Part One: exPOEse'

exPOEsè
Elizabeth Willis Barrett
May 31, 2010

Betsy Woodward was the kind of woman that every woman envied. Well, at least the women in the LDS 7th Ward of Gilbert. Her home was spotless, her children well behaved and popular, her husband handsome and successful. When her visiting teachers came each month, Betsy’s home smelled of homemade bread and her living room, which is, of course, the only room that Visiting Teachers ever see, looked like a Thomasville showroom.

While waiting at the front door—totally devoid of cobwebs—her Visiting Teachers could hear Betsy singing a very cheerful ditty. This proved that along with everything else in Betsy’s favor, she didn’t have an ounce of depression. Here was a woman polished to perfection and untouchable by anyone in the boundaries of the 7th Ward. It was a bit intimidating.

When Betsy went to her son Mark’s football games, she looked more like one of the students with her slim body and fashionable clothes. Mark was, of course, the quarterback and the greatest reason for the team’s success. Her daughter, Elise, was excellent at ballet or so everyone said and her youngest son, Benjamin, had the sweetest personality in the whole Primary.

The women of the 7th Ward Relief Society didn’t know Betsy as well as most of them knew each other since she had only been in their ward for a year. But they knew enough. They knew that besides the aforementioned kids, Betsy had three older children—two at BYU and one on a mission. If that didn’t signify parental success, what did? They also knew that she lived in the most beautiful home in the ward, that she drove a very nice car, and that she could sing like an angel. All of this excellence made Betsy quite unapproachable, so she didn’t have any close friends in the ward and didn’t get invited to go to lunch at Flancer’s or to go shopping for curtain or pillow fabrics at Mesa Sales. And she and her husband never got asked to parties at ward members’ homes nor did their family ever get invited to Family Home Evening. Betsy said she didn’t care. But she did—a little.

Actually, Betsy exerted a conscious effort to create a façade of perfection. Impressions were important to her and she worked hard at keeping hers favorable. It wasn’t difficult to impress her Visiting Teachers because they always called ahead. She could make sure the living room was picked up, dusted and vacuumed and smelled like Bath and Body Works’ Coconut Lime before they came. And timing it just right, Betsy could pop some frozen Rhodes Cinnamon Rolls into the oven with their tantalizing aroma at its peak when the sisters sat down to give her the lesson.

Betsy loved to hear comments like, “Your home is so lovely.” or “How do you do it?” or “You’re amazing!”
Betsy made it a specific point to look terrific when she went to Church each Sunday as she smilingly led her attractive children down the aisle to the second row on the right, giving a little smile and lift of the head in greeting to her husband, Nick, who sat on the stand as a member of the Bishopric. She’d scoot the three kids in first, always glad when they got there before the elderly Brother and Sister Johnson. Betsy had to put on some extra speed at home so she could beat the Johnsons out of that particular pew. The Woodwards had been sitting there for some time now and the Johnsons had become usurpers. No one needed to know that on most Sundays, Betsy’s family had had a miserable morning of quarreling as each searched franticly for just the right Sunday clothes and hurriedly downed a bowl of Lucky Charms so they could be there seven minutes early, much to the annoyance of the children.

No one had ever seen Betsy Woodward looking less than her best because Betsy made sure they didn’t.

Betsy didn’t participate in too many ward activities, but she did join the Book Club which met once a month. It had been an enjoyable enough activity until this month. This month of October. Someone had thought it would be fun to read The Selected Writings of Edgar Allan Poe and have the meeting on October 13th, which happened to be a Friday. Friday the Thirteenth. So fitting, they all thought. Way back in January, Betsy had thought it was a good idea, too, and had even signed up to be October’s hostess. But the calendar pages had whipped off as in a hurricane and October had arrived way before Betsy’s plans for purging and perfecting every single room could be accomplished.

Because of found minutes during ballgames, dance lessons and in the bathroom, Betsy could actually say she had read the book. But it hadn’t been pleasant and as the raven quothed: “Nevermore!” Life was definitely too short to read Edgar Allan Poe. She discovered that many of Poe’s words would come back to her with amazing clarity and at odd moments.

And now today, Friday the 13th of October, Betsy wished she had never heard of Poe or the Book Club and definitely wished she had never put her name on the line to be the hostess. Her house wasn’t as ready as she had wanted it to be and she knew that several of the women had planned on her giving them a tour. That’s what happens when you live in a beautiful home—everyone wants to see it. And she had wanted them to see it but now that today was here, this was not the day.

