Eddie Vedder for Christmas

I dreamed that someone gave me Eddie Vedder for Christmas.

I’ve been off work for the past few weeks. It was over Christmas and New Year, which made the holiday season quiet and relaxed. Words not frequently used when speaking of the ‘most wonderful time of the year.’

My daughter was home on her Winter Break for part of the time, so I had excellent company and high quality support when I wasn’t feeling my best.

On the surface, it sounds great: “four to six weeks off.” Honestly. If you hear a coworker say they are taking an extended leave, don’t you find yourself thinking, or saying right out loud “LUCKY!” However, it isn’t quite 'as advertised' when you don’t feel so good the entire time. Don’t get me wrong, it went very well, as well as it possibly could, given the situation. It just doesn’t exactly qualify as pure luxurious time off when your top priority is pain management.

Pain management has its up sides and down. The most obvious up side is self-explanatory, and by the way my very favorite: the management of pain. It was a vital part of my healing and I am eternally grateful. As are the other members of my household. Pain makes me tense and crabby. So thank heaven for good meds.

I do confess that prior to my time off, I was a little bit concerned about the use of prescription pain medications. Down side. I know myself well enough to suspect that I might lean toward addictive tendencies. Consequently, I went into it thinking that I would try to use as little drugs as possible. I would tell you just how long that plan held up except I do not know the measurement of time smaller than the second. Is it nano-second? I’m not sure.

Anyway, as far as becoming addicted to prescription pain medications, it was all fine. They were incredibly necessary but that was the extent of it. Once I started feeling better, I didn’t think too much about drugs. That isn't to say that I came out of my time off unscathed. I did, in fact, acquire an unfortunate addiction (or two) that would never have happened otherwise.

More on that shortly.. . . .. . .

Unexpected side effects of the drugs were intense, vivid dreams every night, many times a night. Most of them were alarming and startling and I was glad when I woke up. But then a few days before Christmas, I had a dream that a friend, a very good friend apparently, gave me Eddie Vedder for Christmas. Perhaps the best Christmas present I received this year. Or EVER! This gift was incredibly fun and extremely accommodating. Lucky me. So it was a very Merry Christmas for me.

Early in my time off when I was feeling particularly lousy, I really didn’t want to eat anything. I had no appetite at all. Nothing sounded good, not crackers, not soup, not juice. Nothing.

Nothing, that is, except sherbet.

Now I love dessert. And one of my favorites is high quality ice cream. I have a relatively small bowl of ice cream most nights before I go to sleep. I haven’t eaten sherbet since I was in grade school. I admit to being a frozen dessert snob. Sherbet has always seemed like an unacceptable ice cream substitute. And unfortunately, has always carried with it the stigma of being a ‘sick food’ for me.

But recently when I was home and nothing else sounded appetizing, I ate sherbet. And it was so good. When I wasn’t feeling good, I’d have it a couple of times a day. Then after I started feeling better again, I had it every night before bed. Yes, I’m addicted. Obviously I was concerned about the wrong substance. I’m having some right now. Do you want some because I can totally hook you up. I can’t believe I used to be too cool for sherbet. Now, I'm checking the yellow pages for a support group.

The other addiction? The Food Network but I can't talk about that. Too painful.

A little less conversation, a little more . . . .

It’s the thought that counts.

Or is it?

Now, I do not know the origin of this phrase so I went where I always go when I don’t know something, the Internet. Because if you see it on the Internet, it must be true. Strangely enough, I couldn’t find it anywhere. There are thousands of web pages where the phrase is used but of the five I clicked to, there was not one where the phrase is explained.

So as everyone knows, when you can’t find it on the Internet, you call your trusty, friendly reference librarian (and I totally have one.) Unfortunately, the one reference librarian I know that is trusty AND friendly was not on duty. (Maybe I need to get him a beeper.) This is indeed unfortunate as I am now forced to proceed unenlightened and run a very high risk of shoving my foot directly down my throat.

Well, I tried. It’s the thought that counts, right?

