Acorn in an Apple Suit

Some experts in human behavior will say that we are born predisposed to certain behavioral tendencies, others will argue that we are products of our environment, and there are those who say it's a mix of the two. I'm not an expert, however, I do have an opinion: genetics have a say in what happens, but environment has the final word. The acorn doesn't fall far from the oak tree (genetics), unless, that is, the oak tree is on a steep hill, in which case the acorn could roll downhill and end up under an apple tree (environment).

I don't know how I knew at a very young age that there was something about me that just wasn't quite right, but I knew just the same. I felt like an acorn in an apple suit. It was very uncomfortable, but I had to wear it anyway. As a child, you have no options. You do as your caregivers say you do. Because the ability to reason isn't in children much younger than six or seven, they believe what they are told. Their reflection of themselves (how they see themselves) is seen from the mirrors being held by those closest to them.) Are you still with me or did I lose you at "I felt like an acorn in an apple suit"? So, if a child sees themselves in the mirrors of others as not all that important or special or lovable, then they believe it.

I believed it.

Still Broken

In an effort to fix the parts about me that were broken, I spent many hours sitting in college psychology classes studying human behavior and hoping that somewhere between Adler and Vygotsky I'd be cured.  Didn't happen. Still broken.

I turned to self-help books: You're Okay, I'm Okay; 7 Habits of the Highly Effective People; The Road Less Traveled; Who Moved My Cheese; The Power of Now; The Four Agreements; Your Erroneous Zone; You Can Heal Yourself, and Chicken Soup for The Broken You...just to name a lot. Didn't work. Still broken.

Love was the answer; I was sure of it.  So I traveled down the road most traveled looking for love in all the wrong places. I thought finding love would make me happy, whole, complete...fixed; I was wrong. Still broken.

I know what you're thinking. I've tried everything else, what about therapy? I love that suggestion. Thank you for bringing that up. I think everyone could benefit from therapy--except you of course. Everyone knows you are the benchmark for mental and emotional stability. Yes, I have tried therapy. It didn't help. Still broken.

The Three Oopses

He left me on a hot August day in 1945. At the time, his leaving didn't concern me much. I had other more important things on my mind like 1) it's safe in here; I don't want to leave, and 2) why are people yelling "PUSH, PUSH"? and 3) why is someone pulling on my head? Then came the bright lights, my first of many spankings, and the transfer from the nurse's arms to my very sad mother's arms.

Meantime, back at my parents' apartment, my father was taking advantage of Mother being away to deliver his daughter to pack his bags and head on over to Edna's place. She was the woman he really loved, not my mother. No, Mother was an Oops, as was my older sister and me. We were the three Oopses.  "Oh, and by the way," my father said, "if we could just sweep these three oopses under the carpet and keep them a secret, that would be fine with me." And off he went to Edna's.

Meanwhile, back at my aunt and uncle's small two-bedroom apartment, they were hurriedly rearranging the furniture to accommodate the three Oopses. "It's only going to be a few months, right?" my uncle might have asked my mother's sister, Gracie, and her response, had she known, would have been, "Yes, Jimmy. Sixty months to be exact."

What Happens in Childhood

There is a Jesuit saying, "Give me a child until they are seven, and I'll give you the man." In other words, what happens in childhood stays in adulthood. As young innocents we are under the control of and influenced by someone else. We have absolutely no say in what happens in our narrow little world. Unless we are in a safe place, an environment where our caretakers are concerned about our best interests (not theirs), we are at risk for developing thought processes and behaviors that are at minimum non-productive and at most destructive to ourselves and others. Once those behaviors are locked into our persona, they're there for life...unless, that is, you set out like I did to fix myself.

I chose psychology as my major in college because I thought it would help me understand me and then fix me. It didn't. The day I walked out of my last psych class I continued down the same exact path as the first day of college. I was hardwired to be who I was, and changing that was not going to be easy.

Since Plan A didn't work, I knew I had to find another way to change my behavior and fix my broken self.

A Safe Place

"A Safe Place." That's what Dr. Phil says about his show. Sitting on his stage with the bright lights and cameras focused on you, with 4.8 million people watching your every move--you did remove that piece of spinach from your teeth, didn't you?--you should know that you are in a safe place to expose your deepest darkest secrets, your most personal problems. Go ahead now. Tell your story.

