Why is this now our accepted method to score potential mates, feel satisfied with our days, and validate our lives by flipping through agendas and calendars – paper and electronic?

• I had a mental list of critical tasks for this week of so-called break.
• I had a written list of the highest priority, along with the most irritating.
• For two days I checked nothing off, and felt as though I was a slacker.

On the third day, I added an item for exactly what I had been doing for the preceding two days – so I could check it off!

Do you find yourself expanding a “to do” list just for the pleasure of checking something off as done? Please don’t tell me I’m the only one who does this…

Priorities

What was the item I added?

It was a two-part reminder. Seemingly simple. And extremely important. It is the one thing that I have been consistently doing these past four days. Every day. And I’m proud of that. And it is this:

Eat healthy, including meat and fruit. Walk 10 minutes if possible.

As simple as that sounds, it’s a big deal. Like many parents, when life gets crazy, it’s kids first, and everything else after. For me, that’s included necessary attention to my health, but I’m trying to fix that. As for those few minutes of walking? Essential – to build back stamina after many months of being under the weather. So, eat healthy and walk 10 minutes? Huge.

The other items? From the sublime, to the ridiculous, of course, including:

• Finish taxes (not sublime)
• Paint two walls in the Toxic Zone (my son’s room)
• Pay bills (always a two-hankie affair)
• Exchange printer cartridges for correct size (irritating)
• Do dishes (disgusting)
• Finish time-sensitive research for my son (irritating)
• Clean my closet (ridiculous)
• Clean everything (ridiculous)
• Try (again) to deal with wrong cable boxes (irritating)

You get the gist. Not only is there nothing sublime on that list, but some items are as simple as a phone call (or eight), while others involve physical labor which may not be possible, or an insistence on focus, even if the task is tedious and long (taxes).

Why do we need checklists?

It’s a no-brainer that we’re all carrying a larger load than we ever anticipated, or that our parents carried before us. Contemporary life is a complex and multidimensional schematic, a constantly changing diagram that seems like one giant interdependent, spaghetti mess. Checklists are a safety net, to help us stay organized. To miraculously get “too much” done. Or at least, to imagine that it’s possible.

Yet what does that say that I required an item to remind myself to eat meat and fruits, because I’m always so busy I don’t take care of my own nutritional needs? Meat for the critical iron and B12, fruits for their vitamins?

Checklists as a replacement for spontaneity?

As for the little things that fall through the cracks? They’re always there, and unfortunately, they sometimes snowball, and as they accumulate, the tumbling along of bits and pieces of what is left undone eventually gains the momentum to knock you over. Maybe it’s five days of dirty dishes, or three months of kid-hidden trash under the bed. Eventually, it all needs to be dealt with. Avoidance and procrastination have their place, but as a lifestyle? The antithesis of organization.

So the checklist – for the little things – provides a small measure of assistance and comfort that everything won’t reach the danger zone.

But here’s what concerns me. We seek love by checklist, jobs by checklist, employees by checklist – never taking the time to really get to know who or what we are dealing with. We run through vacations by checklist, ticking off the destinations we’ve fit into a jammed schedule. Mona Lisa at the Louvre? Check. The Eiffel Tower, despite the line? Check. Two days in Rome, two days in Florence, two days in Venice? Check.

We’ve extended and internalized this behavior, and we’ve gotten carried away. We take so much satisfaction out of “checking it off the list” (bucket list?) – I wonder if we’re really living the activity itself. Are we losing the fullness of our experiences and accomplishments? Our spontaneity?

Checklist organizing

I need my checklists as much as the next guy. To document critical tasks so they get done, to prioritize, as well as to capture the items that annoy me – things like painting the walls in my son’s room – my son, the artist, who should have painted those walls himself many months ago. If it stays on the list, I probably won’t do it, but I’ll remember to nag him until he does. And dammit, even if it’s some odd adolescent rebellion, I’m going to see those walls painted eventually, and that room, less of an eyesore.

There’s no question that a checklist, an electronic organizer, a planner, an agenda are all helpful. To a point. But have we gone overboard?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

A little of this, a little of that. I love recipes that I can tweak. I thrive on what evolves, what surprises me, what turns out differently each time, even a smidge. Perhaps this is because I’m never quite the same from one day to the next. Are any of us, really?

I like to tweak my life, my writing, my look. I love to learn. And I enjoy my element of chameleon; it has served me well. And haven’t we all invented or reinvented ourselves at one time or another?

In adolescence, we may call this emerging from the cocoon. As we mature, we shed old skins, trying on new careers and personal lives. We undertake change in ourselves as we gain experience. We adjust following events that insist upon change, whether we want it or not.

Pygmalion, Narcissism, and Evolution

We are adaptable. Some of us more than others, but all of us, more than we realize. Reinvention may be physical, emotional, behavioral, or any of these. It may come suddenly, or gradually, as we ease into our own patchworked pieces of past, present circumstances, and desire.