No. I disagree. In fact, I’m not sure I could disagree more. Now, it’s not that I think “the thought” is without value. I see the value, really I do. Of course, “the thought” must come first. You must first think of taking flowers to a sick friend before you will ever find yourself taking actual flowers to an actual sick friend. The thought of going back to college to finish that degree must happen before you will step in to the registrar’s office. It must first occur to you that you’ve always wanted to be a major league ballplayer before you’re likely to start taking steroids.

This is all a given. Or in this case, three givens. But “It’s the thought that counts” implies that simply having the noble, inspired, generous, life-changing thought is what ‘counts.’ In what universe? Having the thought is only the first step, and in my opinion worth very little if left at that.

If I think about calling my philosophy teacher from high school to tell him what a difference he made in my life, how I stayed in school and went on to college because of his extra efforts and honest friendship but I never make that call and then hear that he has passed away, does that thought ‘count?’

In my opinion not only is it not the thought that counts, even the intention after the thought is worth very little unless action follows. I can intend to do anything: climb Everest, run for office, adopt a puppy, cure cancer, cross the street. The sky’s the limit if it is indeed the thought (or intention) that counts, but it isn’t. If I never move forward then none of it ‘counts.’

If I have all my inspired thoughts packed and on board, my noble intentions in my sights, what good does it do me? It’s the action that counts; it’s what I do with my thoughts and intentions. I can mean to do something all day long, all year long but if I never get around to it and try to pacify myself with “it’s the thought that counts,” I’m an idiot. In fact, it may be a special type of sin against one’s soul to mean to do something and fail to do it. If my heart tugs at me but I stand still, then I’ve failed my heart. My self.

Don’t kid yourself, it is not the thought that counts. The thought is required to start the process but it’s the action, the effort, the tenacity, the determination supporting the thought that counts.

Help Yourself

A patron came up to me today, at the library where I work and asked me if I knew any good inspirational books.

I hesitated.

"Like a good self help book," she added, avoiding direct eye contact through out.

Well, if this is not a loaded question . . . . . I don't know.
Seriously, one man's inspiration is another man's jazz album, or Chilton's repair manual, or muffin cookbook.

I began thinking back over my life thus far and which books have inspired me to write, which books have inspired me to cook, which books have inspired me to take up snow boarding (no such book), which books have inspired me to be brave and which books have inspired me to read more books, and I asked this woman if there was any particular area in which she was looking for inspiration.

"In everything," she said.

I sat in a staff meeting of about twenty five fellow library employees not long ago and as a type of ice breaker we went around the room sharing what types of books we read. (An exceptional and unusual ice breaker, if you ever need one.)

There was a great representation: mysteries, romance, biographies, comic books, historical fiction, junior paperback, true crime, graphic novels, you name it. Many people mentioned their preference for specific authors: Grisham, Steele, King, Rice, Rule, Canfield, Ambrose, Chopra, Suess, Dahl.

Almost everyone gave a couple of answers. I've noticed working at the library that people can be a bit snobbish about what they read. "Well, I only read non-fiction," is the sniffy comment I've heard the most often in the course of my work. Or sometimes, "I only read biographies." Heavy emphasis on the 'only.'

Later that day, I thought back over all the answers and tried to think of any genre that might have been missed. I couldn't think of anything. Then it hit me. Self-help. Not one person there admitted to reading self-help books, including myself.

I believe any book can be inspirational, if it's read at the exact moment it's message is needed. (Some, if only by their example of 'how not to do it.') Fiction, non-fiction, adult or children book. If today I am feeling overwhelmed and defeated and without hope, I may find inspiration where I least expect it. In Goodnight Moon or The Night Before Christmas. The words of JK Rowling might be just the thing I need to get me started off on a completely new life's course. Who knows.

Typically however, we tend to think of self-help books as those filled with instructions for fixing what is wrong with us. Anger problems, weight loss, health issues, financial dilemmas, depression and such. Not the type of difficulties we are encouraged to confess socially.

But I confess.

I have borrowed, purchased and checked out many self help books. I want to read about and learn better ways, if they exist. And they almost certainly do, sometimes. What I have failed to do with most of these books however, is finish them. They usually lose me about a third of the way through. I believe the title and the marketing blurbs on the cover. I'm still in for the first few chapters, but mostly I don't see the finish line. So maybe someone should write a book on how to finish a self help book.

