Mrs. Tittlemouse and me

Mrs. Tittlemouse is one of Beatrix Potter’s lesser known tales. Peter Rabbit sort of stole the show. He had all the adventure, after all.

Mrs. Tittlemouse “lived in a bank under a hedge.” She was “a most terribly tidy particular little mouse, always sweeping and dusting the soft sandy floors.”

For most of the book, she is cleaning and getting rid of the messes brought in by uninvited guests. Muddy Mr. Jackson, the toad, nearly drives her to distraction. At the end of the book, after a two week cleaning binge, she gives a party for some little mice, but only after the house is “all beautifully neat and clean.”

I have a very different philosophy of housekeeping than Mrs. Tittlemouse. No one has ever accused me of being terribly tidy and particular. I think my attitude is more along the lines of being relatively tidy and passably clean. If I can get my bed made and my kitchen counters clear and crumb free, I feel satisfied. This way I won’t be totally embarrassed should a friend appear on my doorstep, but neither does my house look like it’s ready to be photographed for a home magazine.

Mrs. Tittlemouse’s home, on the other hand, would always be ready for the camera. I can’t imagine her leaving a dirty teacup out on the table because she wants to finish a chapter in the mystery she happens to be reading. Her entire focus seems to be on cleaning and tidying. This would drive me to distraction!

Have you ever noticed that the home magazines always take pictures of empty houses, unused teacups, beautifully set tables, and things that remain in their places? While I am tempted to long for this state of affairs from time to time, I realize that even if one is able to hire in professional help with the cleaning, it nonetheless takes a huge effort to keep one’s house in this pristine condition. And then a lot of living is missed out on. I want to say to Mrs. Tittlemouse, “Your house does look lovely, and I appreciate all the work you do, but why not relax a little?” I wonder if she ever gets to read a good mystery.

The one area that I most identify with Mrs. Tittlemouse, though, is in her binge cleaning before a party. She cleans for a fortnight. I could never clean for two weeks straight, but I might possibly clean for two days or two hours if I have guests coming over. Like Mrs. Tittlemouse I might even get to some polishing or waxing that I have put off for entirely too long. Besides being able to spend time with friends, this is a good reason to give the occasional party.

I think that Mrs. Tittlemouse and I can be of great help to one another. She can encourage me to be a bit tidier and I can encourage her to relax a little more. I have been careful not to use the word obsessive when speaking of Mrs. Tittlemouse. She seems to genuinely enjoy cleaning and I am sure that her house is very comfortable. I would hope therefore that Mrs. Tittlemouse would not use the terms lazy or slovenly in referring to me. Instead, let us learn from one another.

Or perhaps, we should both learn from Peter Rabbit. Maybe we should get back to having some adventure in our lives.

The Gym

Sometimes I go to the gym.

Our culture has cut out many of the natural ways people stay fit. We sit in cars; we work at desks. We seem to have no time for walking or working in our yards. But we take time to drive to the gym for that 45-minute workout.

I usually drive over to the gym and circle around trying to find the parking space closest to the door. I’m annoyed if I have to park too far away.

People at the gym are dressed in some pretty impressive workout attire. Some workout clothes cost more than my best dresses. They are working out while glancing around at everyone else and at themselves in the mirror.

Ok. I’m looking around too. I am amazed at the people. There are people without an ounce of fat on their bodies. There are people sweating profusely. There are others, like me, just trying to stay moderately fit.

Here is my usual routine:

First, I climb the stairs to nowhere. Then I do the elliptical, which is a sort of running machine which also goes to nowhere. I do these while watching the sports channel on the TV screens- where people are actually running to somewhere- often outside in the fresh air.

Then I head to the weight room. I understand that lifting weights is important for our bones. (I am, if I may use the expression, a lightweight in this area).

There are men and women lifting huge weights and making grimaces and groans. We are talking serious muscle building here. I am the older woman off in the corner with the 8 or 10 pound weights much more concerned with combating osteoporosis than in looking like Ms. Universe. I do my thing and slip out of the gym. I feel healthy.

I get back in my car (which is conveniently parked by the door) and head home for a shower.

Then I think of my mother who is 96 at this point and has never gone in for this sort of thing. Maybe I should just stick to walking.

My Criminal Past

One beautiful morning I decided to walk to work. The light was red as I approached Broadway, but there was no traffic. Seriously, it was so quiet I could have crawled across the street. So I ignored the orange hand at the crosswalk and strolled across. This is how the criminal life begins – ignoring these little laws and entering into the life of crime.

As I continued on the other side of Broadway I noticed two policemen on motorcycles on the sidewalk behind me.

“Excuse me,” they said, “Can we see your driver’s license?”

“My driver’s license?” I answered. But I was thinking, “I’m walking, not driving. One doesn’t need a driver’s license to walk.”

They told me I had crossed the intersection while the orange hand was lighted (and not the little white walking figure). I told them that, yes, I had walked across with the orange hand illuminated, but there was absolutely no traffic approaching, and in those circumstances I tend to interpret the orange hand as a suggestion and not the LAW. They did not seem to like this answer.

They went on to say there had been accidents at this particular corner. One or two people had been hit after coming out of a nearby bar. (I mentioned, diplomatically, that I was not one inclined to drink heavily at breakfast before a workday).

They proceeded to write me a ticket. The box for 803/802 was checked: Ped-Cross Not Crosswalk/ Failure to Yield Right of Way to Pedestrian at Walk Signal. This was all police jargon for jaywalking. I had received a jaywalking ticket and needed to pay the city fifty dollars.

They said I did not need to worry as it would not make my insurance rate go up. It was a zero-point violation. It could also be reduced to a “tail lamps required” violation if need be. As a pedestrian, and a modest woman, I was not sure that I cared for any reference to my tail lights.

Also, in thinking about the amount of crime in my city- drugs, assault, theft, etc.- was it really necessary to issue jaywalking tickets? Perhaps this was some sort of gateway crime. Next, I might start researching archaic laws somehow left in our judicial code and attempt to break them all.

Apparently, I could have gone to court to contest this ticket. But I knew I was guilty. I had admitted to the crime already. Plus, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to lose my bragging rights. I am the only person I know who has ever gotten a jaywalking ticket. It was almost worth the fifty dollars just to tell the story.

 

Text Messaging

There are some obvious generational differences when it comes to text messaging.

For the younger generation texting is its own language. It is a way of having a conversation without having to open your mouth. I have trouble with learning new languages.

For me a text message is a little message with written text. I write texts as I would a notecard or a very small essay. This works fine for my generation and I think the younger folks just pity us. At least it’s not as dangerous as trying to ride a skateboard.

I’ve learned a few things about texting.

You REALLY don’t want to use capitals. Capitals sound like screaming in the text or email world. I’ve had friends accidentally have a cap lock on and people mistook their mood.

Apparently, you don’t end a sentence with a period. If you do you are very serious. I am obviously a very serious person. “Yes.” with a period means you may be a bit angry about it.  I am probably perpetually angry in my essay writing mode.

On the other hand, you can emphasize using extra periods. (This.is.crazy.) It’s just as well our phones in text mode don’t have grammar check. (We’d.be.in.trouble.) So much for the use of the period. It’s the end of punctuation as I know it.

I’m also trying to learn the abbreviations and little extra bits found in texts. I try to sprinkle in a “haha!” or a “lol!” every once in a while. This is so people can understand that I’m trying to be lighthearted and not so serious. I use more exclamation points than I’ve used in my whole life. “Idk” if it really works or not, but at this point “idc” too much one way or the other!

There used to be happy faces 🙂 and sad faces :(. I was starting to make use of these. Now there are a myriad of emojis out there- faces and hearts and thumbs up symbols. I do have a problem with the little faces, though. They are so small. It’s hard to see the expressions on them even with my glasses.

One final problem. I can never quite tell how to end the conversation. “That works for me” (the end?) “Great!” (the end?), smiley face (really the end?) …….thumbs up.

So I’m learning the language. At least I don’t have to worry about pronunciation.

Anyway, ttyl (talk to you later).

Being a Night Owl

I am a night owl. I’m not sure about the whole bird thing when it comes to sleeping habits. There are night owls and early birds. Apparently, it’s better to be an early bird because they always “get the worms.” Is this supposed to be some kind of incentive? Because, frankly, I’m not particularly fond of worms.

Owls always seem to be wide awake. Just look at their eyes. That’s me around eleven at night. It’s when I’m really productive. I bake, practice French and read, sometimes into the wee hours. “I’ll just read one more chapter.”

I have to remember not to call or text my friends at midnight. Some people sleep at midnight. And I want to keep the friends I have. Some of my friends actually go to bed at nine o’clock. I cannot fathom this. At our house we are just finishing dinner and I have plans.

For the most part my husband is worse than I am. He will stay up really late and then get up early for work. But it hits him after a number of late nights. He will announce that he is just going to watch the “news”. I call this the “snooze”. He will be sound asleep before even making it to the sports and weather.

I have my troubles in the morning.

It seems like all the saints and holy people rise early to pray, read and write. I figure I’m even holier – I’m up at 1:00AM. That should count for something, right?

My friends tell me there are some beautiful sunrises. They’ve even sent me pictures of them.

People who don’t know me so well call me at eight or nine o’clock…..AM. Sometimes I am still asleep. I clear my throat, sing a quick note or two and try to answer with a chirpy voice. As if I have been awake like most of the world.

The snooze button on my alarm clock is my friend. I can push it three or four times in a morning. I think that the person who invented it must have been a night owl. We don’t leap out of bed in the morning.

Recently, I’ve had a schedule change at work. Three morning shifts. I have to be at work two of those mornings at 8:30. What? This means getting up at 7:30, racing around, arriving at work at 8:35 with wet hair and half a cup of tea in hand.

With my new schedule I am trying to get to bed at a reasonable hour- by midnight.

I think I’m destined to remain a night owl for a while yet. I try to focus on the fact that owls are supposed to be wise and not so much on the whole worm issue.

Meanwhile, please don’t call me till after nine.