But what of the man who would reinvent his woman? What of the woman who restyles her man? Is this narcissism, pure and simple? Is there a fine line between “improving the current model” and interfering – or worse – controlling, to the point of damaging another? Does it make a difference if it is with consent, as opposed to subtly achieved, through undermining words and behaviors?

In the film, My Fair Lady, a tale based on George Bernard Shaw’s 1913 “Pygmalion,” phonetics professor Henry Higgins sets about to alter the speech of a lower class young woman. In educating her, he intends to transform her into a “lady,” and in fact, as the result of a wager.

How is this different from a slightly more macabre variation, Mary Shelly’s “Frankenstein?” Or better still, Bride of Frankenstein?

Style makeover for you, or for your lover?

Last week I was reading through old mails from a friend in France. He is a good man, now 50ish, with a big heart and very particular tastes. I spent over an hour skimming four years of letters between us, including his recounting of numerous encounters. In these past years, he has run through several relationships, each of which left him with a broken heart. His downfall? He is drawn to the ingenue, to a younger woman whom he wishes to change. He seeks to make over the woman in his life – her mannerisms, her fragrance, her personal style, and her fashion sensibilities. Right down to selecting the perfect lingerie and color schemes.

The man has a fine (and critical) eye, and sophisticated taste. Yet he never chooses a woman who already possesses the qualities or look that appeals to him.

Instead, he refashions a young woman into his ideal. Is he a modern day Henry Higgins, or closer to a mad Dr. Frankenstein?

Patterns of behavior

In the last email I reread, my French friend wrote glowingly of a new young woman (late twenties) he’d met. He sent images – “before” images, and spoke of how beautiful she would be after. He cared for her already, yet he planned to change her look, her wardrobe, and her manners. This is his pattern, and has been, for many years:

• He finds a young woman “with potential”
• He teaches and “improves” her
• He suggests a hair style makeover
• He gives her a wardrobe makeover
• He loves her (his creation)
• She stays for a year or less, then leaves him

Style makeover

Tweak this? Recommend that?

We all do it. In friendships, love relationships, in jobs that require it. We give and take and evolve; we ask for input, and try on new versions of our look, changing hair or fashions. Even our personality.

But seek out someone for the purpose of a makeover – a creation, or recreation? Yes, it’s controlling. Yes, it’s narcissistic. And yet I know this man who is basically kind; he hasn’t found the woman he wants, and he is trying to create her, right down to the way she carries herself, the clothes on her back, and the colors that suit her – according to him.

Bride of Frankenstein

How did the story end? I need to drop my friend a note, and catch up. I can only imagine how it went.

Any older man may teach a younger woman. For that matter, an older woman teaches a younger man. It is part of the pleasure, and the unwritten manner of passing on wisdom, not to mention sexual experience.

But who wants to be the patched together product of another, according to his taste and plan? Even if she resembles Audrey Hepburn more than the Bride of Frankenstein, how can she not be aware that her core isn’t appreciated, and that makeover was always part of the plot?

It may be appealing to be whisked from khakis and jeans to fabulous frocks and classic jewelry, from plain Jane to emergent butterfly. But the ending is not necessarily a happy one.

Whatever self emerges, won’t the object of desire be destined to leave her so-called “creator?” Or at least, resent him? If she wishes to stay, will she ever feel good enough? Or will Dr. Frankenstein ever be satisfied?

Are you Frankenstein or Frankenstein’s Bride?

We can all do with updating the recipe, the look, the attitude. But a wholesale change? When is that appropriate, and who has the right to initiate it? Is it ever alright to engage with a person in order to make them over?

• Have you reinvented yourself?
• Was it a personality, style, speech or something else?
• Did you change yourself for you, or for another?
• Must someone change dramatically, in order to be loved?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Stereotypes and generalizations

Yesterday I wrote about why I find France, and French men irresistible. And everything I wrote  was based on my truths. As for the stereotypes and generalizations about French men? I stand by them, as examples of behaviors that I have personally experienced, and certainly more than once. I consider that I have enough information to acknowledge the realities in the stereotypes, and to sum up my own observations, and generalize.

After all, with 35 years of travel back and forth, as well as staying for very extended periods, I’m not speaking without some knowledge. I’ve lived, studied, and worked in France at various points in my life – in Paris, Nice, Provence, Normandy and elsewhere.

Does that make me an expert? Surely not! There are a hundred destinations in France (at least) that I’ve never seen and would love to visit. And even more spots where I’d like to take up residence for a time, in a rented flat or small house.  It’s clear that I adore the culture, that it suits me, and when I spend time in France I bring that positive energy to the experience. Who doesn’t enjoy a guest who is thrilled to be there, respectful of cultural traditions, and speaks the language?

As for my stereotyping, don’t we all use stereotypes, and therefore are potentially biased? More specifically – my generalizations? I consider that I have enough experience (beyond the superficial) to stand by my opinions. When stereotyping slides into judgment (or even prejudice), is that always a problem? Is judgment necessarily bad? Isn’t it just another form of opinion, and aren’t we entitled to our opinions?