I have finished a few. A couple I absolutely love and am so glad I stumbled across. Some I was unable to benefit from (but at least I finished them).

I wish I'd thought to admit that I read self-help that day in the meeting. People just don't go around waving that flag and I fell right in line with the thinking that there is something embarrassing or shameful about needing help and seeking it. This is craziness.

I am happy to say that I don't know it all, that I have a lot to figure out. Well, okay not 'happy' exactly but willing at least. I wish I did have it all figured out. But I don't.

And neither, by the way, do most other people.

News flash. Our culture is conclusive evidence of how much we don't know. But aside from that, do not forget that I am the one checking in the material that pretty well represents what people read and guess what. . . . . we're reading self help, whether we say so out loud or not. I easily check in more self help, inspirational-type material than any other category of library items.

So I don't know who those fellow library employees thought they were kidding that day. And they may actually be reading the complete works of Shakespeare but they are also reading The Idiots Guide to Sex and many, many others.

And good for them!

13 Across

I'm back on crosswords. (All thanks to Jeff S. and PBS!) I'd been crossword-free for so many years I'd lost count. And I can count pretty high, sometimes.

I have a hard time doing something a little bit. Something, ha, more like everything. There are very few things in my life that I don't care DEEPLY about. Deeply, as in: intensely, intimately, passionately, anal-retentively, thoroughly, obsessive-compulsively, diagnosibly.

(Is that a word? Well, it is now.)

So it follows that when in a relationship, I'm known far and wide for my level of commitment and intensity. Good, if you can work up an appreciation for that kind of thing. But historically viewed as bad, more often than not.

I've known some unfortunate relationships. Stupid guys. Mean guys. Harsh, heartless, soul-sucking, deliberately cruel, ill-tempered, malicious, vicious, contemptuous, gleefully sadistic guys with, by the way, very small genitalia. (It's all that bad karma.) The thing is, such guys are experts at marketing and you don't realize you're in stormy, even dangerous waters until you can no longer see the shore. And since I, historically am not very good at knowing when to stop beating a dead horse, I found myself barely treading water a good number of times.

I've always looked back on these relationships with shame and regret. "How could I be so stupid as to be fooled initially, up front, then to stick around even after the truth was quite clear?" Just thinking of them, made me cringe and shudder.

Recently however, it dawned on me that if it weren't for one particularly smug, snively, misogynistic, mouth-breathing, bottom-feeding, bed-wetting (oops, getting carried away. . . . ) individual that I knew early in college, I might not have embraced so completely my love and loyalty to the Beatles. I was all in with David B, therefore I was all in with the Beatles. Basic math.

I love the Beatles, all four. With my favorite rotating fairly because they all have equal merit. In my opinion, Paul is the cutest, John was the most gifted, George was the most overlooked and underrated and Ringo was the drummer. Girls, at least this one, love drummers.

I was born in the sixties and should have already had a healthy exposure to the Beatles but I am from Yakima, so instead I was exposed to Glen Campbell, Donna Fargo and BJ Thomas. Knowing of the Beatles of course generally, it wasn't until the early eighties that I dove in head first. And it's all thanks to David. An intensely charming, disarming, magnetic, heart-melting, entrancing, beautifully long haired son of a bitch, who when he wasn't busy bewitching me could invariably be found mesmerizing some other stupid, naive, foolish, trusting, confused girl, who probably and conveniently enough for David, happened to be naked and nodding enthusiastically at the time.

Anyway. . . . .

I thought if there was an upside to David B, there should be an upside to any other unfortunate encounters from my previous lifestyle.

For example: Jeff S. introduced me to the daily crossword. Regardless of what else happened on any given day, the crossword puzzle was not negotiable. Some people need coffee or crack to get started each morning, Jeff had to do the puzzle. So I did too. I can't seem to be anything but "all in." We'd buy two papers and sharpen our pencils. Jeff, when he wasn't covertly visiting an ex-girlfriend for twisted nostalgia sex or waiting to get bailed out of jail for DUI, also taught me how to shoot pool. (Every mother's dream for her daughter.) So I've got that going for me.

