Apothegms

ap·o·thegm  [ap-uh-them]  –noun

a short, pithy, instructive saying; a terse remark or aphorism.

“Another day another dollar”, “six one way, half a dozen the other”, “in for a penny, in for a pound”, “slow and steady wins the race” These are the apothegms I grew up with and find myself repeating on a daily basis. They give me courage, help me stay on course (NOT stay the course, what a ridiculous tag line), help get me motivated in the morning and help me deal with the results of my actions at the end of the day.

Every morning before entering the monolith I work in I say “another day, another dollar”. It reminds me that that is the reason I come here, for a pay check. I do my job, they pay me, end of story. I like my co-workers for the most part, like what I do for the most part, but it is not my life, it is a means for obtaining and keeping the life I want. Life is what happens to me when I leave here, with my family, my friends, my interests. I simply do not understand people that feel that retirement is a loss. I yearn for the day I can retire, when I can spend my days in happy pursuit of the things that make me content. I want to write and get paid for it. I want to cook for people, to have them say ‘My gosh this is delicious’ and stand groaning and releasing buttons after a fantastic meal. I want to experience at will that moment when the batter I am stirring takes on the exactly right sheen and thickness and air bubbles pop leaving quarter size craters in the glossy slick surface. I want to read about a thousand books (for starters). I want to paint murals on the walls that surround me—trees and flowers, water and rocks, calming, lovely and wildly fertile murals so that the walls do not close in on me. I want to sleep until noon or not at all and spend the day in my pajamas watching trash TV or listening to beautiful music or dancing around my living room singing at the top of my lungs. In short, I want to be the one that everyone refers to as ‘that crazy lady’ while discussing my latest literary work or divine dish. Until then, I square my shoulders, mutter ’another day, another dollar’ and go on about my business.

‘Six one way, half a dozen the other’ is an apothegm that reminds me not to over analyze situations, people, conversations, directives and decisions. I find it so incredibly easy and self indulgent to get into my head and just spend the day there, playing around, messing with things that are better left alone. Imagine a child in a laboratory filled with chemicals and flame under beakers full of brightly colored smoking liquids and you will have an idea of what I mean. I am terribly introspective and could spend all of my time getting to know the ins and outs of me but frankly I am not all that interesting. I have to remind myself that since I don’t even have that good a handle on my motives and inspirations (Lets face it, every new day changes us. How can we ever understand it all?)  why the heck would I ever assume I had the power to determine what someone else was thinking or feeling or dealing with when they say or do something I find questionable. If I go six one way, questioning, theorizing, imagining and wondering, or half a dozen the other, accept at face value, the end result is the same. They said or did something I do not agree with or understand. Why stress over it?

One of my favorite apothegms, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound’, means just go for it. If you are going to try a little bit then just throw your self into it head first and arms akimbo. I had a basketball coach in high school who told us if you are going to foul make them bleed. I thought it was horrible at the time but now, 35 years later I can see the wisdom in the advice (even if I would never, ever tell a child to hurt someone); In short, if you are going to do something that possibly carries a very high price you better give it everything you’ve got. Otherwise you will end up paying the maximum for surely minimal rewards. I am not saying I am courageous. Hell, I am not even close to bold most of the time, but if something is important enough for me to try then screw creeping down the steps in the shallow end! I head for the deep end right away.

The last apothegm in my list, ‘Slow and steady wins the race’, is one I think everyone knows, has heard since they were two and grandma read the ‘Tortoise And The Hare’ to them. I think this is an idea wasted on children, they just want to go, go fast, go faster, higher, longer than any other kid and possibly become Superman, you never know! But, if we hear it enough when we are tots,  ‘Slow and steady wins the race’ becomes meaningful when we need it most, brand new and shiny with purpose (imagine a tortoise with a big S—for slow—on his chest, rolling out of the phone booth of our imagination while a light bulb comes on over our heads). Slow and steady allows us to visualize and set long term goals (i.e. crazy lady status at retirement). Slow and steady allows us to endure the years of school, of work, of corporate climbing because we KNOW that these things pay off, that they will give us lasting peace and contentment (or at least a 401K so that we can fund our own peace and contentment). Slow and steady allows us to stay emotionally and/or physically afloat during the lean years, to stay with our spouse during the ‘Why did I ever marry YOU?’ times, to love our kids through the ‘I hate you! Gimme five dollars’ times, to tolerate our pets during the piss on the floor, chew the shoes and bite the preacher times. In short, slow and steady allows us to shudder through the not so great times so that we can revel in the wonderful times.

What grandma failed to read to us as kids was the epilogue to that story, when the tortoise goes home, has a nice hot soak in a well appointed bath, dresses in a natty new shell, aerodynamically designed with the racing tortoise in mind, pours himself an ice cold beer in a tall chilled glass, looks at a picture of the hare and goes ‘nanny nanny boo boo sucker’ under his breath as he sinks into his comfy furniture in that wonderful log he calls home.

