Reinvention in the Mirror

"Inspiring you to reinvent yourself"

Dear Friends,

I’ve written five new posts in my imagination since the last one that actually made it to you. (Each brilliant in its own way.) Today, I want to open up a bit of my character for our collective inspection, reflect on the reinvention I’ve been sharing since February, and let you know why I paused.

“It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.” Just like the giddily playing kids whose parent must yell this cliché, I began my journey of reinvention with little idea of the risks. For one thing, it did not dawn on me, though it should have, that this blog and my FB pages would be stalked by someone without my best interest in mind. As I hope you’ve figured out, there are aspects of my life that I do keep private, writing nothing about here or on Facebook. Besides simple discretion and courtesy to others involved in my “reinvention,” I am sensitive to the idea, developed in social science, that to observe something is to change it in some way. So, I share with you what I am open to your influence over – you, meaning the innumerable people, currently known to me or not, who may ultimately read these musings. By opening myself to your observation, I know that my experiences themselves are somehow altered. All the more so, as I am describing my life to you with intent and choices; of course I’m aware of and influenced by your presence.

This blog is about growth, learning, joy, gratitude and excitement. In these areas, the more the merrier! Come on in for a swim in these pools of my mind; splash around; make some noise; run, even, if you wish. It’s safe and I welcome it. 

Why did I start the blog this year? Because I have illnesses that have forced me to change direction; because I was too ill to work and what on earth was I going to do with myself? Because I have financial and familial circumstances that one could consider dire. (Okay, that are dire.) Because I am much lesser abled than I ever was, in life-critical ways. Because everything must change because everything has changed.  

My response to those truths is to dwell as much as possible on these equally available truths: that there are also good circumstances in my life, that I have plenty of blessings to count, and that to a great extent, I get to choose my private and public responses to the losses. (Jewish tradition includes very sensible distinctions between public and private mourning.) It is not the circumstance that defines one, but the response.

My cyber-stalker – yes, someone I know – believes that if one is true the other must be a lie. Either I am in dire straits or I am joyful.  If I write about joy and good fortune here, that belies my “claim” of difficult circumstances. If my physical and financial difficulties are true, then – obviously – I am lying to you in this blog and on Facebook. This person has decided that I lie habitually and that I have little integrity.

So I paused. To ponder. To give the stalker less fodder for misinterpretation. To wonder, am I being truthful with you? After much deliberation, I came to this thought: 

Pthththththththththththththth!!!!

It may be harder to burst with joy when counting too few pennies or when feeling knocked off one’s feet, but it is by no means impossible. A stimulating conversation may do it, as may evoking an infant’s smile. 

Watching a cat choose the posies’ planter as a cat bed has done it. Seeing FB photos of former students loving life does it. Chocolate ice cream does it (duh!), as does linguistic and philosophical discourse with a new FB friend.

I don’t yet have the answers to my fiscal well-being, and I don’t know how I will live a productive life with the ailments that limit me. I don’t. I grieve plenty, in private and to my closest confidantes. It scares me not to control the outcome, not even to know it. 

What I do know is that for me, joy is the antidote to fear. Laughter pushes stress away. Creative expression lightens the burden. Loving family and friends soothe my achy soul. And that, my dears, is no lie.

So, after this, back we go: to aspirations, inspiration, and the occasional stinky perspiration. Back to joy, growth, and beauty. Back to learning, reinvention, naysayers be damned.

Thanks for reading!

Love, Rhonda

For the Love of God…

“Inspiring you to reinvent yourself”

Dear friends,

I bought a blender this month, the kind that crushes everything with blades of steel. Not the insanely expensive brand that produces so much friction, COSTCO hawkers make soup in it. I dreamed about that one, imagining it would change my life forever. I love soup, and if I make frozen margaritas, surely beautifully plumed people would flit around me like hummingbirds to nectar? Nah.

I rejected the TV miracle one that looks like a mortar shell and is likely to send smoothie gloop-shrapnel all over my kitchen. On the other hand, I loved my Ginzu knives, so maybe this is good quality. Still, too utilitarian; I wouldn't love it.

No, I bought the Jackie Chan of blenders, the one that chops board-hard carrots like butter. It was love at first blend. Amazing! Kale tastes great with pears, ginger and raspberries, and with carrots, apples, protein powder and chocolate chips. It’s remarkable how kale, almond oil, parmesan and pine nuts turn into pesto with the push of a finger. I have eaten more iron, Vitamin C and fiber than my intestinal track knows what to do with. It’s like after a week at Kripalu, eating vegan foods in bulk.

Thanks, Brunetteanthem.com

Though it might be hard to discern, this post is about the languages of love – or more specifically, my languages of love. My new friend Anna, a fictional representation of a real person  (I am helping a beloved client writing a Roman à Clef—fictionalized tell-all—and this is a good warm-up), mentioned love at her kitchen table Monday.

