Humor

I voted early yesterday.  I like my councilwoman and I wanted to keep her in office.  What I don’t get to vote for is the abolishment of daylight savings time.  We turned the clocks back last night, and ostensibly we got an extra hour of sleep.  Then in April we “spring” ahead losing that hour.  I say, no thank you.  

Some weeks are harder than others.  Having heard from a number of people this past week was just such a week.  I can certainly include myself in that mix.  For that reason, I am going to don a virtual mask, making this a quick post, while wishing you all a Happy Halloween.  Here are some city pics of the season. 

Self-Care Tips:

• Give yourself a break.  If things are hard, find ways to let go of the normal routines to provide the energy needed for whatever is essential.
• Dark humor that does not hurt anyone can even help in hard times.  
• If you celebrate, enjoy Halloween.  If you don’t celebrate, lean into JOMO, the joy of missing out.  

Some weeks are harder than others.  Having heard from a number of people this past week was just such a week.  I can certainly include myself in that mix.  For that reason, I am going to don a virtual mask, making this a quick post, while wishing you all a Happy Halloween.  Here are some city pics of the season. 

Self-Care Tips:

• Give yourself a break.  If things are hard, find ways to let go of the normal routines to provide the energy needed for whatever is essential.
• Dark humor that does not hurt anyone can even help in hard times.  
• If you celebrate, enjoy Halloween.  If you don’t celebrate, lean into JOMO, the joy of missing out.  

’ve been watching Dear… on Apple TV.  I found it by accident.  While looking for another program a small square with Selena Gomez’s image caught my eye.  I clicked on her framed face and came upon Dear…  I watched the 30-minute segment and was immediately hooked. The series features individuals in the public eye, some athletes, actors, writers, or activists, as they engage with letters of those who have been inspired by them The featured famous person’s  influence has helped to change the letter writers’ lives.  

When I was growing up in suburban New Jersey I didn’t know anything about self-care.  The first experience I had that felt like self-care was when my mom treated me to a facial at Strawbridge and Clothier.  They were having a special promotion.  Although I couldn’t control my weigh, we could try to tackle my acne this one time.  

Although this cannot be said of much of the country or world, we in New York City have enjoyed a reprieve from the intense heat of July.  It has been delightful.  Today I relished a breezy morning riding my low-to-the-ground bicycle up and down Park Avenue for the annual Summer Streets event.  The Department of Transportation closes streets on Saturdays in all five boroughs throughout late July and August for pedestrians, joggers, and cyclists as a way of promoting greener transportation.    

What am I doing this weekend?  Nothing special and everything essential.  In an Instagram world of glamourous posts, my weekend is the antithesis of awesome.  I started early to ensure I could easily access the washing machines needed for the weekly laundry.  Luckily for me, it was a ghost town before 7 am, and I peacefully and quietly secured my machines and loaded them from the full hampers.  

I set out to go to The Brooklyn Museum to see the Africa Fashion exhibit.  I had intended to see it twice before but got waylaid, so my determination to get there yesterday was fierce.  My plan was to slowly jog in Prospect Park getting out at the arch and walking the few blocks to the museum.  Once I made it to Prospect Park at an unfamiliar entrance, I opened up Maps on my iPhone and set off.  

I was tired, it was hot, and I was happy to be at MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art, on West 53^rd Street.  The galleries were crowded, but I took my time enjoying new exhibitions and old favorites. After the slow perusal of four floors, I was spent.  But I still had almost an hour before our dinner reservation down the block.  

My son told me last weekend that he hoped he won’t have disagreements in his relationships like I have with my husband when he’s older.  It was interesting to hear, and as far as I understand he believes that with the amount of therapy, mindfulness practice, as well as the fact that I am a psychotherapist, I should be further along in my personal development, especially when it comes to my marriage.  There was a time I would have agreed.  I would have seen my defensiveness when my feelings are hurt, and that my feelings get hurt at all, as a fault in my character.  

Happy Father’s Day.  When I say that it conjures up so much for me and for so many others, I expect you included.  Many of us have had varied relationships with our fathers nothing like Father Knows Best, The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, Blackish, or even Home Improvement.  If only we could tune in for 30 minutes a week and enjoy the comical moments that focus on the highlights of the best parts of them, with a little silly thrown in.  

I noticed that by the end of my work week I was short on compassion.  My go to was frustration, impatience, or barely disguised anger.  It was simple things. I was missing paperwork that had been promised me.  A pair of reading glasses broke.  And then there were a string of simple annoyances.  

I, like many, have mixed feelings about Mother’s Day.  

As a daughter I knew that I loved my mom, and I also yearned for her acceptance, spending far too much of my babysitting money to bask in the momentary approval of an expensive Mother’s Day gift.  I’d set up Arlene’s Kitchen, honoring our mom.  It was a made-up restaurant in our home with hand-written menus for the family.  Nervous about what I might cook, I’d prep all the possibilities from eggs, any type of French toast or bagels & lox.  As down home as those brunches were, they were followed by the certainty that my clean-up techniques would be met with inevitable disapproval.  No one could make a countertop shine like my mom.  

It was a full moon this week.  I love looking up on a clear night and viewing the magical, mystical moon between the high rises.  Ever since I was a child I’ve found the moon an enchantress.  Myths have their place, and for many years I counted on myths to justify my outsized love of a full moon.  In times of feeling invisible I felt seen by the moon.  

Growing up we wore rubbers or rubber boots, gently stretching them until they covered our shoes.  It was a hassle taking them on and off.  But to keep our leather saddle shoes somewhat dry, we sported rubbers over our two-toned oxfords.  These days my low rubber boots are the only shoes I need when it’s wet outside. They keep the water from soaking my socks and allow me to walk about in the rain.  

My mom had a green thumb.  She could keep any plant or planted flower alive for years.  One of her favorite flowering plants was orchids.  She loved the dramatic curve and the delicate flowers.  She had a knack for keeping them alive and thriving for years.  A couple of times I found orchids I thought she would love.  I carefully brought them home reading the instructions and tending to them so they would make the perfect gift.  However, by the time they made it to her doorstep the blooms would fall and the sad gifts never reflected the hope I had of a lush and luxurious present. 

I just heard that The Museum of Failure in Brooklyn opened last week (https://museumoffailure.com).  It’s primarily a collection of product fails through the last 5 decades or so.  I’m happy to be celebrating failure.  Their slogan is “Innovation Needs Failure!”  I’m not so sure I can say I’ve been innovative, unless one considers resourcefulness as an innovation, but I can say with absolute certainty that I, too, have a history of failures.

I left my passport at the hotel two and half miles from Reykjavik.  I was leaving for JFK the next day.  We had had a magnificent trip, and my passport was in the safe where I left it along with U.S. dollars I wasn’t going to spend in Iceland.  Our driver, an adventure tour guide in his own right, was going to drop off some guests and pick up passengers to bring back to the capitol city the next morning.  He would be happy to bring back my passport and drive us to the airport.  The magnificent experience continued.