Them Bucks Will Gut You

I love to catch little snatches of other people’s (men’s) conversations. This gives me an insight into their (men’s) lives, an idea of what they are going through, what is important to them, their dreams and ambitions and, on occasion, reminds me of just how stupid we all sound sometimes.

My favorites bits are snagged in bars…. Picture this: Two men and a beautiful woman sitting at a local bar, waiting for their food order to be delivered to their table. Quite a few beer bottles sit empty if front of both men and the lovely lady, evidently the designated driver is on her second sweet tea. Both men are 35 and just a bit pudgy, both in uniforms of some type, both with sturdy steel toed boots and multiple phone and tool pouches on their belts. One’s hair is a tad too long, a mullet slicked back with something a little too shiny and is clean shaven and one has the redneck-hip bald head and goatee. One’s shirt is white button-up (with one too many buttons loosened at the collar), one’s shirt is uniform blue. Both are wearing too much cologne, splashed on hastily in the car to make up for the fact that they couldn’t shower before coming out to play. Pool cues lean against the edge of the table and the wall and a tumbled pile of quarters sits next to the cardboard centerpiece advertising Texas ‘Rita Tuesday. There isn’t much about them that grabs my attention; the place is full of tables exactly like this enjoying the requisite Redneck Top 40 playing on the jukebox. Then I catch one line, one small phrase that makes me wish I had listened to more of their conversation… White button-up slick mullet dude—“If I could do anything I would be an international arms dealer, now they have it made”

God, sometimes I wish I were a guy.

Not surprisingly at the same bar (but at a different table) sit what is sure to be the same threesome 30 years hence. 65 year old slick back (waaayyyyy back, damn hairline) mullet dude in white button up with one too many buttons undone, cracker-no-longer-hip, just-bald-dude with scraggly chin hair, blowsy lounge lizard with smeared lip stick, no longer the designated driver so drinking Long Island Ice Teas sit on a Sunday afternoon discussing the liqueur they seem to have just discovered. Same dude, still wishing to be more macho exclaims—“Seriously, they put buck blood in it, makes you a love stud, but you cain’t drink it during hunting season, them bucks will gut you”

I worked in a cafeteria for a while, baking all day, which was fabulous. There was a man of Hispanic origin, I have no idea from whence he hailed, who was the master baker. He was contemplating proposing to his current girlfriend so the kitchen conversation revolved repeatedly around that subject. Through bits and pieces I gleaned some interesting facts. He had been married four times, yes I meant 4 times, before and had over a dozen children. He could not have been more than 35. He came in on a Friday and whipped out a jewelry box with a very lovely, though teeny diamond in it. With a flourish and a bow he exclaimed he was going to do it, he was taking the plunge, but—“5 times is enough, man, if this doesn’t work out that’s it! No more commitment for me”

I was the only woman who worked in the kitchen and therefore, not surprisingly, the only one who found that statement horribly ironic and funny. I wasn’t included in the conversation but burst out laughing only to have the other staff look at me like I had flown off my rocker, laughing to myself like a ninny, and was given a wide berth all day.

At one point in time, I had a co-worker in the cube-farm I currently inhabit 8 hours or more a day who seemed to believe that 5 foot high walls that only surround you on three sides made him both invisible and silent. Most of what was overheard was just gross: nail clipping, nose snuffling and loogie hocking, farts of amazing volume and velocity, but some of it was an intriguing look into the mind of a man. One morning he had a woman I will choose to assume was his wife on the phone and kept trying to steer the conversation around to how magnificent he had been in the bedroom the night before. Finally, after being shot down repeatedly he wailed—“I know you don’t like to do it, or watch it, but can’t we at least TALK about it? I mean, Jesus! I rocked”  Wow.

Another co-worker gave me food for thought when the economy took a nose dive and making promises of slashing government payrolls became the popular way to garner votes. This co-worker seemed immune to the tension flooding through the floors of our high-rise, going on about his merry way without a care in the world. Standing out smoking one day a fellow civil servant asked him how in the world he could stay so calm about it all when the rest of us were updating our resumes and calling in old favors. His reply?—“They can’t fire me, I mean, they can, but they won’t, I’m gay”

I totally get the Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus idea. In these instances a women might be overheard saying “If I could do anything I wanted I would be Angelina Jolie, now she has it made” but more likely you would hear “I would so do Brad Pitt” We would have talked about how the liquor made us warm and toasty, the thought of being gutted by lusting-for-revenge horned animals never entering our minds. “That bastards been married four times and asked you what?” would have been our response to the disclosure of the proposal, “run me a bath, pour me wine and light candles and I might rock you again” would have been our side of the conversation on the telephone in the cube farm. As far as not worrying about losing one’s job…… with a husband, 3 children producing 9 grandchildren I don’t think the gay thing will fly but I am working on other options……