Are stereotypes inherently bad?

Stereotypes are based on elements of truth, on attributes that are observed and then used to classify. We use those stereotypes to make quick assessments. It’s natural for people to form opinions (judgments) from the information we have on hand. As for stereotypes – we’ve got millions! There are stereotypes about America and Americans, just as there are about France and the French, Italy and Italians, Germany and Germans, Canada and Canadians, and so on.

We also routinely generalize about men and women, ethnic groups, religious groups, and political groups. We toss out careless statements about kids, old people, nerds, preppies, stoners, jocks, ladies men, cougars – and so much more.  We adhere to our stereotypes (until something changes them), and we ascribe judgments, often simplistically: good versus bad, like versus dislike.

Yet stereotypes offer no shades of gray, provide no narration, no explanation, and certainly no exploration.

When you judge an individual based upon a stereotype, do you know his inner world? The stories of his upbringing? His talents? His choices? His constraints? The psychological and intellectual terrain that comprise his experience to date?

Traveling at a young age

I have been fortunate in that I traveled a great deal internationally, and from the time I was 15. I’ve dabbled in many languages, speak a few, and have been chameleon-like in my ability to adapt to new countries and cultures. As I’ve lived in or wandered through France, Russia, Poland, Greece – or as I vacationed in Aruba, Jamaica, or Guadeloupe, I found elements of truth to the cultural stereotypes I held in each country. And I found just as many surprises, as I got to know individuals.

Stereotypes are partial truths about groups, generally without context; they are as false as they are true, when it comes to individuals. So, judgments based upon stereotypes (with little to no additional information) will tend to be unreliable. Might that be what makes our judgments less than a good idea?

• If you generalize based on one experience, by definition, that is not a generalization.
• If you rely solely on “stereotype” of an ethnic or cultural group, a religion, or a political affiliation based on limited experience, you’re as likely to be wrong in your assessments, as you are right.

We all make judgments. Constantly. They are opinions that occasionally slide into prejudice. They are conclusions that sometimes serve to assuage us in some way. They are justifications for behaviors or actions. Judgments, in my judgment, are not inherently bad. What is problematic is the way in which we make them, wield them to damage others, or rely upon them inappropriately.

My world view on short men (or Napoleon?)

I generally prefer tall men, romantically speaking. Ridiculous, considering I’m barely five feet tall. But c’est la vie.

Once, I was involved with a short man. About 5′4″ tall, with elements of the dreaded “Napoleon Complex.” Being a petite woman, I’m very aware of the special difficulties in our world which seems to worship physical stature. So I understood the origin of some of his (over)compensation.

The gentleman in question was wildly funny, incredibly smart, spoke four languages, and… well… he knew a good deal about how to treat a woman. Yes, he was French.

He swept me off my feet, carried away my heart, painted us a delicious future, then dropped me out of nowhere. Piecing things together some months later, apparently there were several of us who had succumbed to his charms. No, he wasn’t married, but one of the women found out, and that was that.

Did he break my heart? Well, let’s say he bruised it badly. He was a Frenchman in the US (so I stand by my French men are irresistible remarks). But seriously – does this mean I should never be involved with a short man again? From one experience, can I say that all short men are not to be trusted?

Latvia

No, it wasn’t Colonel Mustard in the closet. It was our Latvian student, the 17-year old who came to stay with us, brimming over with a number of preconceived notions. About Americans, about the region we live in, and about the religion that we “sort of” practice. He was quite vocal about his ideas, which came from ignorance and stereotypes, based largely on stories he’s heard growing up, along with music and media.

Yesterday afternoon, he boarded a plane for home. I suspect he returned to Latvia with some impressions confirmed, and others irrevocably altered. I know he returned to Eastern Europe with the knowledge that he made two American friends, and one of them is my son.

As for us? We were the ideal environment for this very outspoken young man, in a relatively conservative part of the country. We are not “typical” in many ways. We’re culturally hybrid, reflecting two religious traditions, a single parent situation, and we mix our languages for pleasure. We get mad when we’re mad, we laugh when we find humor, and we take each day more or less as it comes. Study, learning, respect, and an open mind are the essential values in our particular family circus.

We are not stereotypical Americans. Yet we are the essence of America.

If this young man “judges” based on us, will that be a bad thing?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Let’s be clear. Avoidance is not the same as procrastination. Avoidance is a fine art unto itself. A coping strategy. No 12-step program required.

• I am avoiding the email account I use for “dating.” Thus, I don’t have to deal with the issue of Date Night Guy.
• I am avoiding calling the company where I had the project lead, because the ball is in their court.
• I am avoiding harassing my doctor’s office over test results, because I get cranky, and it isn’t helpful.
• I am avoiding looking at myself in the mirror, since it affirms that it’s been a rough few months.
• I am avoiding another load of laundry. Just because.

