Life: Deal With It!

Life: Deal With It!

(Whinging Valley, Vortexia) – Deal with it! Get over it! How many times have we wished we could shout that at someone? The problem is, sometimes we need to shout it to ourselves. Why, I had to chastise myself just the other day to deal with an issue I would have rather ignored.

I can’t remember exactly what I was in such a dither about. Aging, most likely. Or perhaps the maddening, convoluted process of getting published. Maybe it was the fact that my father is battling lung cancer. Probably all three, with the latter providing the primary reason for wanting to hide my head in the proverbial sand.

Ah, denial, my dysfunctional friend. It’s such an attractive alternative in dealing with fear; in dealing with all of life’s imperfections. Indeed, I’ve perfected the art of pretending life is painless, that there’s no illness that can’t be cured and no life that can’t be resurrected. I imagine that I will live to be 100 and so will all of my friends and loved ones. I imagine every newlywed will be married happily ever after.

When accused of not being a realist, my defense, of course, is that I’m an optimist. But I delude myself; optimism is faith, and hope, in the face of reality. It allows us to tackle and defeat an enemy and move on. Denial is fantasy, pure and simple. It traps us in time and space and strangles any chance of gaining victory over our demons.

To deny the challenges and natural consequences of aging is illusory and just plain stupid. I might as well tell myself money grows on trees as believe growing old is a walk in the park.

And I’m learning to accept the goal of being a published novelist as the sadistic pursuit it is, rather than the romanticized image I once entertained. What a relief.

I will lose my dad some day. There’s no denying death, that grand-daddy of all fears, ever present boogey-man of our minds, thief of our peace and tormentor of our souls. It is the ultimate denial killer. After interviewing the Vicar of Baghdad recently, my pre-occupation with my father’s cancer subsided. There’s nothing like talking with someone who faces death everyday with a smile on their face to put it all in perspective. I’m no longer thinking of death in terms of “this side of the veil.” Instead, I’m training myself to look beyond the horizon into eternity.

So, after a two-week hiatus brought on by a writers’ conference, multiple manuscript submissions, and my dad’s health crisis, I’m back in Vortexia, refocused, rolling with the punches, raring to move on and deal with it.

It’s high time.

The Long Arm of the Law Reaches Around the World, Snagging Unsuspecting Man

The Long Arm of the Law Reaches Around the World, Snagging Unsuspecting Man

(Veni-Vidi-Vici, Vortexia) - Last summer we were in Italy for a Bertozzi family reunion. My husband, Big Time Dave, had unanimously been voted our designated driver. But before I tell you what happened this week, you must know something about Dave. He is a good driver. I didn’t say “safe” driver. “Good” and “safe” are sometimes two different things.

Dave is one of those fearless, “take-the-bull-by-the-horns” types; the kind of driver you would want to be in control of your car in an emergency. I’ve witnessed some of his hair-raising maneuvers and can guarantee they border on the miraculous. To this day, I still marvel at some of them.

Like the time we were separated from our lead car in the heart of Paris during rush hour and he did a U-turn in the middle of the Place de la Concorde. Eye-witnesses on the street were astonished. Or the time he returned a car rental in downtown Marseilles within moments of boarding our train. Anyone who has been to this little French Algeria on the Cote d’Azure knows what an incredible feat of motor engineering that must have been. Or the time he backed up on an interstate overpass in Rome. I nearly lost my lunch on that one.

Of course, that’s the kind of moxie a driver must have to drive in Italy.

As fate would have it, however, this week (almost a year from the date we were in Italy last year) Dave received a traffic ticket for 102 euros in the mail from EMO - The European Municipality Outsourcing. It was a lovely looking envelope with lovely print and grand flourishes; just like everything else in Italy. Lovely.

The loveliness was lost on Dave. You see, my husband is also a proud man when it comes to traffic fines. He was initially incredulous, then indignant, and finally outraged by a traffic camera’s claim that, on the outskirts of Florence last August he – according to Art. Lo 7C.14 – CIRCULATED ON THE BUS LANE DESPITE THE PROHIBITING TRAFFIC SIGNS AT THE BEGINNING OF THE BUS LANE.

Although he suffered a mental block while trying to recall that day in Florence, I remembered it vividly. Dave was in the front seat asking (shouting, actually) “What lane do I get in?” I and a friend in the back seat, magnifiers in hand, were pouring over a map straddled across our laps trying to make sense of the tangle of roads before us in the split-second we had to make a decision. It was the first of so many fiascos that day on the road to Rome, I’m surprised our mail box wasn’t flooded with traffic tickets when we got home.

Poor Dave. The long arm of the law, reaching all the way from Italy, has found him.

At first he debated not paying the fine, but thought better of it when he realized it would mean he could never go back. He would be a wanted man the next time we visited his cousins, and that just would not do. So, he’s sucking it up and coughing up the fine.

Given the daring reputation Daddy Dave has built for himself these last years, my kids and I are laughing till our sides hurt.

Knowing Which Bullets to Dodge and Which Bullets to Chase Down

KNOWING WHICH BULLETS TO DODGE AND WHICH BULLETS TO CHASE DOWN

(Pensees Park, Vortexia) – I have been informed by a concerned reader that a certain medication affiliated with a certain medical procedure I wrote about recently can cause kidney failure. Since I am still alive, I can safely assume I dodged that bullet, though the air is certainly thick with them, 24/7. It’s a real battle out there, folks.

Worse yet, (or better yet, depending on your ability to handle morbid thoughts) these metaphorical “bullets” seem to come with their intended victims’ names engraved on them along with the purpose of their mission…such as “Teresa Neumann – kill kidneys.”

Everyone has their bullet-dodging “close call” stories, of course. Those times we “just missed” being in a car accident, or “almost” lost our job, or just in the “nick of time” were snatched from disaster. Unfortunately, we rarely have the benefit of seeing these allegorical bullets until they zing past us so closely they sting.

To complicate matters, timing and location are critical to the ability of these “bullets” to hit their targeted victim. Take the case of our neighbor who was killed instantly while on his daily morning walk by a man who fell asleep at the wheel. If our neighbor had only slept a moment later, or had that second cup of coffee before leaving, or (fill in the blanks), he wouldn’t have been at the exact place at the exact time he was killed. Mind-boggling. Scary. Shades of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

But, seriously, there is another side to (dare I phrase it?) the “destiny” coin, and those are bullets of grace. Bullets engraved with promises, revelation and healing. These are the bullets that slap us upside the head with joy when they hit. The jobs we were convinced we’d never get, but did. The perfect mate we thought we would never find, but did. Those are the bullets we want to hit us smack on. No running, ducking or hiding from them, my friends.

Come to think of it, since 2009 has been a war-torn year for me, I guess I should take my own advice, quit cowering in fear over the next bullet I need to dodge and go on the offensive.

If you see any grace bullets with my name on them would you send them my way?