The Torture List

A terrible thing happened this morning: I completed all the easy items on my to-do list.

At first glance, that might sound like a nice accomplishment. After all, it means the dishes are washed, my toenails are clipped (at least, the ones I can reach), and the house has been purged of junk foods in anticipation of a healthier lifestyle (I’m a little bloated as a result, but I did it!).

Now I’m down to what I call the torture list. This list includes actions required by modern life or common sense–things that are good for you but not very fun. You know, things like “get mammogram,” “see accountant about taxes,” and “maintain even temper while calling phone company to inquire about yet ANOTHER billing error.”

Some of the items on my torture list have been there for months. In fact, I sometimes wonder if I might be using the list as a way to avoid the truly Scary Stuff. After all, as long as I have Important Matters to attend to, I can’t be expected to write the Great American Novel or to volunteer at the hospice, right? (Note to self: Add “find a good therapist” to list.)

I’d been thinking about this dilemma all afternoon when, just now, I checked Facebook (an excellent tool for procrastinators, by the way) and read a sobering post about the devastating effects of this week’s earthquake in Haiti. The news prompted me to consider what must be on the to-do lists of the survivors: find food and water, help bury the dead, look for missing family members.

I’d say that’s what a torture list really looks like. It certainly puts things into perspective. My complaints seem trivial in comparison. So . . .

Instead of adding “Donate to Red Cross” to my list, I’ve visited the Red Cross Web site and made an immediate donation.

Also, I’ve retitled the remaining items on my list: “Yucky to-do’s that I’m lucky to do.” This afternoon, I realized that what’s on my list might be unpleasant but doesn’t really qualify as “torture.”

Thank God.

My Mother Is Eighty (and Other Dangerous Revelations)

My mother is 80 years old, but she doesn’t like for me to say so. Not online anyway. It’s not that she’s vain–not at all; what worries her is identity theft. “I’ve heard about it on the news,” she says. “All it takes is one little piece of information, and they can get your whole history.”

Thieves aren’t the only ones we need to worry about when it comes to sharing data, according to Mom’s theories. Doctors, for instance, are always wanting to know which of your family members had what diseases, how much you smoke, whether it hurts when they press here or there, and highly personal details such as the color of your stools. All of this information can and will be used against you in the medical system as the doctors refer you to all of their specialist friends for various tests. ”They want to keep you alive as long as they can so they can make as much money off you as possible. And to top it all,” my mother says indignantly, “they don’t even bother to ask you if you WANT to stay alive. They just assume it!”

As my husband likes to say, you can’t argue with logic like that.

Mom has been like this for as long as I can remember. When I was in elementary school (I would tell you which grade, but that might be revealing too much), she warned me not to answer personal questions from the teacher. “Anything you say goes into a permanent file,” she cautioned, “and it could end up getting reported to the FBI.” But when Mrs. M____ asked me point-blank on the playground one morning whether I had any brothers or sisters at home, I found I was no good at subterfuge. I blurted out the truth, revealing that I had two little brothers. I am ashamed to report that when the teacher probed further, I broke down and revealed their names as well.

There is nothing I can do about the fact that my brothers’ names might still be filed away in an FBI vault somewhere. Or the fact that my doctor’s files include detailed accounts of personal proceses involving solids, liquids, and gasses. However, I suppose I could stop myself right now–this very moment–from publishing this post where strangers might read it.  But dangit, this business of keeping secrets is getting old, so I’m going to throw caution to the wind tonight. Here goes.

I ask only one favor. If you see my mother, don’t tell her I posted this story online. You see, she has this file . . .

Sharing Crayons with My Brother

After 22 years of marriage, there are still things my husband doesn’t know about me. Today, for example, he asked, “What was your favorite shade of blue crayon when you were a kid?”

“Really, I can remember having only the standard-issue blue,” I replied. “My parents grew up in lean times and didn’t believe in luxury items like 16 or 24 colors where 8 would do.”

Each September of my early childhood, my two younger brothers and I each received our very own 8-pack of Crayola crayons. When it came to crayon usage, Eldon and I were literally conservatives–careful not to press hard or peel away too much paper, nervous about violating the thick black lines in our coloring books. But Carson, the youngest, was a free spirit. Broken crayons didn’t faze him. In fact, he liked to break his in half ON PURPOSE, peel away the paper, and color huge swaths at once instead of using just the point. Sometimes he layered his colors, blue on top of black on top of red. I still remember how shocked I was to see him make a purple frog. “Frogs are green!” I informed him in my helpful-big-sister tone. He was having none of it: “Don’t hafta be,” he told me. I realized with a shock that he was right–that I could color things however I liked. Though it didn’t seem right to violate nature’s rules. I self-righteously told Carson, “Just because you CAN doesn’t mean you SHOULD.” 

Phillip shook his head sadly upon hearing of my deprived childhood. “Mom and Dad weren’t exactly rich, either,” he said, “but I still remember my first 64 pack with its built-in sharpener. I waited YEARS for that sucker, and when I finally got it, I couldn’t wait to test all the colors. Don’t tell me you never had a 64 pack!”

“Actually, we did. For about two weeks.” It was something I’d forgotten–a repressed memory, if you will–an early trauma. “One year, Dad got us a 64 pack instead of three 8 packs. He just came home with the big box, without consulting anyone. I knew right away what was going to happen, and sure enough: nearly all of the crayons were naked and broken within a week. Sharing crayons with Carson–I stll can’t believe my parents thought that was going to work.”

For some reason, Phillip found the story hilarious.

“You wouldn’t think it was so funny if you had been there!” I told him. “You were raised as an only child, so you had all 64 colors to yourself!”

That was when a little voice whispered in my head:

Which would you rather have had–64 colors or two brothers?

I thought of my little brothers–their pancake-syrup-sticky kisses, our first step into the ocean together, our neighborhood nickname (The Three Musketeers), Carson’s feet inexplicably smelling like Miracle Whip, Eldon biting his fingernails to the quick while watching a Dracula movie and trying to hide his tears when we watched Old Yeller, catching lightening bugs together in jars in the summertime . . . .

I wouldn’t trade those memories, those relationships, for the biggest variety pack of crayons in the universe. My kid self didn’t know it, but my adult self does: relationships with family and friends are what truly color our world.