See? Coping strategies. Not head in the sand exactly. Just a handful of the many opportunities for annoyance, disappointment, and bewilderment that I don’t need to deal with. Just now. Okay. The “just now” indicates cousinship to procrastination. So here’s a clarification – I’m waiting until the last possible moment to make four sandwiches, wash apples, dig out bags of chips and bottles of water, and bag them up, and listen to moaning as I knock on assorted doors.

That is procrastination.

Shouldn’t it be considered a sign of good health and stability to avoid negative experiences, or for that matter, to put them off?

Avoidance is healthy

I also avoid my ex (my blood pressure shoots through the roof), I avoid rooms full of people coughing (wouldn’t you, unless you’re a medical professional?), and I’d avoid my own home if I could – on certain days. Who in their right mind enters an adolescent infested storage unit, filled with stacks of books and wacky art? Okay, okay. I like my art…

As for procrastination, I think it’s gotten a bad rap. It’s another coping strategy that’s as easy as pie (which isn’t easy – and who came up with that expression?), so maybe procrastination is the more evil of the two relations. Its consequences are more likely to catch up, and smack you in the face later.

• What do you avoid doing, saying, or looking at – that helps you get through the day?
• Whom do you avoid, to stay sane or healthy?
• How did avoidance become such a “bad guy” in the bouquet of adult behaviors?
• And what about its cousin, Procrastination – always a problem?

Avoidance and Procrastination as life strategies

I can’t say these are highly advertised life strategies, but I’m sure I’m not the only one practicing them (flawlessly) in our troubled times. When searching out a sense of control over one’s environment (not actual control, mind you – but dare I dream??) – these particular behavioral tendencies may be just the thing to help squeak through another day.

Avoidance, procrastination, yes – there’s morning coffee. And chocolate. And a dose of mindless television, old movies on cable, new movies on cable (the free ones), and a tiny bit of warm and fuzzy when you see that it’s going to be a sunny day.

Frankly, I think we need a support group. You know. Those of us who survive on avoidance. Mostly to stand up to the others, who would insist that we deal with every grueling reality of adulthood on our overflowing plates (of crazy). And honestly, that’s unhealthy. So I’ll just say no.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Hell, I’d empty the sperm bank if I had one around and thought it would help me crack a smile. I’d shake shake shake as much as I could from any of those vessels, to collect a clinking coin or drizzly drop of humor. More specifically, good humor. And today, I can’t seem to do it. I can’t find “the funny.” And that worries me.

Bad days, good humor

Even on my worst days, somewhere, somehow, I can usually find the funny. You know – humor in all things, positive attitude, laughter makes the world go ’round, laughter is the best medicine, etcetera, etcetera. But this morning, I can’t find the funny.

And the fact is – I really do believe that laughter is excellent medicine. I know it lowers stress. I know it reduces pain. I know it’s good for the heart, and superb for the emotional aura we give off – and give to ourselves.

It may not be Weird Science, but it’s real science for sure. And while humor is a mask, it’s also great for what ails you. So could someone pass a plate of funny, please? I seem to be running low, and they don’t dish it out at my local pharmacy.

Waking to “reality bites”

No nightmares. No earth shattering news. Just waking as usual, to a gray morning and the daily worries. Yes, pain. (Damn those restless legs to hell! If I’m going to kick through the night, could I at least dream myself a tango??)

And the mind is spilling over with networking activities pursued most of yesterday, and well into the evening, including connecting to wonderful old friends with whom I worked 20 years ago. It was another life, a kinder life, a so-called “normal life.” And their voices (as young and vibrant and warm as ever) were as good as time travel and a tasty tonic.

Yet sleep gave way to waking and reality. To the knowledge that reality bites. Shouldn’t I be able to drum up the funny? Besides – the Academy Awards are this evening – complete with Joan Rivers, snarky commentary on the Red Carpet, and that’s always fun. Surely I can talk myself out of this mood, and find a chuckle, a chortle, niggle a giggle out of a tormented teen wiggle??

Laughter is the best medicine

Do you find that humor makes you feel better – about everything? I do. And I’m throwing open the door this Sunday morning to the Good Humor Man. Come on. You’re out there somewhere. And sometimes a gal just needs to put on her pedal pushers and sidle up to Tall-Dark-and-Offering-Ice-Cream. So swing on by with the ding ding ding of your bountiful bell, your merry tuneful truck, your array of goodies. Open up the cooler to sweets and recollections. Innocent times. Fewer stresses. Creamsicles and conversation.

Maybe I just need to be zapped back a few decades, for a brief stay. You know – to neighborhood play, running through the sprinklers in adjacent yards. To the 50 cent movie on Wednesday nights. To snow cones at the corner pharmacy, a game of jax on the floor with my dad, Mel Brooks records on the phonograph as I listen to him laugh, and I laugh because he seems happy. Maybe I need to dip my emotional toes in a time of believing in the future. A quick trip. A tantalizing taste. To return the errant funny.