I had just sealed a deal with her daughter, Rebecca, to work for me this summer, and Anna and I had just agreed to collaborate on a writing project. We had also just conspired to get more food-based iron into her oldest daughter, Callie, who babysits at my house three afternoons a week. My role? Make her smoothies with kale hidden within, of course. Kale for Callie. (The alliteration works with Callie’s real name, too, but if I told you, I'd have to..., well, you know.)  Anna had just texted back to Rebecca, who texted her mom from the basement that she wanted to go hang out with her boyfriend. And I had just told Anna that her ex-husband Bernard, who is my fictional friend and financial advisor, has been trying to get me to stop buying people gifts. “The languages of love,” Anna murmured, in a moment of intellectual flight that hooked me and carried it with me.

What are my languages of love? I am a love polyglot! I do speak gift. How could I not buy the What da Cluck T-shirt for a friend who raises chickens? A spring jacket for a toddler niece? A hand-painted mug in her favorite colors for a friend who turned 50?

I also speak a hybrid of schoolmarm, Jewish mother and soft-bosomed auntie. I see to your education and that there are childproof locks on the cabinets. I scold you for talking trash and kvell over your every achievement. (Kvelling is Yiddish for celebrating a loved one’s/student’s accomplishments in a joyfully connected “And s/he’s mine!” sort of way.) I hug you, coo at you and rub your back. I laugh at your jokes and listen to your music. I use endearments and touch your hair or shoulder when I walk by. I say and text “I love you” often. If you are an infant, toddler, dog, cat, goat or alpaca, I talk a stream of pleasant sounding nonsense to you, often responding to your garbled verbiage with, “I know, baby. I agree with you completely. What do you think about X (world peace, those Mets, etc.)?” If you’re a teenager, I meet your ideas with wondering questions – you sparked my curiosity! I cook you soup.

Speaking of soup, I was trained from birth to speak food: smoothies with iron; pesto in little jars for everyone; a Passover seder for non-Jewish friends replete with brisket, Moroccan chicken, fresh-made horseradish and beets, matzo ball soup and innumerable kugels; brunch out; ice cream. Coffee fixed the way you like it. And I am also an avid listener to the language of Food.

I can listen and jabber on for days in Daughter, Friend, Lover and Sister. 

Parents Fran and David. Taught me many love languages

I speak resume and cover letter and their parent language, editing. I speak Stay at my House, Borrow my Car and What do You Need beautifully, along with Breathlessly Funny Shared Story-Telling. I am fluent in Hold on, You’re Safe, though much less so in I’m Letting Go Now. I overuse the cyber love language, Facebook, and cannot get enough of I Love Hearing Your Love Languages.

When alone, I use my ESL–extra-sensory love–to scan the well-being of those with whom I have not spoken today, this week, this month, and sometimes even, this year. I use this vibratory language to wish them into greater well-being, celebrate with them, ease their fear or grief, and let them know that I miss and love them. In many cases, a greeting card would do better, but I speak post office haltingly and have never quite gotten the rhythms of Remember My Birthday or Happy Anniversary.

Languages of love:so satisfying to think about this morning! Thank you, fictional Anna, for sparking this train of thought. I’ve loved it. Now off either to make my breakfast smoothie or take my early morning nap. Probably the nap; I love naps.

Love, Rhonda

The Muck Between the Bucket Seats

"Inspiring you to reinvent yourself."





Dear Friends,

I'm just sitting for a moment. Recapturing my breath on a cold and accomplished day. Homemade sipping chocolate rests cooling close at hand. More to do, more to do. In a bit, I promise.

May this fibro-woman hear an "ooh, ah," for each of these accomplishments?

• Get out of bed. Get dressed right away. (Huge.) 
• Feed the cats, water four creatures and let the dogs out. Give each some one-on-one loving. 
• Resolve a TurboTax issue by seeing if it would resolve itself: It did. Taxes filed. 
• Fail to design a business card on Moo.com. If at first you don't succeed, procrastinate. 
• Phone meeting: brief, warm and productive. 
• In-person meeting: brief, warm and productive. 
• Get bank paperwork done in under fifteen minutes. (I'd prepared ahead.) 
• Eat lunch while chatting with my niece. 
• Get snow tires changes to all-weathers. This meant: clear heavy things from car; put heavy things in car; do crossword puzzles and email; shop on Amazon Mobile; and clear heavy things from my car again. 
• Remove car muck. I believe the Talmud states that car muck over a k'zayit ("like an olive") must be removed by hand two weeks before Passover. Four freezing months' worth of fallen popcorn, dried pear stems, gluten-free cookie crumbs, seltzer can tabs, faded gas receipts, lozenge wrappers, used napkins and broken tooth-flossers. 

