Disclaimer: To my readers... this blog may contain subject matter that could offend you.
Please read at your own risk.
To the rest: Never under-estimate the power of association... sights and sounds can conjure up memories and emotions beyond your wildest comprehension.
Case in point - the story I am about to share with you... the story of The Pap and The Cat.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I were enjoying a cup of coffee while reading the Sunday newspaper. He chuckled softly and then thrust the comic section of the paper at me, saying "Read Garfield."
I HATE THAT CAT! ... and here is why....
When I was a young girl, blossoming into the woman I am today - I started the annual ritual of visiting the doctor for a barbaric procedure known as "the pap smear" exam, often and fondly referred to as the "annual pap" or simply a "pap" exam. Whatever you want to call it - it is not a pleasant experience. Period.
I suppose the first time for everything always seems to have the most impact on a person. For me, that was certainly the case. My mom scheduled my appointment for me at the women's clinic.
I shudder just at the thought of it. Women's Clinic. Women's. Clinic. Deep breath. Continue.
The doctor who did my first exam was kind enough. She was thoughtful and careful - explaining each and every awful step of the procedure to me. But, I didn't hear a word she said. Not a word. Zip. What I was focused on was hanging above my head, on the ceiling, secured by 4 tacks - three red, one blue. It was a poster. A "Garfield" poster, to be exact. As I was held hostage with both feet in stirrups, I locked eyes with Garfield, the cat. He was sitting, with a bowl of pasta over his head, looking most disgusted. The bubble caption on the poster read: "I hate Mondays!" and as I lay there, strapped in, I thought to myself - "I hate Garfield."
Each year I would return to that exam room. Each year, that damn cat was waiting for me. In time, the corners of the poster yellowed a bit and the paper started to sag in the middle - but it still hung there, just the same. Now, I am sure that Jim Davis - the creator - is a fine man. I am sure that he never meant to cause me any harm or traumatic association fueled flashbacks with his lasagna-loving cat. But thanks to the women's clinic, the damage has been done. I wonder how many other women hate Garfield? I bet there is a silent community of us out there; a support group in the making.
Upon telling this story, I am quite confident that my husband will never share another Garfield comic with me again and for that, I am most thankful. A happy ending.
So there you have it, boys and girls, that is the story of "The Pap and The Cat."
The end.
Wanderlust wishes,
Joni
Friday, December 10, 2010
Beach Glass
"Why do you have a jar filled with glass?" - she asked, innocently.
My reply - "That's beach glass"... and I turned away.
This is what I didn't tell her:
I suppose I started collecting beach glass over 30 years ago. Living near the ocean, walking the beach in search of treasures that washed upon the shore was an automatic thing. I suppose I never really gave it much thought; it just happened. It started with small rocks - white ones, especially. White rocks have magical powers. Any kid can tell you that. I slowly graduated to collecting shells that were discarded by the creatures who once called them home. As I grew older and more courageous, I would pick up shells that were still inhabited - only to return them back to the sea upon inspection.
The first piece of beach glass I ever picked up was at Ediz Hook, in Port Angeles, Washington. It was clear glass - frosted by the sand, rocks, waves, and water. I remember then thinking that is was quite a find, so into my pocket it went. When I got home, I washed my prize under warm water in the sink and dried it off with a towel. I held it up to the light, but I could not see through it. I rolled it around in my hand and enjoyed the smooth sides that were once jagged. I carried my treasure into my bedroom, placing it into a jar. And that's how it began...
I would return to the beach many times in search of glass. I no longer cared for rocks or shells, it was the beach glass that I desired. White, brown, green glass... and on very lucky occasions, I would find blue glass and other exotic colors, as well. All sizes. All shapes. It didn't matter. If the edges were still jagged, I tossed the glass back to the sea so that she could finish her work of smoothing and frosting the glass. I considered us partners; me and the sea.