Okay, I guess it depends upon what your definition of safe is. If safe is someone else yelling at you and belittling you when you are in your most vulnerable state, then I guess the Dr. Phil show is where you should go for help.

For a long time now I have sought out a safe place far away from the screamers and yellers and body shakers who point an accusatory finger in my face because I’m not performing to their liking. A safe place for me is where calm, kind, and gentle override the desire to attack, and where logic, common sense, and mental stability defuse run-amuck emotions and hysteria. A safe place is where mature adult behavior overrules the childish desire to hit below the belt.

My safe place is far away from those who feel the need to boast themselves up by putting me down or use me as a prop in front of their audience to gain favor for whatever “cause” they might have at the moment. A safe place is far away from those who believe they have a right to verbally and emotionally abuse me.  

A safe place for me is as far away from the Dr. Phils of the world who offer embroidered handkerchiefs to their victims as they draw blood…I mean tears.

Believe N U

A while back I was told that my drawings I post on my blog "are something to be desired." Doubt rushed in and immediately condemned something that I have been doing for decades: describing my life through drawings.

It really doesn't matter if they are good or bad; they're here to stay. It is, after all, my blog.

Read more by Googling my blog: The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer.

Why I Love my Dog

When Tom and I got married in 2002, he asked me if I would like to get a dog. My answer was, "I don't think I'm a dog person," and then we went straight out and got a dog. I was wrong about not being a dog person. Even though I know the time is coming and sooner than I would like, I can't imagine life without Maggie Mae.

Over the last thirteen years, I've tried to list all of the reasons why I love my dog so much, but the list is so long, I lose track somewhere in the middle. Here are just a few reasons. I'm sure I'll think of more later.

Maggie is always happy. She loves me unconditionally and she is thrilled to see me when I return home...even if I've only been gone five minutes.

"You're back! You're back! I'm so happy you're back! 

I've missed you so much."

She listens attentively to everything I say.

'Yes...yes...go on. I'm listening."

"Still listening...but are you ever going to

mention 'eat' or 'ball' or 'outside' or
'squirrel'?" I like those words."

Maggie Mae is the smartest dog I have ever known. She understands complete sentences like, "Do you want something to eat?"

and "Wanna play with your ball?"

and "Wanna go outside? Maybe there's squirrels out there."

Maggie is so smart that she can even read words. 

...and tell time.

She's a devoted companion and wants to go with me everywhere I go.

She always wants to be with me; she follows me from room to room.

She just loves being with me.

She protects me from perceived danger.

She comforts me when I'm sick.

I love her cute little butt and her soft belly.

Just in case this pix goes viral on the Internet

I have blurred out Maggie Mae's face.

Love, love, love that belly.

And I love that she never asks for money or keys to the car.

Nope! This would never happen

if you owned a dog. 

If you don't have a dog, you don't know what unconditional love is...from a dog's perspective.

Rattle Those Pots and Pans

Tom's son, Michael, is coming to visit this weekend so I guess it's time to clean house. The last time we had company was June--rather soon to get the sweeper and dust pan out again, but we must present an image of clean and neat, right? Oh, did I say we? I meant to say I, as the woman of the house, must present an image of clean and neat because that is my job; that is what is expected of me. But, before you go thinking it's my husband--the man of the house--with the expectations, it's not him.

Early in life I was given a set of requirements that, as a female, I must follow. My mother, all four of my aunts, my grandmother, the ladies at the church, the next-door neighbor-ladies, my teachers, and the women on our little 12" black and white television ALL followed the rules of our gender. Who was I to question such a powerful group of rule-followers?  To not live up to their high expectations and standards of behavior was to risk criticism, admonishment, judgment, and a failing grade, and the consequence of failure could, for some women (me, for example), produce shame and guilt.

Every single one of those rule-followers that I mentioned above is gone now, yet they are still judging me, and as hard as I try to please them--okay, that's a lie; I'm not trying very hard--I am still getting an F in House Keeping.  They think I should spend less time working in my shop, digging in my garden, installing split-rail fencing, foraging trails through the woods, building cottages and outhouses, and writing blogs. "That's not women's work," they all say in unison. "You've got company coming. Dust that coffee table! Mop that floor! Clean those windows! Get in the kitchen and rattle those pots and pans!" 

I know I should do as they say; it's my gender's duty. But...but...but...