Cartoon Identification

I identify very strongly with two cartoon characters -- Lucy van Pelt and Lisa Simpson.

For Lucy, happiness may be a warm puppy, but dog kisses clearly go too far. She is a practical person who likes to win, but she is romantic, too (Schroeder). She's competitive, and dispenses advice readily because she has the world all figured out. Ask Lucy a philosophical question and she will give you a concise, direct answer without pulling any punches. In fact, she might punch you at the same time, just to get your attention or to make an indelible impression.

Lisa Simpson is best known as the brains of the Simpson family. (Bart may be just as bright, even brighter, but he uses his intelligence diabolically, earning him the lion's share of the attention and admiration of their parents.) Lisa is an idealist, always searching for a cause. She takes ethical positions and stands her ground against all obstacles. Her talents are unappreciated, but she works at them anyway. The slightest hint of praise buoys her. She sees the big picture and tries to convey the view to those around her, who are focused instead on minutiae. She admires other talented, idealistic people freely. But Lisa isn't perfect. She loves Ren & Stimpy and Crusty the Clown as much as Bart does. She can be jealous of the new kid in school who's smarter than she is. It's precisely because she isn't perfect that she's so believable. Though crudely animated, she seems like a real human being with an unpredictable nature, occasional moodiness, and human yearning.

Though I relate to both of them, I am not exactly like Lucy or Lisa. While I sometimes wish I had more of Lucy's brash confidence, I would not want to be as heartless and cruel as she sometimes is. Lisa, though scheming and caustic at times, is almost always well-intentioned and kind.

Fear of Rejection and the Quest for Perfection

For a long time now I've avoided telling people about this blog and I've avoided posting anything to it -- both for the same reason: if I say I am a writer and I do not write perfectly or do not write about interesting things (i.e., if I am not perfect), then I will be rejected. I will be revealed as a fraud -- I might even be pitied, which for me is the ultimate insult. Just yesterday it occurred to me, as the cat slipped out of the bag and people began logging onto my blog after Thanksiving dinner, that I will write anyway, imperfectly, and about any subject without worrying about the approval of my audience. So as Flip Wilson (or his alter-ego, Geraldine) used to say in my childhood, What you see is what you get!

For some reason I never really felt like an adult until I turned 40, when I gave myself permission to be one, or finally recognized that I was one, regardless of my illusions to the contrary. Being in my 40s is liberating in the sense that I can make declarations about myself. I can embrace my personality and celebrate it, instead of looking for ways to bend it to another's liking. I am a finished product to the extent that one can ever really be 'finished,' which is not to imply that I never want to improve or grow or learn. I still want to do all of those things, but I am comfortable with who I am. I no longer need to qualify myself - I declare myself qualified.

Now about perfection. For a long time, I couldn't send a first draft of a written letter. If the handwriting slanted to one side or if a word had to be smudged out, even on the back side of a long letter, or if I thought of a cleverer way of saying something, I had to wad up that page and start over. Page after page after page. In college, I ducked into restrooms before every class to brush my hair and retouch my make-up. I've agonized over having a clean house (especially for houseguests), over striking just the right tone in my communications with people, over dotting all my i's and crossing all of my t's, and I have reaped rewards for all of these efforts: occasional recognition for my excellent penmanship, favorable relations with every living person I've ever known, excellent credit, a respectable GPA, etc. But I have paid a price, too, in terms of personal satisfaction. As a perfectionist, I could not, by definition, be satisfied with myself.

The odd thing is that I am not a critical person by nature. I forgive other people their mistakes quite easily. I even make excuses for their bad behavior and try earnestly to love them anyway and to reassure them of their worth. From time to time I catch myself earnestly admiring the imperfections of others, imagining how wonderful it would be to allow myself to be flawed with impunity. (I am flawed, of course, but I punish myself accordingly.)

My inner critic turns a blind eye to everyone but me, saying he is who he is, and she is who she is, but you cannot be who you are. You must be better than you are. You must improve.

I am going to work at accepting myself as readily as I accept others.

Fall in Millcreek Canyon, Utah

Sherpa at Home

Thanksgiving Preparations Underway...

This past week I set up a blog for my in-law family members to post pictures to, since we are spread out over a wide geographic area. At first, no one seemed to see the purpose for it, but I think everyone is catching on now that Grandpa understands it and can post to it. Everyone wants to communicate with him, naturally.

It's Thanksgiving this Thursday and we will be hosting the feast at our house. We expect to have 22 people in attendance and at least one turkey, with an array of side dishes, of course. Initially I balked at the idea of hosting, mostly due to the pre-party cleaning and prep, but then decided to go for it. I am going to celebrate the family and not worry as much about the little stuff, even the food, which would normally take center stage. Attitude is everything when it comes to family get-togethers (and most everything else in life).

Cleaning is slow-going for me right now. I don't know if I am being passive agressive, rebellious...Why is it so hard to see a cleaning project through to its completion? I do not understand. I remember when I would clean for comany and take the house from 0 to 60 in a day. I can't do that anymore. Tomorrow night we are having a guest sleepover, my son's college roommate en route to the airport early Wednesday morning...We (mostly I) will be cleaning between now and then, which will make Thanksgiving Day less of a bother.

Desparately Seeking an Agent

Each Friday for the past several weeks I have visited the local post office to send out my book proposal to one agent per week. (It's a non-fiction children's book that I've been working on for several years now...) To date I have received one official rejection - a form letter, nonetheless, from the second agency I sent to. (I neglected to send an SASE to the first agency, so I may never hear from them at all.) I wouldn't say that it's frustrating yet, but it would be very nice to have a nibble, a hint of interest from SOMEone in the publishing industry. In reality, I understand that first books are almost never published without some real effort. If the book is picked up (i.e., sold), I will throw myself into the remaining research and writing until it is complete and published. I'd love to see it happen because I really think it would be a wonderful book for families.

In other news, I am processing loads of laundry and dishes today. (Yes, more than one load of dishes! I made a special dinner last night for Scott's birthday and used every mixing bowl we own, multiple pots, baking dishes, etc. As an aside, I must admit that the lasagna was particularly delicious...)

Tom woke me up before my alarm went off this morning to kill a spider who was dangling from the light fixture in the hallway. He described it as bungee jumping, springing up and down as it spun its web, but when the spider saw me it dropped to the ground and disappeared into the chocolate chip carpet. I couldn't see it at all, couldn't even detect movement. (That's why we chose this carpet. Scott asked the salesperson to show us carpet that already looked dirty.) So I dragged the vacuum cleaner up two stories and vacuumed all over the place before the sun had even come up. I really needed a housework day like this anyway, I suppose.

I think I finally told my first potential reader the address for this blog last night -- my husband. I'm still not sure exactly what to do with it, but I suppose the real purpose fr this blog will reveal itself over time. Meanwhile, it's nice to have one.