The funny bone’s connected to the…

So where, exactly, is that funny bone anyway? Or at the very least, where’s mine? Has it been stolen by extra-terrestrials? Gone rogue? Just out to lunch? Hooked on phonics?

Wherever it may be connected in this great thread of mind to soul human fabric, my funny bone seems to be unraveling and unhitched. Well, for today. Yes. I retain my right to perspicacity (isn’t that a fabulous word?) – acutely aware that moody today may still give way to mah-velous tomorrow. I hope. And maybe if I make a nice dinner tonight, and coax with a gooey dessert, the funny will return to my house of cards and horse around without bringing it down. I need that flinty splint to brace me up and do its duty: laughter to beat back worries, laughter to ease aching, laughter to calm the commotion of teen comings-and-goings, and to slam a smile on my pouting puss.

Raw humor, rogue humor, halcyon health

We’re all about a good guffaw around here. Amusement in a word, a retort, a situation, a story. From the proverbial sublime to the ridiculous, it gets us through. That, and my occasional recall of halcyon days when life was simpler, and not so frightening.

The gist of this non-jest? When “the funny” goes missing, I’m concerned.  

• Do you rely on humor to make it through your tough moments?
• Do you prefer raw humor or raw oysters for an mmmm-mmm mood shift?
• Rogue humor or rogue politics, to take your mind off your troubles?
• Is humor part of your daily dose of denial – or a helping of health for whatever life dishes out?
• What do you do when you can’t find “the funny?”

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Last evening, for three hours, I hovered in the pleasure zone, my brain and body exquisitely in sync. This was delight the likes of which I haven’t felt in six months, or perhaps as long as a year. The kind of pleasure, intense and pervasive, that obliterates worry and fatigue as all the universe seems to buzz and sizzle in the moment, and the moment goes on and on…

This is not the stuff of my everyday life; it is affirming and energizing to relive this extraordinary fullness, the mind-body connection, the airy sense of well-being that results. And as the thrill of the experience began to ease, very late last night, I lay down and slept. Without turbulence, without waking, for nearly six hours. Miraculous.

This morning, I woke still basking in a very particular afterglow following a remarkable night. Care to hear more?

Passion of the mind

An acquaintance came to my home last evening to speak with my son about architecture, about the ways to approach an architectural education, and the architectural profession. He is a photographer, an artist, an architect, a professor of architecture, a researcher, and more. He has designed some stunning structures. What I didn’t know is that he is an inspired teacher.

He asked my son some questions, and they talked. Then he spoke, eloquently, about his own meandering path into architecture: the intersection of philosophy, psychology, fine art, history, engineering, chemistry, mathematics, environmental studies, and more. That is – or can be – the realm of the architect who creates in harmony with his own imagination, with the land, the elements, and of course, the human beings who will live in or interact with the private or public structures he is designing.

I listened in an adjoining room, as the discussion wandered from Le Corbusier to Frank Gehry to Santiago Calatrava, from  theory to pragmatism to bringing an idea to life, and the distinction between “a building” and true architecture.

Transported in time, boosting my brain

I began to take notes. I felt 17 again, exposed to a brilliant mind in a lecture hall, scribbling as quickly as I could to document the possibilities pouring in. I caught a glimpse of my son’s face, open and engaged, and as the discussion progressed I felt the space in my brain reorganizing – its furnishings shifted, adjusted, rearranged; the walls easing outward in order to house broader concepts than I’d entertained just an hour earlier. 

The rooms of my own capacity were undergoing renovation; a new structure was forming, even as I was nudged, bombarded, and overwhelmed by words and the visuals they crafted that came in jolts and waves. There is potency in the pairing of certain phenomena, in the tension of opposites and opposition: presence and absence, form and function, process and material, imagination and engineering. And they all combine most effectively when coordinated with mother nature as well as human nature.

This is the heart of architecting: the structure as art, as sculpture, as music, as evolutionary and satisfying space created purposefully. This is the iterative, cumulative and perpetual process of discovery.

At one point, our guest said: “You may have an idea, and conceive it one way. But it’s something else as you’re building it. When you’re in it. Be open to not knowing.”

Renaissance man (and woman)

Last evening, I experienced the full body pleasure of learning. I was quickly aware that the Renaissance man at my kitchen table was no “ordinary” architect. He showed images of various projects and described them. One in particular is a masterpiece of visual poetry.

As the reason for inviting the architect was to talk about various educational routes to the architectural profession, I couldn’t help but think about the benefits of a liberal arts education, its exposure to classics, to the overlap and interaction of many fields of thought and endeavor. It provides a foundation in the tools of learning as much as subject matter.

If the proverbial Renaissance man or woman is one who has knowledge in a wide array of both arts and sciences, then the gentleman in our kitchen epitomizes that particular role. Personally, I would like to do a better job of becoming a Renaissance woman. I was on that path, once, and had to yield to another that was more “pragmatic.” As important as it is to make a living, the desire to pursue language, literature, and art is no less pressing than it was when I was 17. If anything, it is more so, as life at 50 seems so much more precious than it did when I was an adolescent.