It was the muck that got me. Leaning across the driver's seat, right elbow up on that storage thing, left arm stretched full length into the passenger foot-well, I realized that I could not move. My legs were straight back, toes barely touching ground. My arms had no leverage; whatever muscle tone in the past would have popped me right back up was gone.

This was slapstick. "Stan....ley!" (Young 'uns, no one alive should miss Stanley Laurel and Oliver Hardy’s work: http://www.laurel-and-hardy.com/)

I scissored my legs, seeking traction. Nope.

I collapsed my right arm. Really!? Why?

I clutched at the crushed pen cap, flopped over sideways and, finally, wormed myself backward until my toes gripped tarmac and I could bend my knees.

Up I bounced, practicing what my feline friends have taught me: Land on your feet; shake yourself off; say, "I meant to do that," then walk away slowly, with your tail in the air.

No one saw. (A wiser woman might not have blogged about it.)

Tonight, you ask? There's a bedroom to tidy, laundry to load, a Paypal account to open, and an office to organize. So if you need me, look for me in front of an episode or two of NCIS.

Please share, follow, like, and comment. I don't yet understand why, but I think it matters.

Thank you.

Love, Rhonda

Here's what warmed me, besides your company: Rhonda's Almost Vegan Sipping Chocolate:

6 oz        Silk Almond-Coconut Milk
6 chips   Ghiradelli semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 packet Stevia, any brand
1.5 Tbs   Unsweetened cocoa, Hershey's or finer
1 dollop  Whipped cream, chilled

Microwave nut milk for 1 minute. Assemble other ingredients. Add cocoa, chips and stevia. Stir with a fork to dissolve powders and attain a foamy top. Heat again, 30 seconds at a time, until desired warmth is achieved. Peak with whipped cream. Sip, being sure to establish nose-tip to whipped cream contact. Moan happily.

Time Travel

"Inspiring You to Reinvent Yourself"

Dear Friends,

The message was  dread-inspiring: "Please call me, I've got news," said in that sad voice meant to soften a blow. Bad news was in store. Someone had to have died. 

Someone had: the mom of three high school friends. I was in the school choir, but not particularly close, with the twin boys my age. But their older brother was a different story. Mitchell was my first crush, my first date, my first kiss, my first boyfriend. We saw the first Star Wars film on the first showing of the first day of its local release. (And I have the "May the Force be With You" pin to prove it.) 

I've been Facebook connected with Mitch since about 2005, but not at all with the twins through the 37 years since we graduated. There is also a younger brother who was a little kid when we were teens. 

Mrs. Schwartz , Mom to her sons, and Maxine or Magi to friends and family (so I learned yesterday). Mrs. Schwartz and I spent little time together -- it wasn't what you might imagine, with her raising four boys as a divorced mother: I was not the daughter Maxine never had. 

While I doubt I made an impression on her, Mrs. Schwartz made a huge impression on me. This woman, "Mrs." to no man, was the first brash, independent and sexy over-sized woman I'd met. She had what she needed and lived as she liked (from my adolescent perspective, anyway). She raised four boys firmly and with no fuss. 

When Mrs. Schwartz wanted to sun her ample body, she wore an itsy bitsy bikini. This snapshot serves me as a coaching image: a tanned, sweaty, bikini-clad Mrs. Schwartz entering the house to get an icy drink. For nearly 40 years, it pops up to remind me -- a perpetually over-sized woman -- that I may dress as I wish and I may feel sexy without approval from the Thin Police.

So I drove to Baltimore for the funeral. To comfort the Schwartz boys, whom I knew when I was a girl exploring her femininity, and to imbibe memories of the first woman to show me that Sexy, like a bikini, should be worn however one chooses.  

Hugging each Schwartz brother for the first time in decades, felt like honey tastes. Watching the alchemy of laughter, tears and memory morph their faces into those worn by the boys they were made me happy. 

I met Mitchell's magnificent wife and nearly adult offspring. I caught up with his closest friend -- the one who called  to say I should be there -- and the third in their three musketeers-style friendship. I re-met my own brother's childhood friend, a fellow public and Hebrew School traveler. Weekly, these boys amused themselves with a hearty game of Kill the Guy with the Yarmulke at the bus stop and on the synagogue lawn. 

I traveled down through New York, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland and Time yesterday. Today, I will travel up to New York and the present, savoring the sweet sights, sounds, memories and tastes of Mrs. Schwartz's farewell. From my view, this fabulous woman went out as she lived -- loved and in style!

Thank you for reading. If you are enjoying Reinventing Rhonda, please share it with your friends. If not, please share it with those whom you wish to annoy.

Love, Rhonda