I took to the beach for many reasons... the boy who broke my heart, the bad grade, the difficult decision... or simply just because it was there. The glass I collected soon came to represent those emotions, those decisions, those milestones in life... and my collection outgrew the jar. Soon there were many jars...all filled with beach glass.
I still walk those beaches ... sometimes alone, sometimes with my husband, or sometimes with my son. We search... we talk... we walk... only stopping to pick up treasures. When beach glass is found - there is a ritual; an unwritten custom in our family. When a piece of glass is found - it is handed to me in silence, passed from their hand to mine. There is a pause as I roll the glass in my hand. If accepted, the offering will be placed in a pocket. If not, it will return to the sea. And so it goes...
Why do I have jars filled with glass? - because they are a collection of memories... life lessons, vacations, tough decisions, broken hearts, sick pets, sunny days, dying parents...and gifts from the ones I hold most dear.
Wanderlust wishes,
Joni
My reply - "That's beach glass"... and I turned away.
This is what I didn't tell her:
I suppose I started collecting beach glass over 30 years ago. Living near the ocean, walking the beach in search of treasures that washed upon the shore was an automatic thing. I suppose I never really gave it much thought; it just happened. It started with small rocks - white ones, especially. White rocks have magical powers. Any kid can tell you that. I slowly graduated to collecting shells that were discarded by the creatures who once called them home. As I grew older and more courageous, I would pick up shells that were still inhabited - only to return them back to the sea upon inspection.
The first piece of beach glass I ever picked up was at Ediz Hook, in Port Angeles, Washington. It was clear glass - frosted by the sand, rocks, waves, and water. I remember then thinking that is was quite a find, so into my pocket it went. When I got home, I washed my prize under warm water in the sink and dried it off with a towel. I held it up to the light, but I could not see through it. I rolled it around in my hand and enjoyed the smooth sides that were once jagged. I carried my treasure into my bedroom, placing it into a jar. And that's how it began...
I would return to the beach many times in search of glass. I no longer cared for rocks or shells, it was the beach glass that I desired. White, brown, green glass... and on very lucky occasions, I would find blue glass and other exotic colors, as well. All sizes. All shapes. It didn't matter. If the edges were still jagged, I tossed the glass back to the sea so that she could finish her work of smoothing and frosting the glass. I considered us partners; me and the sea.
I took to the beach for many reasons... the boy who broke my heart, the bad grade, the difficult decision... or simply just because it was there. The glass I collected soon came to represent those emotions, those decisions, those milestones in life... and my collection outgrew the jar. Soon there were many jars...all filled with beach glass.
I still walk those beaches ... sometimes alone, sometimes with my husband, or sometimes with my son. We search... we talk... we walk... only stopping to pick up treasures. When beach glass is found - there is a ritual; an unwritten custom in our family. When a piece of glass is found - it is handed to me in silence, passed from their hand to mine. There is a pause as I roll the glass in my hand. If accepted, the offering will be placed in a pocket. If not, it will return to the sea. And so it goes...
Why do I have jars filled with glass? - because they are a collection of memories... life lessons, vacations, tough decisions, broken hearts, sick pets, sunny days, dying parents...and gifts from the ones I hold most dear.
Wanderlust wishes,
Joni
The Journey Begins....
A journey begins with a single step, so they say. My journey is beginning with a single blog.
After giving this a great deal of thought, I have decided to join the blogging community. While embarking on this voyage, I am fully aware that the contents of my "Wanderlust Writings" may only be of interest to me - and me, alone. Regardless, here is my open invitation to the universe to take a little trip with me to the dark corners of my brain and read about the things that linger there...
My blogs might make you laugh, or cry... or perhaps you may even get a bit angry at reading my words. I suppose success will be measured by my ability to evoke some sort of emotion - that the words I write will cause a reaction on a personal level for you. I look forward to those connections. Indeed, strange things mingle souls.
So, here's to mingling .... may our journey begin!
Wanderlust wishes,
Joni
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