Let Me Complete You

There was a long stretch of time, say, about forty-seven years, when I knew I was right about everything. I was sure that without my careful attention people wouldn’t be happy.

I never said the sentiment out loud because I had enough self-awareness to know it wouldn’t be received well. That’s as far as my ability to be honest with myself went, though.

My success rate at helping others for a long time was even pretty good.

I believed I was in control and could get things done better than most other people. Lucky, lucky people.

The main tools at my disposal were charm, patience and gifts, big and small, instead of shouting or threats, because I still wanted to be seen as a nice person.

There’s an incident where I gave a car, a nice maroon Ford Escort to someone hoping this would cement our friendship. It didn’t but she took the car anyway. At the time I was more upset over my plan not working out.

I was particularly good at being the audience for someone, sitting patiently through whatever they were doing so that I could count them as a friend. Long hours watching someone else shop, or work on a car, or rehearse for a dance recital while I sat there, immobile. Now, I’d call it passive hostage taking.

I also had a lot of practice taking care of others and even now I can still multi-task with the best of them. I managed to author three books, write a syndicated column, raise a son and tend to elderly parents all at the same time. I got used to trying to write something cohesive about the elections while listening to my father’s TV in the background.

Sure, there was help available but I told myself that it was easier to just do it myself.

At the same time I was investigating self-help books, spiritual gurus, sweat lodges, churches and more, trying to fix the gaping hole inside of myself. All along, I never saw any kind of connection.

My view was that I was being of service even if it was wearing me out. Besides, I loved the way people responded to the framework of my story. There were ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ as people admired what I had valiantly done with the circumstances I’d been given. I had soldiered on, my story said, despite all of these people.

Eventually, those closest to me stopped wanting my help. Some, like my son, grew angry at my constant need to mention how with just a tweak what they were doing could be better. He started to avoid me. Others would either laugh good naturedly that they were okay without my assistance or gave me a quiet lecture about minding my own business.

My entire vision of myself was quickly deteriorating and in its wake I saw that there was very little to fill the vacancy. All of those years of ignoring my own desires or starting and stopping a project of my own, or just outright giving away the fruits of my efforts had left me with only the outline of a life. I was still stuck at the beginning stages.

There had been a house but I had sold it a long time ago. There was a career as a writer but I had kept switching genres and trying something new. There had been relationships but I had picked those who needed me the most. It was like I was building my own house but every time there was the beginning of a solid foundation I tore it apart and gave away the bricks to someone else or started yet another new house just down the block.

Even worse, all of my meddling had taught those I loved that I was their Higher Power and they couldn’t make a move without consulting me. On their own, they would probably fail and disaster would surely follow. I was teaching them to be afraid of trusting themselves and their own choices, which is really what I believed about myself all along.

It’s taken a few years but by consistently sticking to my own business I’ve been able to figure out a few things. I’ve discovered I’m a decent runner and guitar player, both new, and had the nerve to jump out of a plane this year.

My literary agent has been especially relieved to see me ask for her advice and actually take it and we now have a plan. And, lo and behold, some of the people I love have noticed all of the changes and come back to share it all with me. It’s a real life and I’m going to keep building it from here. More adventures to follow.

Cooking Lite

My culinary skills have always left a little something to be desired. I lack that instinctive element that tells a good cook to add a little more salt or just a little rosemary or even just how long to cook a chicken breast.

My son, Louie, who at least survived enough to get to adulthood, still loves to tell his friends about the fried chicken breast that was neatly charred on the outside and raw on the inside. He poked a fork in the chicken’s side and blood came out. I got out the bread and peanut butter.

He uses a tone of voice usually reserved for tales of being tortured by generally malicious people. I was trying to make something tasty, not instill nightmares. When I point that out he rolls his eyes.

When I was living in New York, I took cooking classes at the Whole Foods store down in the Bowery that were taught by visiting chefs from restaurants in Manhattan. The dishes were relatively simple to make but were beautiful to look at and tasted like we all knew what we were doing.

However, even then I kind of goofed. There was an incident with the fish baked in banana leaves when I forgot to add any salt. The dishes were then distributed for eating in no particular order. An older man looked up, disappointed, after his first bite and said, “Someone forgot the salt.” The curse continued.

I tried a soup that had only three ingredients and watched the pot, stirring occasionally. Somewhere in between the stirring I still managed to burn the soup and every bite had a certain crispy taste to it.

I became legendary as the girl who could follow a recipe and come out with a different dish every time. When potluck lists were made, I was automatically given the task of bringing the roast chicken because I could get that, already made, from the local grocery store.

Once I was given fruit salad and went by Sam’s Club the night before and picked up a frozen bag of fruit salad. Who knew it would take more than a day for the bag to defrost. All of the fruit bits had a nice, frosty crunch to them.

I come by my lack of cooking skills honestly. My mother, Tina who managed to get five children to adulthood, may have had some of the same challenges. My mother faithfully reads this column in her local Florida newspaper and clips each one. So let’s just say she was one of the first to buy in bulk the Chef Boyardee pizza in a box, the first instant dinner of its kind, and would say with a lot of enthusiasm, “Look kids, you can do it yourself!”

There was also a famous clear Jello and tuna with peas and carrots recipe, which is probably all I need to say about that one.

However, things may be inexplicably changing. I asked Louie to give me a crock pot for Christmas and a couple of dishes have turned out okay. I even attempted a chicken with garlic that turned out so well, Louie looked up in amazement and said, “You made this?”

I understand why he was baffled. It was not only cooked through, it was really good.
My success with the crock pot has encouraged me to get a recipe book and friends have been sending me recipes they’ve spotted. I’m on a roll of sorts.

This is one of those rules of getting older than no one really tells you. Yes, there are some things that you may not be able to do very well anymore, or at all, but suddenly there are some new talents that emerge to replace them. There’s always this balance thing going on that only requires us to keep trying new things. I may get older but I only grow stale if I stop seeking out something new to learn. More adventures to follow.