It's true. I thank David B. for the Beatles, for ER Rogers, for Dirty Mothers, for ham bao, for Sunnyside Beach, for teaching me to use chop sticks, for the things that linger in my life as positive side-effects, in spite of David himself.

I thank Steve O. for Gasparetti onion rings (to go) and for getting that other girl pregnant so I can safely say "Whew, close one!"

And I thank Jeff S., whose mantra when it came to intercourse and intimacy was 'variety is the spice of life,' for Manhattans straight up and the silver linings that are left over from an otherwise torturous slice of my life. I am still pretty lousy at pool but at least I look like I know what I'm doing. And today I knew instantly what 13 across was.

Unfortunately there are others. I'm still trying to come up with the bright side of Gary (cringe) and Mel (shudder). How on earth is it possible that I could be such an idiot? Rhetorical question by the way, you can stop making that list.

A few nights ago, there was a PBS documentary on crossword tournaments. Who knew? And for a moment I was taken back to the newspaper folded into quarters and the haunting voice of Jeff yelling at me because I dared to use a pen and some of my letters were lower case. After the show I scoured the house looking for an old paper, so I could do a puzzle. It was great. I hopped into bed that night telling myself "I am totally going to do this crossword puzzle" all giggly and giddy. Then I took a look at some of the clues and amended that statement to "I am totally going to start this crossword puzzle." All the relaxing, intellectual challenge without the toxic company and verbal abuse. Win/win. So now I'm back on crosswords. At least one a day, sometimes more (all in again). Did you know there are usually two puzzles in the paper now days?

Times change and so do I.

Much Ado

I have a special place in my heart for Michael Keaton.
(Translation:I have a serious crush on Michael Keaton.)

I really can’t elaborate much, mostly because I don't understand it myself.

He's no Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise or Johnny Depp (although according to IMDB.com he was considered for the role of Capt. Jack Sparrow).

Or the more seasoned Kevin Costner, Harrison Ford or Mel Gibson. But this is all good from where I stand, because being unlike these is a mark in his favor. I find myself drawn to his subtle, dry, intelligent humor. And the spark in his eyes when he grins doesn't hurt.

Do you know if he's married? Never mind.

Granted, he really hasn’t been in much recently, but in my world this is also a plus as opposed to a minus. I love this guy. He does a little something for me.

Does he have a pierced ear, do ya think?
As I was saying. . . .

Of course as with any actor, he has some good stuff and some ‘eh’ not so good stuff.

• I can take or leave Batman.
• He was hilarious in Night Shift, but a little over the top in my ideal fantasy land.
• Beattlejuice was funny, but there weren’t enough Keaton scenes as far as I’m concerned.
• The Paper was good but a bit too serious most of the time. (Randy Quaid was too funny.)
• He was cute in Multiplicity but the movie itself was not good in my opinion.
• My Life was all about him dying, that just made me sad.
• I think Mr. Mom was a cute movie, but not a classic exactly.
• He was also good in the movie, Live From Baghdad. Of course, this was a win-win for me, because I had read the book about CNN’s live trendsetting broadcasts from our first Iraq conflict back in the nineties. The book was fascinating (I recommend it), the casting of the movie was simply frosting on the cake as far as I was concerned.

My all time favorite Michael Keaton part is the role of Dogberry in Much Ado About Nothing. Talk about not enough scenes, his role may qualify as a cameo, but I watch this movie strictly because of Keaton (although it has some of the best one-liners of any movie I know). If you haven’t seen his work in this movie, it’s the best. I recommed it just to see him. Even if you are not a Michael Keaton fan, I believe you’ll laugh.

Do you think he'd wear clogs for me? Hmmm, maybe . . . . anyway.

I work at a library and so wanting to know what other Keaton material we had in the system (it had been a while since I’d had a good dose), I did a search of our catalog.

An unexpected DVD came up in the search. A documentary that he narrates. Okay, not exactly my 'fix' of choice, but it piqued my interest anyway. Mainly because the subject of the documentary was Fred Rogers.