Seduction and motivation

I am reminded that my brain can still be seduced by ideas, pleasured by putting pieces of a puzzle together, teased by trailing off into imagery, encouraged by the playfulness of meticulous language and a searching mind. For me, this is life force. This is hopefulness.

I believe my son, in his own way, was deeply affected. He is normally taciturn in the mornings, but on the way to school today we talked.

“See that house?” he said pointing to a large, pseudo-federal structure clearly constructed in recent years. I nodded. “That’s nothing like what he designs. His architecture is awesome. Every element flows together and each has a purpose. And it’s art.”

Stress reducers, memory boosters

I wonder if last evening will be a turning point for my son. I know that he “got it.” Now it’s up to him to run with it, to do the work. To prepare his future.

Perhaps our best memory inducers, brain boosters, stress-reducers and even pleasure centers are those lit up by what naturally engages us. The gift I offered my son by inviting this fascinating architect to sit and talk was a gift to myself. I had no idea that would be the case. I am now keenly aware that somehow I must dust off the tables and chairs neglected in my own brain. I need my mind challenged, stretched, and stimulated. That cannot be done in isolation.

As for the generosity of this man, in sharing his time and arranging for a followup, I am immensely grateful. Where my son may go from here, I can only imagine. As for myself, I am uncertain. But I am open to not knowing.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

What haunts us?

Don’t we all have images that haunt us? Real or imagined – the death of a loved one, childhood trauma, a secret terror?

I still flash to the accident of three years ago, those instants before the other car slammed into us. That is a memory that haunts me, yet keeps me aware of how fortunate I am.

An old friend, one of the strongest and most courageous women I’ve ever known, is terrified of spiders. She is otherwise utterly fearless, having toughed out hard knocks and medical dramas most of us couldn’t imagine. But put her in a room with a few cobwebby corners? She’s stricken.

You have nothing to fear but fear itself

I think of this phrase often: you have nothing to fear but fear itself, spoken by Franklin Delano Roosevelt at his 1932 Inaugural. The exact quote:

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

FDR pronounced these words during a time of depression and global unease. The power in his message lies in the reminder that fear will paralyze, and in paralysis we accomplish nothing because we attempt nothing. And so, when I sense debilitating emotion creeping in around my edges, I recall this phrase. I fight back, fully aware of the impact of worry, stress, and fear on physical health and well-being. I don’t always succeed, but I try to deal with whatever is frightening me, move beyond its paralyzing potency, and forge ahead. Smartly.

Parenting and fear

Like most parents, I don’t think I knew true fear until I became a mother. Fear lives inside the tiniest microbe that might endanger a child, or the stranger lurking behind a fence.

When it comes to children, most of us don’t hesitate to do whatever it takes to keep them healthy, happy, and out of harm’s way. In the face of menace, fear evaporates and we act, protecting them at all cost – whether they realize we are doing so or not.

What frightens me

For the record, I am terrified of:

• anything that threatens my sons
• snakes – any type, anywhere
• being stuck in a crowded elevator



• choking on a chicken bone like Elizabeth Taylor, and no one to help (and no Oscar afterward)
• spare ribs on a first date (and no toothpick)
• homelessness
• never dancing again.

It is an odd mix (and yes, there’s more). I confess to a touch of the wry along with the real. Yet the fact remains that when trapped in an elevator (even for a few minutes), my chest tightens, I break out in a sweat, and I hyperventilate. Do I ride in elevators? Sure, but not without a tiny act of bravery each time.

Happily, there is plenty that does not frighten me, and I also know that fear is part of life. As is the case with grief or anger, I’m not sure we overcome fear, so much as we ultimately learn to manage it.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

So what does that say about you?

Need to lead?

Are your driving habits one more sign of how you conduct other areas of your life? Your leadership style, perhaps a preference for control, or something more complex?

I know what I do well (yes, I’m an excellent driver), and I also know when to say “enough” and look for a hand. The same is true in getting from Point A to Point B. That means if I need to turn over the wheel, I’m willing to do so. Professionally that translates to both comfort taking charge, and being on a team. It’s logical; I’m experienced in both roles, and not bound to a preference.

Now tell me – do you believe that statement?

Nature, nurture, gender, or generation?

Let me be precise: I’m not bound to a preference, as long as what needs to get done is done, and well. (No small qualification.)

So what do you think – does that make me easy to work with, or difficult? Easy to live with, or not so much? Am I a good passenger, going with the flow, even with high standards for anything I undertake? I admit to being a stickler for quality, and that’s been the hallmark of my personal life, my writing life, my corporate life, and my parenting life. Not perfection, but the highest quality possible, given the context.

• If I’m along for the ride, I perform tasks to the best of my ability, as a team player.
• When I take on an official leadership role, I step up, and surround myself with the best possible resources.
• I am comfortable in some leadership roles, and less so in others based on situation and experience.
• If it’s unofficial leadership, I cultivate the confidence of those around me, and if possible, consensus. And yes, I am attentive to feelings.

