wear tomorrow!!!!

Here lies Liz. She was good at complaining.

Here's hoping you live to be a hundred (with an extra year to repent!)

Irish Drinking Toast

So I've heard a lot of eulogies in my day.

And I'm starting to feel vastly inadequate. . .

You see, we've had a run on dead women lately. Young women. Old women. Middle-aged women. Women who died tragically in car accidents. . . who died after long battles with breast cancer. . . who simply went to sleep, never to wake up. . .

But if I have to sit and listen to a eulogy about one more woman who was everything I'm not, I think I just may scream! Take a listen to just a few of the sentiments I have had to endure . . .

She was a wonderful woman, (Okay, they could probably pay someone to say that about me. I'm good so far. . . )

who enjoyed being a mother above all else. (do the words "used to" count?)

Her Sunday dinners were spectacular, (Well, if I'm not drinking the whiskey sours I cook dinner on Sundays. . . )

and there was always room for one more at her table. (Table? Do you have to eat at a table?)

She loved entertaining (Oh no, you're losing me here. . . )

and would throw a party for the silliest of reasons. (I haven't thrown a freakin' party since 1992!)

When she walked into a room, the room lit up. (Yeah, because I'm usually tripping in the dark. . . Warning! Never go to a movie with me. . . )

She was a music enthusiast, (Are you telling me that woman could read that little iPod screen and I can't? She was 86!)

As well as a patron of the arts. (Well I'm the patron of a fine establishment right here in town. . . It's called Hennesseys!)

She was a woman who was always thinking of ways to help others. (That's like me!!! I never dwell on my own problems, now do I????)

Is there one of us here who wasn't the recipient of her home-baked goodies? (How come I never got any of her goodies??? Who cares if I never met the woman in my life. . . I'm raising my hand, people . . . . Me. . . Me over here. . . I just want you all to know she wasn't that great! She didn't give her loving treats to perfect strangers like me. . . )

Or her cards of encouragement? (Do day-late-e-cards qualify???)

And, of course, we all know that her hand-written thank you notes were her trademark. (Sweet Jesus! I haven't written a thank you note since my wedding - circa 1986. . . )

Oh yes, she knew what love was. (Of course I know what love is. . . What? Do you think I'm stupid or something???)

It was evident in her relationship with her husband, (Let's not even go there, people. . . .)

and in the loving way she guided her children. (Now they expect me to be a seeing eye dog too???)

Yes, we know that will no longer get those cheery phone calls from her, (Cheerio old chap!)

nor those thoughtful gifts and trinkets, (I have one word for those kinds of things . . . OVERRATED!)

but we know she's with us in Spirit. . . (Spirits? Did someone say Spirits??? Like Gin? Vodka? Rum???? Yeah, I'll be there! Hennessey's??? What time????)

And so you see, dear readers, the only thing that I am that these fine women are not is . . . ALIVE!!!

And, thank the stars and heaven above, I just might have an extra year to repent!!!