I have a special place in my heart for Mr. Rogers.
(Translation: I have such a profound appreciation and respect for this man that watching this DVD was a double jackpot.)

Apparently Micheal Keaton began his career working at a small public TV station in Boston that also employed Fred Rogers and they worked together in the early years. It was so cool hearing the admiration for Fred Rogers in the voice of Michael Keaton. The DVD was a bit predictable but wonderful all the same.

I grew up on Fred Rogers. Now I didn't exactly mention it to my friends on the play ground, but I watched him every day after school. Because of my skeptical, cynical nature even at that age, I know I didn’t benefit as much from the spirit and intent of the show as I could have, but I knew even then that it soothed my soul in some way. It was relaxing and reassuring.

When I was grown with children of my own, we watched it together.
When they were older and going to school, I’d watch it without them.

Well, ‘watch’ is probably not the right word. As I was folding clothes, making beds, posting teacher conference reminders, scanning PTA memos and peeling potatoes for that evening’s dinner, making the list of science fair supplies we’d be picking up from Lowe’s hardware and trying to get the glue stick detached from the carpet, calling the vet for the inevitable appointment in Velvet’s future and searching for unseen but inevitable Lego pieces and Barbie shoes from under the sofa I would listen to Mister Roger’s Neighborhood.

I was calmed by his voice, by the piano, by the songs of encouragement, by the words of truth. I was soothed like a familiar meditation. What ever the chores in my daily life, my world was quieted by Mr. Rogers.

Probably neither of these men will ever be in the 100 most Googled celebrities, but I am a fan. And I love the way the universe works and brought them together in their careers and in my affection.

September 11

I could get completely caught up in an argument of the decisions made before 9/11. Administrative, economical, political decisions that may have contributed to the death toll that day. Opportunities 'we' may have had to deal with bin Laden prior to that Tuesday. About people working in positions of national security who may have been fired for pointing out failures that quite possibly compromised our country's safety. Systems and policies in New York City that may have prevented clear communications between rescue agencies. Whether or not we had become a country of complacent citizens, oblivious to the world beyond us and even to the workings of our own government, unable to see past the end of our collective wallet.


I could also get caught up in arguments of the decisions made since 9/11. Whether we should or should not have gone to war with Iraq, whether or not we should still be at war with Iraq. Whether or not it's patriotic or disloyal to be against the war. Whether or not you can be against the war and still be seen as supportive of our troops. About the people who are/were in the position to make policy and decision that in effect treat an entire population of our nation's young and strong and courageous military personnel as if they are disposable human beings. If I wear a flag on my blouse today, am I pro-war? If I speak out against President Bush, am I unpatriotic? I could get completely caught up in such discussion.

But what I really want to do is weep.

All day today and for a few day after, my eyes will be wet and red and on the verge. People I work with will wonder if I'm feeling okay. It's a grief very specific to September 11th. It happens every year since 2001. It feels heavy, like a wet wool coat that I can't take off. Heavy, dark, oppressive.

It isn't that I don't think about it and remember through out the other days of the year. I do. But when the anniversary comes around, inside my chest there seems to develop the weight of a stone engraved with 09/11/01

I guess I feel like I don't have the right to this grief. I have no direct nor indirect connection to any one who was killed or injured on September 11th. I have no personal friends or family that have been sent to Iraq or Afghanistan as a result of September 11th. I read somewhere that 3,051 children lost a parent that day and over 1,600 people lost a spouse or a partner. I can't even begin to know the pain involved for the friends and families of those who suffered and died. But I still feel the most intense, personal and profound grief I have ever known. It isn't a brotherhood, patriotic fellow countryman type grief, otherwise it wouldn't feel so lonely.

If I did get all tied up in the debates surrounding 9/11, I believe it would help distract me from this sadness.

What I think about most are the rescuers. The firefighters, police officers, paramedics, port authority officers, World Trade Center security staff. And the decisions made on that day.