Alright. I’ll fess up. I am demanding when it comes to what I deem important. Able to let other things go? The laundry, the dishes, almost anything domestic – no problem. Still, I think about my driving style, and my approach to work, especially when taking the lead is required in an organization. And I wonder. Is my desire for a smooth group dynamic generational, a matter of personality, or influenced by gender?

Do men and women own their leadership differently? Do we acquire it differently – men assuming it, and women easing into it?

My way or the highway: control

What about you? Are you all about taking the wheel? Are you convinced you’re better off if you’re in charge?

In a relationship, there is generally a more dominant partner, along with division of labor that depends on a large dose of practicality. Temperament, personality, skills, scheduling, and cultural expectations all play a part.

Are struggles for control a factor in your relationships? Fodder for recurring discord? Are you a good driver but a bad passenger, refusing to relinquish the wheel when it might make for a smoother journey? Or are you too often the passenger, longing to slip into the driver’s seat and open it up on the highway?

Teenage drivers

Teaching my teenage sons to drive has been nerve-wracking (of course), but also fascinating. The elder took to it immediately, with the confidence he exhibited in most things. His instincts were excellent. He’s a natural leader, and dislikes being a passenger. As for my younger son? He’s a superb individual contributor or team player; he has no issue with the passenger seat.

Can I draw dramatic conclusions here? Probably not, yet even as we teach our teens to drive, we’re nonetheless observing (and shaping) a breadth of skills that aren’t specifically about driving, but are about getting somewhere.

Yielding the wheel

I admit, my relative comfort as a passenger has a great deal to do with who’s driving, road conditions, distance to travel, and the vehicle. When I’m doing the driving, I’m not at ease in a big car; I am tiny in stature, and prefer a compact and a stick. All practical considerations, and a metaphor for leadership, relationship, and parenting style – as well as the need to be flexible in each.

• Do you know when taking the wheel is the right thing to do?
• Are your relationships fluid enough to shift from the driver’s seat to the passenger seat?
• Are you nimble in responding to the need for change?
• Do you bring your work demeanor into your home life, for better or worse?

There are no absolutes when it comes to taking charge, and that’s my point. With the hectic pace of our daily lives, we don’t realize how we may stifle or develop leadership skills and situational judgment in ourselves, or for that matter, our children. That doesn’t mean we can’t nudge our capacities in new directions, at home or at the office – recognizing change, learning to yield the wheel, or when to step up, speak out, and take it. With confidence.


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

After reading a provocative musing on guns at Motherese, and a discussion of dealing with little boys and their desire to shoot ‘em up and play war, I began wondering about our violent selves. Our female violent selves, as well as the ways we raise our sons. I thought about the progression through childhood impulses, the divergent options for boys and girls (thus, for men and women), and where we put those feelings as we grow up, and grow older.

Guns are political; violence is human

The issue of gun control has been on and off the political agenda for decades. Those who believe that guns in the home are our entitlement (for self-defense or hunting) are pitted against those who fear violence in the home, in the schools, and on the streets.

While we have politicized the acquisition and use of firearms specifically – and with good reason – violent tendencies remain a human issue – cultural, sociological, psychological. Despair breeds violence, as do desperation, rage, and fear. We have only to look at the latest headlines to see examples of individuals pushed beyond their boiling point until violence erupts.

Women are not immune to these same situations and sentiments, yet we are less prone to acting out in similar ways. If we don’t turn to overt violence, where do we put our rage?

Men, women, and aggression

If aggressive tendencies are in fact more prevalent in boys and men, there are also acceptable outlets for exercising and exorcising the need to express them. Competitive sports like football, hockey, soccer, wrestling, and boxing provide culturally (and commercially) sanctioned channels, while other competitive activities also funnel the need to win, or to do battle.

Still, most women don’t overtly express more violent emotions. I’d go as far as saying that any expression of anger by a woman is considered less acceptable than the same outpouring by a man. Would we be better off if we could don the boxing gloves and go a few rounds with a sparring partner?

Cattiness and gossip

I used to resent the off-handed comments about women and gossip, and women and cattiness. Gossip isn’t something I indulge in generally; I’ve always cherished my women friends. Cattiness is not part of our communication style, or need. But I’ve observed it often, in teenagers and adults.

So I will concede that women may act out their aggressions in more subversive ways relative to men who “take it outside” or to the gym to pummel a bag. Instead, we use words (and silence) as daggers, and afterward, regret drawing blood.

Physical release and cycles of self-abuse

But that’s not all we do. And while there’s no question that for anyone the 5-mile run or 2-hour workout eases anger, we don’t all have that possibility – logistically, financially, or even physically. Then what?

For many women, cycles of self-abuse become routine. We control what we can, any way we can, often in the most unhealthy and self-destructive manner. We eat our anger, literally, swallowing it down and gaining weight. Or we punish our bodies with bingeing, which leaves us depressed, but (effectively) dulled.