In fact, this wasn’t a day for anything. Betsy would have chosen to take a few sleeping pills, crawl back into bed, scoot her knees up to her chest in a fetal position and wait for the Second Coming. It was definitely not a day for company. In the words of Poe, she had “a strong desire to lapse into insensibility.”

Day 3: The Cruise Peruse

Day 3: The Cruise Peruse
Monday July 11, 2011
Elizabeth Willis Barrett

Another great day. Didn’t spend much time outside. We went touring the ship. Every day we will get a detailed newsletter that lists all the activities for the day. There seems to always be something to do.

When I saw that there were a few classes that you could sign up for, I was ready with a pen. I love learning.

At 10:00 I went to a class called Face Lifting Without Surgery. Doctor Noreen told us all about Botox, Restylane, Perlane and Depport. I could see immediately--probably because of all my learning--that this was really a sales pitch for procedures that could be done right there on the boat by Doctor Noreen herself. Since she was 38 and looked 18, it was enticing. I even signed up for a free consultation at 2:00. Free--that was the magic word.

At 11:00, I went to a class called “Flat Stomachs for Dummies.” Well, it wasn’t called that, but it should have been. The very charming, Australian accented, young and handsome, and flat-tummied presenter told us the shocking news that if you want a flat stomach (who doesn’t), exercise can only get you 15% of the way and nutrition can only get you another 35% of the way. The last 50% must come from detoxification. Ahhh--detoxification. “Here it comes,” I thought with great discernment. “Here comes another sales pitch.”

He told us that we daily ingest many impurities and that they must be flushed out with a good cleanse. Yep! I was right. Get out your ship charge card.

When he related the well-traveled story of John Wayne dying of colon cancer and having 64 pounds of fecal material rotting in his intestines, I not only got suspicious of this young man’s credentials but I almost chortled out loud.

I went to a colonoscopy doctor once for that rather discomforting procedure and truly thought I’d come home at least 5 pounds lighter. But the doctor informed me that that is not what happens in one’s colon. It doesn’t store years’ worth of excess muck in there. So if you want to lose weight, a colonoscopy isn’t going to help get you to your goal, because it is impossible for the colon to collect that much residue. And in John Wayne’s case, did someone actually weigh it?

Furthermore, the last time I heard the John Wayne story--also from someone who would prosper by potential pill buyers believing it--it was only 40 pounds of rotting fecal material. So someone, somewhere is lying or exaggerating to promote their own cures and frankly I’m not buying it--the story or the product.

The young man then proceeded to tell us that we shouldn’t mind spending $150.00 a month for the 6 months it would take to become completely detoxified. I didn’t stay for his total revelation of the stomach flattening medication, but as with so many other things--I’m sure there is a better and cheaper way to get in shape.

Brad met me and we went back up to Raffles for lunch. More excess gorging followed which will make repentance necessary as soon as we get home. When food is in such abundance, it makes me want to take advantage of the situation--so I do.

At 2:00 Brad went to the Star Dust Theater to save us seats for the 2:30 Magic Show and I raced to my face-lifting consultation. Dr. Noreen made me wait in the waiting room for 15 minutes so I got a little shortchanged on my 30 minute appointment. When she finally ushered me to her examination bed, the Doc was very ready to point out my facial flaws. I am already well aware of them, but it is a little difficult to hear of them from an expert. She suggested some Botox here and some Restylane there and in 12 minutes she had created a vision of a new me that would only cost $1200! A pittance for the great change it would make. I would have had her procedure me then and there if I didn’t have many other uses for my money, if I knew it was an excellent price and if Brad wasn’t waiting for me at the Magic Show. But I did, I didn’t and he was.

So off I ran, my wrinkles still intact, to see a fabulous Magic Show--in the dark where no one could see my face or my belly. Temporary oblivion. For the moment, what a nice place to be!

FRIENDSHIP

FRIENDSHIP
Talk for University 3rd Ward Sacrament Meeting
Elizabeth Willis Barrett
August 28, 2011

Just for a moment, open up the eyes of your imagination and consider this question. What would our University 3rd Ward be like if every member were exactly like you? Awesome? Cool? Hot? Kind? Shy? Quiet? Self-conscious? Happy? Miserable? If everyone were exactly like you, would there be anyone to teach Sunday School? Help with the music? Organize the sports? Bring dessert for the ward parties? If everyone were like you, would there be any parties? Would the Visiting Teaching get done? If everyone were like you, would you feel the love of our ward family? Would there be anyone who could forget about themselves long enough to reach out to you and become your friend?

I know how I felt last year when we were first called to this position. It was scary. All of these strange, yet beautiful--of course--faces and names that had to be put with them. Some of you have come from out of state not knowing anyone. I admire you greatly for your courage. The entity that will make your experience here a wonderful one is friendship.

The Prophet Joseph Smith taught that friendship is one of the grand fundamental principles of ‘Mormonism.’” And according to Marlin K. Jensen of the Seventy: “That thought ought to inspire and motivate all of us because friendship is a fundamental need of our world. In all of us there is a profound longing for and a deep yearning for the satisfaction and security that close and lasting relationships can give.”

Friendship is what has made our University 3rd Ward the wonderful ward it has become in its first year of existence and Friendship will keep it that way through the years. Each person in our ward needs to feel surrounded by love and friendship. That can only happen when we each forget ourselves and reach out to someone else. I know it’s hard. It’s really hard for me.

For one thing, we are all really busy. That will probably never change. There was only one time in my life when I felt like I was ahead of the game. That was when my two youngest children were in their car seats looking out the back window as we sped along the freeway. As they saw all the cars racing behind us they said with excitement, “Hey, Mom, you’re winning!”

If you are a good friend now, most likely you will be a good friend later in your life. But if you are too busy to share the love of friends now, you’re not going to have any more time later to be a good friend.

I know, you don’t believe me! I thought that I would have time just hanging around waiting for me to do all the things I ever wanted to do when I got to this stage of life. But I don’t and neither will you. It’s rather a shock!

Besides the lack of time, the lack of charity can get in the way of befriending others. We might discount someone because of one thing we find objectionable in them and then we won’t take the opportunity to know that person better. What a loss!

At times we might put ourselves and others into classes: rich, not so rich, gorgeous, not so gorgeous, brilliant, not so brilliant. And then feel like we need to stay in our own preconceived circles. Many chances for friendships are lost that way, too.

If we are taking time to analyze and find fault with others, we won’t have as much time or desire to look for and see the good.

Perhaps we have finally found a group of our own that we feel comfortable with and we don’t want to rock the boat of acceptance by opening up the group to let someone else in.

One of the greatest inhibitors of friendship could possibly be our own shyness or our own self-consciousness. We are so concerned about our own deficiencies that it is hard to worry about anybody else.

As Elder Jensen said: “How selfish we can be. How unwilling to be inconvenienced, to give, to bless and be blessed. What kind of parents or neighbors or servants of the Lord Jesus Christ can we be without being a friend?
“The power,” he said, “is in each one of us to be a friend. Old and young, rich and poor, educated and humble, in every language and country, we all have the capacity to be a friend.”

Being a friend takes time and effort, but think of the great benefits. Here are eight pointers on how to be a good friend.

First: forget about yourself. Maybe you didn’t have time to do your hair just like you wanted, maybe you spilled ketchup on your tie, maybe you couldn’t find just the right thing to wear but you are not the only one. Each person here has something about themselves that they don’t feel so great about. So forget about you and find someone that you can help and include. Be aware of other people and what they might be feeling. Be sincerely interested in others, and more people will be interested in you.

Second: “act as though.” C. S. Lewis said it so well: “Do not waste time bothering whether you ‘love’ your neighbor; act as if you did. As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets. When you are behaving as if you loved someone you will presently come to love him.”

You learn to love others by investing in others.

Another way to “act as though,” is to assume that the people around you actually like you. Sometimes we expect someone to snub us or talk about us or reject us and we’re looking for anything in their actions that will prove us right so we can say, “See, I told you he didn’t like me!” Often that person is just reacting to our own action of insecurity or rudeness. Act as though everyone likes you. They probably do! How could they help it, right?

Just as you are trying to “read” other people, they are trying to “read” you. Sometimes you get it wrong.

“Act as though” you’re not shy and self-conscious. Most people here didn’t know you in high school. They didn’t even know you last month. You can remake yourself. Thinking more about others than about yourself is a good start.

Get out of your comfort zone. Stretch a little. Charity, the pure love of Christ, will help you do that.

So that’s the Third thing you can do when working on friendships: Pray for charity. Pray that you will be helped to think about others and what they need. Then you can forget about your mind that goes blank when you try to think of something clever to say and you can forget about your tongue that gets thick when you’re attempting to express yourself.

Keep in mind the message that the Savior taught us over and over in His actions and words: Love one another as I have loved you.

As Mother Teresa said, “It is not how much you do, but how much Love you put into the doing that matters.”

According to an Ensign Article by Shirleen Meek: “Our Father in Heaven can give you the courage to talk to others, the motivation to try something new, or the desire to go out of your way when you just don’t feel like it. And he can comfort you when your efforts don’t turn out quite as you had hoped.”

One of my favorite quotes is from the author Willa Cather, “Where there is great love there are always miracles.”

Fourth: Live the Gospel. A true friend makes it easier for you to live the gospel when you are with him or her.

Fifth: Get involved. Make the effort. Be where you’re supposed to be when you’re supposed to be there and good things will happen in your life. There are so many activities in our ward and stake. That doesn’t happen in home wards. The goal here is to bring young people together often to meet each other, learn from each other and to make memorable friendships. And to help get some eternal families going, of course. You never know, your one and only may be at the fireside that you are trying to decide whether to go to or not or at the FHE that you are just too tired to attend. Get up, get going, make your life happen.

Sixth: Remember what people tell you so it will give you something to talk about when you meet again. And be sure to compliment those around you even if you think they already know they look great or taught well. They probably don’t know it already and everyone needs praise.

As Garrison Keillor of Lake Wobegon fame said:
“They say such nice things about people at their funerals that it makes me sad that I’m going to miss mine by just a few days.”

Seventh: Learn everyone’s name. That won’t be easy. You’ll have to work at it. But as you know, nothing is as sweet as the sound of your own name. And besides, it would really help me if I asked you what someone’s name was and you could tell me. Can you imagine the positive impact it would have on our ward if everyone knew everyone’s name?

We are a ward family: some brothers and sisters, a mother and father and a few loving aunts and uncles thrown in. We help each other. Sometimes we have to take out the garbage. Sometimes we have to clean our rooms. Sometimes we are needed to share rides or to comfort and uplift and encourage.

Hopefully, in this ward and in the many wards you’ll be in in your life, you will choose to be part of the solution and not part of the problem.

As it says in Romans 12:5: “So we, being many, are one body in Christ, and every one members one of another.”

And it helps to be one when we know each other’s names.

Eighth: and last: Be your best self. President Spencer W. Kimball once said: “What are your eccentricities, if any? I think nearly all people have some. If so, then go to work. Classify them, weigh them, corral them, and eliminate them one at a time.”

That, too, will take time and effort but know that we are all striving to grow to be a better people, a better ward family. We can learn from and help each other.

Our Bishop and his counselors love you. I know that each of them would call each of you “friend” and so would the other adults assigned to this ward.

What greater gift dost thou bestow,
What greater goodness can we know
Than Christlike friends, whose gentle ways
Strengthen our faith, enrich our days.

You enrich my days and I am very grateful for your friendship. Thank you for your love and devotion to each other. May you be willing to reach out to those you don’t know yet and help them feel the outpouring of love from this ward. Be a friend!

Kinder Garten

KINDER--GARTEN
Elizabeth Willis Barrett
August 8, 2011

I have two grandchildren that will be starting kindergarten this year--Barrett and Claire. I pray that they will each be blessed with a teacher who loves them and wants them to become the best they can be. After all, kindergarten is the gateway to years of education and Barrett’s and Claire’s experiences in this school year could possibly color the rest of their lives. I hope these experiences will be the color of roses and not of fog.

I especially wish for these children a more positive experience with kindergarten than I had, because kindergarten at Emerson Elementary in the school year of 1954-55 left a little to be desired. In fact, I am surprised that after my year of kindergarten I didn’t cower behind my Mom’s skirts and refuse to ever set foot in another educational facility.

In case you didn’t know, according to Webster’s 17th edition of the dictionary, the word kindergarten comes from the German language. The word kinder means children and garten means garden. In English, this translates into a garden of children. So wouldn’t you think kindergarten would be a very loving, nurturing place? It conjures up thoughts of watering and cultivating and carefully assisting lovely young plants to grow and progress.

Well, my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Hill, was not cut from the cloth of a gardener and she was definitely not cut from the cloth of a kindergarten teacher. Her Maker must have grabbed the wrong fabric when she came down the assembly line. I think He got mixed up with a Nazi general when He reached for the material for Mrs. Hill. She was not made from a soft, supple, warm fabric but from a scratchy, unrelenting, cold one.

Mrs. Hill’s birthday was on February 29th which, obviously, only comes every four years. “I am only twelve years old,” she’d tell us. I think to a kindergartener, anybody older than five, even an aging adult, could easily have been twelve. What did we know?

Maybe being a leap year baby was at the root of her problem. Maybe she felt a need to inflict her frustration of only having a birthday every four years on very unsuspecting first year students. None of us had gone to preschool. I don’t know when preschool became a necessary prerequisite to kindergarten. So this was our very first experience with education.

We each had brought a little rug from home to take naps on. Naps! We were only in kindergarten for half a day. Claire and Barrett will be in school all day but I don’t think they’ll be napping on home-brought rugs. But in my half-day kindergarten, we would each take out our little rugs and lie down on them halfway through our daily time there. Without pillows! Who could lie down on a hard floor and have a restful rest without a pillow? And we were to be quiet while lying on those rugs. We wouldn’t even think of making a peep and being brought to Mrs. Hill’s attention. Not because she would gently reprimand us or send a note home to our parents. No. Remember, she was cut from the rough scratchy cloth of a Nazi. If you crossed her discipline radar, you could very well end up in the closet with a gag over your mouth. That’s what happened to Danny on more than one occasion. I know that sounds like a lie but it isn’t. You can ask anybody in the black and white picture enshrining my fellow classmates of the Emerson Kindergarten Class of 1955 if I’m telling you the truth. Any one of them will tell you that Mrs. Hill had no business masquerading as a kindergarten teacher. She belonged to a different age and time, and should have been marshaling a ragtag bunch of unruly soldiers and not attempting to teach a budding group of tender and tiny five year olds. (Actually, I was never tiny, but that is fodder for another story.)

On one occasion Mrs. Hill took a student and bound his hands before she put him in the closet. That atrocity happened to a boy named Jack who would often come to school without shoes. We didn’t live in the rural olden days when going to school without shoes was more common than going to school with shoes. I’m sure Jack didn’t need to be humiliated any further than he already was, but Mrs. Hill didn’t seem to know that. I don’t remember Jack at all in later years. He might have been a kindergarten drop-out. I’m surprised more of us didn’t fall into that category.

Once Mom was giving a Relief Society lesson in the good old days when our Church Relief Society was held every Wednesday morning. All the women in the Mesa 8th Ward attended without fail just to have that wonderful association with great women. Mom wanted me to add to her lesson by reciting the poem, The Owl and the Pussycat. I was very willing, especially when I knew that I would miss kindergarten that day. Even when I was told on my return to the trenches that I had missed a class party, I still didn’t mind. Any day away from kindergarten was a day to be treasured.

There might have been one or two favorable highlights that year. Once Mrs. Hill wrote “bananas are good” on the blackboard (no white boards then!). She pointed to the words and said, “bananas, blank, blank” and I was the one who could fill in the blanks correctly with the words “are good.” I was actually quite smart if I do say so myself. But that good memory is offset with the bad memory of having to spend time in the corner because I was talking to Jeanine.

Mrs. Hill made a statement one day that was very disturbing to my young mind. We were all being overly noisy and she said that if we didn’t behave, the principle would fire her. “Fire?” I only had one interpretation for that word: the principle would light a match and burn her up. I became very quiet. We all did. Maybe the others had constructed the same horrible mental picture.

It really is too bad that she hadn’t been fired--in the real meaning of the word, I mean. She should never have been a kindergarten teacher. Her antics would certainly get her fired today. Fired and sued and perhaps arrested. Surprisingly, in spite of Mrs. Hill, I went on to love school and thrive in its environment.

My prayer for Claire and Barrett and my other fourteen grandchildren is that they too will thrive. I hope they will always receive excellent gardeners in their “garden of children.” But even if, along the way, they have to suffer through a teacher who should never have become a teacher, I pray that they will prosper anyway, knowing who they are and Whose they are. May they be great learners in this wonderful world and love the learning.

Day 2: The Blues Before the Cruise

July 10, 2011
Elizabeth Willis Barrett


New Orleans--what a great place to begin and end a cruise. It is extremely warm, which sounds rather critical for someone who lives in Gilbert, Arizona, where it can be 110 degrees all day and all night. But I will definitely take our warm to New Orleans’ warm with its sticky high humidity. I have been apologizing to guests who have had to weather our weather for August weddings or mis-planned visits for a long time now. But Arizona heat is looking pretty good to me at the moment.

Last night Brad and I and Sam and Leona--2 of the 22 that make up our very congenial group--made our slow and uncomfortable way down the New Orleans streets to get a bit of the flavor of this very unique city. At Mother’s, a small and popular restaurant, we had heaping plates of red beans and rice along with cabbage and roast beef. It looked sloppy and monochromatic and would never have placed in a gourmet contest, but it tasted delicious and New Orleans-ish. Then we walked down the very decadent Bourbon Street which I have done on two other occasions and don’t have on my bucket list to do again. We found a relatively peaceful place to sit and listen to Jazz and Blues and eat beignets, which made the sweltering walk quite worth it.

This morning Brad and I headed off to Jackson Square to go to Mass with Wally and Nancy. Unfortunately we didn’t get our directions straight and went out of our way which wasn’t too fun in this exquisite heat. Then in talking to a corner tour vendor we discovered that St. Thomas Cathedral personnel might not let Brad into Mass wearing shorts. So Brad raced back to the hotel to change and left me sitting alone on a bench a little nervous after the above mentioned vendor had told of the looting and beating up of innocents that happened during Hurricane Katrina. He didn’t make New Orleans sound like a kind and loving city.

During my apprehensive wait, Brad called my cell phone to say that I should walk on to Jackson Square and he would meet me there. I raced off keeping my phone in my hand to ward off any attackers who would want to rob me of my jean purse and all its contents including 50 $1 bills and this journal that would undoubtedly bring a great price if sold on the black market.

I made it into the St. Thomas Cathedral with the last of the Mass-welcoming bells. I felt a little like Maria in The Sound of Music running down from the mountain and into the cloister at breakneck speed as the bells chimed. Thankfully the Delecki’s caught me before I walked clear up to the alter. There are several warnings to turn off cell phones which of course wouldn’t have been issued when this gorgeous edifice was built between the years of 1789 and 1850. Interestingly, this is the oldest continuously operating cathedral in the United States.

Before I could turn off my extremely modern I Phone 4, it rang and I quickly hit the decline button. It was Brad wondering where to find us. I tried to quietly text him but then he called again and again I cut him off. Mass began with a song--a rather loud one that the congregation needed to stand up and sing. That gave me the opportunity to scrunch on my bench, call Brad’s cell and whisper to him where we were sitting. He had practically run all the way--not from the hotel because he never made it to the hotel. He had mis-calculated his way and gone about eight blocks out of it. So he was still in his shorts when he panted into the cathedral. Thankfully, he was not turned away as weren’t the other 100 men in shorts.

We enjoyed the Mass. Nancy guided us through it in the booklet that is printed every quarter, I believe. The music was beautifully led by a very skilled vocalist. She sang most of the songs with a different melody than was written for some reason, which made it a little harder to follow when it was our turn to sing. The priest gave a very nice sermon on the sower who tossed his seeds and some fell on thorny ground, etc. We felt very edified. It was a beautiful place to experience our first Mass.

We gathered all our belongings from the hotel, took a cab to the embarkment point and after signing away our full credit card capability, boarded the Norwegian Cruise Ship “Spirit.” It is enormous and beautiful. It was like walking into a six star hotel lobby. We were greeted by a Flamingo Dancer and attractive drinks which we declined. (We declined the drinks, I mean. I don’t think the Flamingo Dancer was offered.) We found our room, #6532, quite quickly. It is small but very efficient and has a big window looking out over the ocean. I think we’re going to like this!

Day One: The Cruise Fuse

Saturday July 9, 2011
Elizabeth Willis Barrett

It is 7:30 AM and Brad and I are sitting in the Sky Harbor Airport waiting to board our Southwest flight to New Orleans where we will board a Norwegian Cruise Line ship for our first ever and much deserved cruise. It is to celebrate our 40th Wedding Anniversary which is coming up on August 18th. If not now, when?

I haven’t really gathered any enthusiasm for this privileged adventure yet. I’m hoping it will come. If not, I will be considered a very ungrateful little twerp since a very low percentage of the world’s 6 billion—or is it 7 billion?—people can ever dream of going on a trip like this. But collecting enthusiasm takes time and brain power and both of those commodities have been busy elsewhere, along with my scattered emotions. Mom died in April and we had a very reflective and sweet time with family and friends. We took a wonderful trip to Conneaut, Ohio—Brad’s birth place— in May. June vanished like disappearing ink without making an impression at all and we had a memorable family reunion at the cabin over the Fourth of July after spending several days in Flagstaff for business. Now here it is time for this possibly once in a lifetime vacation and I’d better perk up and get my whole body, mind and spirit in total alignment to enjoy it. OK, Chopra and Dyer—please remind me how to do that!

One way is to enjoy the moment—right? I have been practicing enjoying the process or the journey, as it were, and not just the destination, but I have a long ways to go, so to speak. For instance, I didn’t enjoy any of the moments last night while I was finishing a marathon packing spree. A packing job that should take two hours at the very most always ends up being as big a deal as packing up the Ringling Brothers Circus. Why is that? One minor reason is that invariably, while slowly packing, Brad turns on the TV. The TV is so distracting to me. Brad comments on what is being debated on the current talk show—which I must respond to—and then he talks to me about other things that could easily be discussed while we’re waiting an hour in the airport. I don’t think men think that way, though. They just say things as they come to mind and never consider more convenient timing. My goal was to go to bed at 8:00 which was ridiculous, I know, but I believe in aiming high. My head didn’t hit the pillow until nearly mid-night, however, and just knowing that the alarm was set for 5:00 this morning made sleep evade me like a grandchild at Wal-Mart.

So now that we have surprisingly made it in excellent time to the airport—via a loving and kind daughter, Allison—I will try once again to enjoy the moment. Ummm, maybe not this moment. I am sitting behind a Mister “I don’t care if everyone knows the minutiae of my frustrating and difficult business” who is talking twenty decimals louder than sotto voce on his cell phone. Should I let him ruin my moment? According to author Byron Katie who makes falling flat on the floor appear to be a special gift from providence, “Of course not.” That would be giving him too much of my power and I need my power for this trip.

So I’ll concentrate on some of the other people—scores and scores of all shapes, sizes and demeanors. All clothed and coiffured in a myriad of ways. And God knows each one intimately and loves each one, too, which seems like a stretch in some instances —the angry, the chuckling, the immodest, the ancient—Imagine!

Well my number is up and we are about to board. Me and my best friend—going on our first cruise. Lucky, lucky me!!!

My Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
Elizabeth Willis Barrett
June 13, 2011

Some days are wonderfully good days. In fact, most of them are. Nah, that’s sounding a little too Pollyanna-ish. Most of them are just OK. But on some days, I am really in the flow and everything falls into place. I can go to Safeway and find everything I had a coupon for. I can turn left onto Baseline without waiting for 20 cars to go by. The people I want answers from respond quickly to my text messages and my head isn’t in need of an Excedrin. Jelly side up days. I like those days. When I get my thinking in order, I end up having a lot more of them. But lately I have let the small nuisances of life—the little things that slowly pump the joy out of existence— get to me and make some not so good days. The other day was one of those.

Brad and I were getting ready to go to the cabin and I made the mistake of saying, “My thumbs hurt!” All I needed him to say was, “I’m so sorry. I bet that is really uncomfortable for you.” Or “Arthritis is a pain, isn’t it?” But he didn’t. He said, “I told you to go to the doctor. Why don’t you just go and quit complaining about it?”

Nothing makes me quit talking more than a comment like that. I know he couldn’t help it. Like most men he was born with a gene that makes him blurt out an obvious fix without any intermediate empathy. Of course I should go to a doctor. But I didn’t need him to tell me that. I needed him to sympathize with and listen to me like I sympathize with and listen to him when he complains of a jabbing headache or an incompetent employee. I don’t think he even noticed that I totally quit talking after that—about anything.

Until, that is, we were at Home Depot getting some essentials for the cabin yard. It was after lunch time and I was hungry. Right in front of Home Depot was a Pollo Loco so as we got back in the car, I asked Brad if he wanted to stop there. “No, I’m not hungry,” he said as he drove past it.

I was miffed again, but that wasn’t his fault either. Women, for the most part, are born with a gene which makes us say things like: “Do you feel like a Jamba Juice right now?” And when our man says, “No,” we get mad and quit talking. That’s because we expect him to have enough sense to say, “I’d love one,” even if he wouldn’t. We want him to instinctively know (as women know) that we wouldn’t have brought up Jamba Juice if we hadn’t wanted one for ourselves. And for some asinine reason, we don’t feel worthy of getting what we want unless someone else wants it, too. It’s not the men’s fault, really. We as women need to state clearly, “I’m stopping at Jamba Juice. If you want one, I’ll get you one, too.” Or “Stop right now at Pollo Loco. I’m getting a taco salad. What would you like?”

This particular day wasn’t improving with its passing.

I usually don’t drink anything but water. I am definitely not one of those that has to run to Circle K for a 44 ouncer every day at 1:30. But when we drive up to the mountains, I really like to stop at Circle K for one of their semi-frozen Sprites to which I squirt in their additives of vanilla and raspberry flavorings and vitamin B12 and gingko. You get all that for $ .79 whether you choose a 24 oz., 32 oz. or 44 oz. Being the value mogul that I am, I, of course, fill up the 44 ouncer with relish. The very best combination is Sprite mixed with Mango but I have only found that in one place and that is way out on Hunt Highway. Driving out there would be a very foolish way to spend $20 in gas just to buy a $ .79 drink.

Since I didn’t get any lunch on this occasion, I thought I could at least look forward to my frozen concoction. But unfortunately, not all Circle K’s have frozen slushy drinks. In my opinion, they shouldn’t have started the trend unless they could carry it out in all locations. Now that I’m hooked, finding what I need has turned out to be very difficult.

Brad was sure there was a Circle K we could stop at in Gold Canyon which was on the way. He thought he could find it, but he couldn’t and for that matter, neither could I. My annoyance was intensified. I really had my taste buds ready. On we went to Miami. Brad stopped at the first Circle K we passed but they hadn’t modernized and my drink was not there. Humph.

As we drove on, we saw a Church’s Chicken establishment off to the right. Being unusually decisive, I told Brad to pull into the drive-through and I ordered chicken strips. No reflection on all Church’s, but these were inedible. Brad was very kind and told me not to eat the chicken, and we would try somewhere else.

We stopped at two more Circle K’s. The first didn’t have the drink I wanted. The second did, but the machine was frozen up and the icy liquid wouldn’t come out. Aaaaaaaaaaa! I was quite beside myself.

Then up the road we saw a KFC. “They won’t let me down,” I thought with great conviction and my mouth was rather ready for highly seasoned chicken. It isn’t usually, but there is something about being in the car and having few choices that did it. It didn’t look like any alternatives were available in Globe unless I wanted to go to McDonald’s or Taco Bell. I didn’t.

As we drove up to KFC, it looked closed. But as they say, “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” so I got out and tried the door. It was locked even though the sign said they were open for several more hours. As I pulled on the door a few times, a KFC worker appeared and motioned for us to drive around to the window. Obediently, we did. Brad first asked the same worker, now receiving our order at the window, if he had any pot pies. Sometimes a pot pie tastes very soothing, especially a KFC pot pie. No, he didn’t. That wasn’t too surprising because it is a hit or miss for any of the KFC’s to have pot pies when you want them.

“How ‘bout the little wraps?” I made Brad ask. Brad hates drive-through windows in the very best of situations, and this wasn’t turning out to be anywhere near the best.

“We don’t have much tonight,” was the boy’s answer.

“Hmmm. Well, what do you have?” Brad asked. This final question should have been answered with about 30 KFC items, but there was only one from this worker who probably didn’t want to be there and most likely would have loved to be home playing Nintendo or something.

“We have three chicken strips,” was his reply.

“Three chicken strips?” My raised voice carried very easily from the passenger side of the front seat.

“Yep. Three chicken strips.” He said it matter of factly, like we shouldn’t have expected more from a chicken-serving-fast-food-place that had about three more hours to be open for service.

“We ran out of chicken,” he added.

Tornadoes were going on in the Midwest, and earthquakes in other parts of the world but Globe, Arizona, looked perfectly calm. No disasters seemed to be coming down on it.

“We borrowed some chicken from Show Low,” he continued, “but we’re all out again.”

Astounding! Kentucky Fried Chicken had run out of chicken. I hoped that some manager’s job was on the line for this.

“I’ll take your last three strips,” I said. My mouth was still ready for chicken and I thought, of course, that these last three would be succulent and delicious. Wrong. Very wrong. They were worse than the Church’s. I didn’t eat them.

We finally made it to the cabin, drink-less, dinner-less and humor-less. I took a Marie Callender’s beef tips dinner from the freezer and put it in the micro-wave, with a Healthy Choice meat loaf dinner waiting in the wings for Brad. He set up the two TV trays and turned on the news.

Because Brad is a perpetual channel changer—another characteristic imbedded in male genes—several news stories began hitting my ears and my always active guilt center: the earthquakes and tsunamis in Japan, the flattened town of Joplin Missouri, the embarrassing sexting antics of Congressman Weiner, the horrendous trial of Casey Anthony.

Here were some people having some legitimate terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days. Comparing mine to theirs would be like comparing a piece of hay to a haystack. It was like I could hear The Powers That Be whisper in my ear, “Quit your bellyaching or I’ll really give you something to cry about.”

I’m a good listener. I chastised my selfish inner child and vowed to be more like our neighbor, Dave Robinson, who never met a day he didn’t like.

After my sincere bedtime prayer of thanks for my shelter, my bed, my companion, my family, and countless blessings, I ruminated on the day and surprisingly, with the flip of a mental switch, it became a glorious, wonderful day and I humbly look forward to many more to come.