I was recently at a fire extinguisher safety class and the firefighter speaking to us, explained that it's so easy to second guess why a parent would come running out of a burning house, completely forgetting the child left inside but that the smoke and chemical fumes, the darkness and panic and instinct that overwhelms a person, can easily leave one incapable of logical thought and decision-making capabilities.

I can only imagine but it seems to me the first thought on almost any one's mind in the towers or at the Pentagon that day must have been 'get out of the building.' I imagine these people found their feet and hands doing things beyond logical thought. Running faster than they thought possible, breaking down doors, tearing through the wall of a stuck elevator, carrying the disabled, pulling terrified co-workers down the stairs, throwing themselves out the windows as a last resort, anything to escape the fire and destruction all around them. Anything to get away, to just get out.

But the rescuers went in. They went running in the doors, up the stairs, straight into the smoke and the dark and the toxic fumes that everyone else was running away from. They ran against the flow of humanity, against the instinct of fear and self preservation. They ran in. My hands tremble when I think about this. I know I couldn't do it. I am in awe of such behavior. I cannot get over what they did that day. Each and every one. All that survived and all that did not.

I wish I could thank them enough, the men and women of our country who make rescue their work, the courageous members of our military. I stop by a couple of local fire stations and leave flowers, I say thank you. I shake the hand of a war veteran and express my gratitude, but it feels empty and falls short of what I am trying to say. I really don't think it can be accurately or adequately said. And if it can be, I don't think it can be said often enough.

That day and the days and weeks that followed, as we tried to process what had happened, I noticed people handling it in a variety of ways. Some people painted their roof like the American flag, others stopped by fire stations and police stations with food and flowers to show support. Some joined the military, some re-enlisted. I remember the Veteran's Day assembly at my children's elementary school later that year. My children and their class mates sang the songs of each branch of the military and during the songs, members of the audience who were active duty or retired military were to stand during the song of their branch of service. I sobbed. It was so helpful and touching the shift that swept our country following the attacks. It soothed my heart. But I remember thinking this was an opportunity for personal change. There was a lot of room for such thinking. Unfortunately there still is.

It's been six years and my life has changed some and I'm grateful, but it hasn't changed nearly enough. I so wanted to use this national tragedy to prompt something positive in my own world, in my heart. I wanted to be able to look back and know that in the midst of our national recovery, I gained a new perspective. That I would no longer fall for my usual and age old pitfalls of behavior that have never served me well, and then consequently did not serve those I love well. After September 11, 2001 I wanted to never be the same.

I'm still working on it. I haven't given up. I'm getting there and want to remember today with reverence for what was lost and with hope with what is ahead.

Essentials

A few days ago I was shopping at one of those deluxe grocery stores. The kind with the regular grocery stuff, but also a cosmetics department, a hunting department, a computer department, and an Army surplus department. Okay, not really but you know the mega-stores I mean.

I do not like to shop. I tolerate grocery shopping because the end result is eating, but otherwise I don't like it.

I am often guilty of thinking I'll just run right in here, grab a couple things and be done. Voila!

This turns out to be wishful thinking more often than not. What usually happens is more like, I run in and refuse to grab a cart or even a basket because I'm only getting a few things, remember? I get my 'few' things, but while I'm shopping I spot something (or some things) else that I really need to get (really) but forgot to put on the short list in my hand. So by the time I get up to the check out, things are over flowing my arms. I walk up there with a death-grip hug on a gallon of milk, a bag of ice, sunscreen, notebook paper, ice cream, champagne, a five pound bag of rice (because it's so much cheaper per pound) and the Sunday newspaper. Knowing that if I let go of any one thing, we are going to need 'clean up' on Checkstand 713. Speedy quick.

So a few days ago I found myself running in said mastodon-store. It worked out fine, I was successful in not having to break down and grab a basket, I paid for my items and carried my three bags, worth ninety-seven dollars, and headed out to my car. Whew, another shopping trip survived.

An hour later I was sitting at the dining room table of a friend, catching up, when I felt something odd in my pocket. It was a tiny bottle of lavender essential oil from the Natural Food section of the Godzilla-store. Exactly $9.99 worth of essential oil. The odd thing about this item in my pocket is that I never took it out of my grocery bag. So, as I'm fingering this bottle and the little security tag attached to the side that is almost bigger than the bottle itself, I realize that for the first time since before grade school, I have shop lifted.