The anger may eat us – as we develop ulcers and other digestive problems. We consume our resentments in copious amounts of alcohol, or we act it out sexually.  We spend our days and nights in obsessive inner dialogue, berating ourselves for whatever emotions fuel our frenzy – despair, desperation, rage, fear.

Wouldn’t these emotions be better served by an act of standing up, fighting back, or at the very least – expressing ourselves verbally even if it meant “unladylike” yelling?

The feminist 70s

I am a product of the 70s feminist consciousness; I was in college at the time. And I wonder about the path we began so idealistically. We set (unrealistic) goals, made (some) gains, accrued (unexpected) losses. We disparaged the role of mother and homemaker, only to find ourselves red-faced in the aftermath, 10 or 15 years later.

I can’t help but recognize that for so many women – young, middle-aged, older – the constraints battled 30+ years ago remain no less restricting; only more muddled.

Less angry, or more so

So where do we find ourselves today?

• We may speak our minds on many matters, but we hold our tongues to keep the peace.
• We may strike out into the workforce, but we turn anger inward when we find our opportunities narrowed, and our strength sapped by becoming our own second, third, or last priority.
• Our aggressive selves may be allowed on the tennis court or the runner’s track – but when not possible, we are likely to turn our violence inward, on ourselves.

We choose children first. It is our grace, and our downfall.

We set pieces of self aside, nurturing those we love, while trying to give in part to feel less powerless. Yet resentment remains. Sometimes, fury. There is a fine line between self-sacrifice and self-destruction.

We may not reach for guns as a general rule, but nor do we reach for each other in sufficient measure or solidarity. And we should – even as we dream of sons because they will know freedom, and we dream of daughters who will somehow redress an imbalance we still can’t quite fathom.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

…

…

I once convinced a tree service owner to belt me into a harness and haul me up some 80 feet into the air, so I might see what it was like. It is something I had always wanted to experience. Other than a bit of stress to the feminine regions due to the construction of the belting, I loved it.

Fear of adventure – not

I once moved overseas with a single suitcase and a three-month window to construct a life from nothing if I could. I did.

I once wandered through Moscow as a teen, met unusual people in the process, and ended up in the Public Baths, where I practiced my rusty Russian drinking songs in a steam room filled with boisterous naked middle-aged women.

Anything for a laugh – almost

I once dyed my hair hot pink using a can of spray, and another time, I striped my dark locks with bright orange, professionally, as Halloween approached. My little ones adored it and so did I, until I realized it was permanent dye, and the tiger effect took six months to grow out.

Erotic encounters – safely

I once lived out an erotic fantasy quite spontaneously and with an unusual man, involving un lieu insolite et la lingerie érotique. Quel délice… Yes, there were hot stilettos involved, and yes, you will have to break out your French dictionaries for the specifics.

It was a common fantasy, but something I thought I’d never dare. It was the audacity that was intoxicating, confidence building, and utterly delicious – as was the response that resulted. While I haven’t lived that fantasy since, I never regretted experiencing it. After all, what is life without a little risk and a little daring? Il faut oser – le rêve, et le fantasme.

Academic aspirations

I once marched into the Admissions Office of one of the most prestigious universities in the country, insouciante. Having applied to their graduate program (and not a shoe-in, stiletto or otherwise), I announced that I was looking forward to their acceptance which they should send to my parents’ home as I was moving to Paris to take a job with the UN.

I then quit my current (dull) job, flew to Paris, rented a tiny room, and presented myself at a specific UN agency every few days until I finally talked my way in, making good on precisely what I’d told the head of Admissions. I returned to begin graduate school some months later, convinced my (uncharacteristic) bravado sealed the deal.

I once dared the riskiest of all

I once dared to believe in marriage, dared to believe that I would be loved through thick and thin, dared to let someone into my heart though not all the way; from the start, I sensed it wasn’t safe.  Two irrepressible, exhausting, surprising, remarkable boys were born of that union, and the fact that I dared to believe, dared to give, dared to try, dared to love – I view as success.

Why I wouldn’t shave my head

I wouldn’t shave my head on a dare, or if you asked me nicely, or even for a tidy packet of green. (Though name a price in the six figures and I’ll reconsider.) Partly, this is because I catch a chill easily, and have no hats to keep me warm. Moreover, while I don’t mind my hair pinked, striped, or in a variety of styles, having beautiful hair makes me feel pretty. And I still love that feeling, love being a woman, love owning my femininity, which includes my share of unabashed érotisme à deux. And more, I hope, to come.

Theoretically, I could feel beautiful with a shaved head. However, I have no milliner on staff, nor an acquisition fund to purchase a selection of veiled, plumed, sequined, and otherwise elegant and outrageous hats.

As for other accessories, in particular shoes – other than my very own exquisite pair of  Helmut 100mm Christian Louboutin (pointure 36), as you can imagine, I already have an ample supply.



© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy