(I just have a couple more of these diary notes I found earlier this year during COVID-19 boredom)
Watched a TV commercial tonight. I’ve seen it before — a new Trans-Am drives up behind a Camaro and “eats” it, leaving behind a metal shell. The Trans-Am looks shiny black, tough, and powerful. Anyone who drives such a muscle car is powerful and nobody can withstand such a person!
My husband said I should have a Trans-Am. I decided, no. “Muscle cars” only give a human the illusion, the fantasy of being powerful and strong. They only make us “feel” power. In reality, we have no real power. We can’t even control our own bowel movements! Why play charades with illusions?
Lying in bed, fighting sinus blockage, thinking about my totally unhealthy diet for the day, I became philosophical. My right leg keeps wanting to go to sleep which probably means that I have diabetes from all the cookies I ate, the soda pop, the greasy homemade pizza, the grill cheese and ham sandwich at lunch, the bacon and eggs for breakfast. I deserve to get diabetes or cancer or obesity. I deserve acid reflux problems, insomnia, sinus blockage. I’m always loading myself up with caffeine, sugar, and fat and I deserve what I get. I know better! No willpower. Lazy. Lustful of food. I know to exercise, but I do very little. Therefore, I resign myself to accept the consequences because I love the food I eat! Yet…
When the consequences have come. When I’m feverish or throwing up, or having the Big “D” (intestinal “d”), getting dehydrated, or suffering with hives, pimples, or shingles, gaining weight (the list is long), I find myself begging God to heal me—let this pass—I’LL NEVER DO WHAT I DID AGAIN—I PROMISE! So…
I get well in due time. Before a few days have passed, I’m at it again. Memory fades. Pain is in the past. Hey, I can handle the results of abusing myself.
My problem Is not unlike the story of the rich man and Lazarus in Luke 16. The rich man lived it up until death, and in torment he begged and pleaded to Abraham to relieve him, rescue him. In the same way, I need to do what is right BEFORE it is too late, not after.
(Still going through this old diary I found. Still dealing with the quarantine Corona virus time. Here’s another entry, a month after the last one. In my diary, about this time I only entered one happening a month, and it gets fewer as time goes.)
Driving my van, I listened to a country radio station, to a song with the words, “I’m thinking about you,” dealing with a father who loves his 8-year-old daughter and wonders about her when he sees how many adult women are treated badly in the world. It made me think.
I was a little girl once. My dad’s little first-born girl. During my first six years, I wanted to be a cowboy. Didn’t understand the difference between cowgirl and cowboy. I loved wearing chaps, boots, six shooters, and a hat, and I needed a horse (even make-believe worked). I desperately wanted to look just like Roy Rogers. He was my hero. We didn’t live but a mile or so from him in Phoenix, Arizona. I played cowboy in the front yard almost every day, hoping beyond hope to see Roy go by on his horse, Trigger. My child-heart yearned to be near my hero. I still have a birthday photo of me at 6-years-old, sitting on a real, little pony (borrowed) in my cowboy gear.
Was my wonderful Dad ever jealous? I hope not. I believe he was my real hero, I just didn’t know it then.
Continuing with this diary I found while cleaning out my filing cabinet.
I love watching the oldies show “Perry Mason. In fact, I have several Perry Mason books, both in English and in French. Why do I love it? The actors? Maybe. They are good in my estimation. Oh, I know why…
I love seeing how mixed-up things get straightened out. How the loose threads get tied together into something clear and logical. I love reading books like the count of Monte Cristo, Tale of Two Cities, the Bible… I like finding out how problems are solved, how messed up lives turn out, how different occurrences and lives affect others either immediately or years down the line. I wonder who I affect. How my life will turn out? Will it be worth watching or reading about?
In continuation of my newly rediscovered diary of a short period in 1998, I must have been thinking about a good friend of my family…
Thelma is almost 80-years old. She has known me since I was in the sixth-grade, and was my Mom’s best friend for years. She does ceramics; makes greeting cards; paints; sews; volunteers at the senior center; helps people who need clothes, food, money; encourages people with educational goals; makes things and gives them away or sells them cheap, like bowls, mugs, plates, figurines (made warped on purpose or normal shapes), trash can mugs, pencil holders, ceramic whistles, greeting cards in unusual styles; and the list goes on.
I’ve found Thelma Things all over San Diego county. The chiropractor’s wife has several things. I do. I had a secret pal a few years ago and I thought I was being smart to give her a trash can mug Thelma had made. Thelma signs her work TJ on the bottom. A couple of months later, my secret pal told me (at the unveiling) that she knew I had been her secret pal because I was the only one she knew who was acquainted with Thelma. Oh well. She had several Thelma Things.
I would like to be known like that. I want people to remember me by My Things, to touch people’s lives with the fruit of my hands, the labor of my brain.