Now we all have our youthful indiscretions to look back on. I have mine, not to be mentioned here, and you have yours. Remember? Anyway, shop lifting is not one of my childhood guilts. One time, just once, I took something. I took a single, whole walnut from the bulk bin of the produce department of the only Safeway of our small town and slipped it into my pocket. I was probably about four or five years old. When I got home, I was so afraid of getting caught that all I wanted to do was hide it. There was enormous guilt in that one nut. I found a hiding place behind our recliner/rocker in the corner. It sat there for a while, then the next time we were headed for the store, I put it back in my pocket and slipped it back into the bulk bin at Safeway.

Whew, crisis and a life of crime averted.

Now do you wonder, if I was going to shop lift anything, why I didn't go for a Blowpop, or Bottlecaps or pretend cigarettes? Something worth the risk? I wonder exactly the same thing. I think the walnut, in it's impenetrable-for-a-five-year-old shell, is symbolic. I'm just not sure of what. Maybe that I am nuts.

Back to the present: I sit at my friend's table not mentioning the sweaty hand and bottle in my pocket. Now of course, I'm not worried about getting caught, but I hate this feeling. When loading up my arms with the big ticket items, I must have slipped it into my pocket to free up a hand. I hate that I shopped mindlessly, that I was not paying attention, that I was in such a hurry that I walked out of that high security mother of all stores (where the alarm did NOT sound as I walked out) with this essential oil in my pocket. Do you know what most people use lavender oil for? RELAXATION! The irony!

So I'm tired and I looking forward to getting home after our visit. I could return to the store another day and pay for the misdemeanor in my pocket but I know that my soul will not like this one little bit. I have to, want to take care of it as soon as possible.

I pull into the parking lot and run back into the store. The alarm sounds as I'm crossing the threshold. Yeah, yeah. I take it back to the same check out I went through the first time I was in this hell store; it was not the same cashier. I explain that 'somehow' I walked out without paying for this item (and by the way, you're alarm system is on backward) and so I now need to pay for it. The cashier is a kid, a young man of maybe, MAYBE nineteen. He listens to me, and squints his eyes.
"You came back to pay for it?"
"Yes."
"Most people wouldn't have done that," he states, probably not realizing that I'm taking this as a compliment, instead of the way he intends it.
"Most people would probably break out in boils when they used it too," I explain. "I am not taking any chances."
He looks confused.
"I don't screw with karma like that," I said.
He gives me half a smile, pity probably, and I leave the store and head home to reward myself with a cold glass of Bellatore and a clear retail conscience.

Now as most of my posts do, this one is taking on a life of its own. The point I set out to make here is that we have become a society of seeing what we can get away with. It has become an 'accomplishment' to envy, when some one boasts of getting away with something.

"Guess what! The chick at the drive up at Wendy's just gave me five dollars too much change."

"I got caught going twenty over the speed limit, but I went to court to fight my ticket and I got it cut in half."

In sports, children (not to mention the paid professionals) spend the entire game trying to get away with something. Arguing calls that they know are just, flopping to the ground acting like they were fouled to get an undeserved (and probably unpracticed) foul shot. Getting tackled at the eight yard line, and wrestling around in the pile, inching the ball closer and closer to the first down marker when they think the ref won't see. Always trying to get away with something, and then patting themselves on the back when they are successful.

When did this happen? This shift from doing the right thing, simply because it wouldn't occur to us to do anything else. It feels very subtle to me. It's not like the price of gas or the rate of meth use, that you can see creeping ever sky ward. It happens unseen, unchecked and even celebrated.

I do not want any credit or brownie points for doing the right thing here. (Although I wouldn't mind a brownie.) What I hope happens instead is that that kid thinks about it; that after he got off work and was deciding which fast food establishment to patronize, he remembers the lady who came all the way back into the store just to pay for one item she inadvertently walked out with.

This is a lot to hope for, I'm afraid.