Here's Lookin' at You, Spud

There’s the famous Face on Mars, the Jesus Toast Face  (Crust Almighty . . . all the media hype that one got!) and even partial faces like the breathtaking God’s Eye Nebula image.

But that’s old news.

Introducing (drum roll please)  . . .

Ultra-Alarmed Ultrasound Face. A November 4, 2011 article appeared on major news sites showcasing a rather startling tumor discovery. It was clear as day; no head tilts, eye squinting or fancy libations were needed to view the face in this image:

But it doesn’t stop there.

Prefer art over ultrasounds? The latest news revolves around the appearance of the devil’s face in Giotto’s famous fresco, “Life and Death of St. Frances.”  Dark horns and a profile lurk in the clouds. It’s believed that this was an intentional act carried out by the 13^th century painter who apparently did this for the fun, er, hell of it. Turns out, the devil really is in the details.

The proliferation of faces brought to our awareness by the media as well as friends (finally, friends admit to seeing faces too!) brings me a bit of relief. For years now, I’ve seen faces. Faces everywhere.

When Life Gives you Lemons . . .

Picasso-esque Tree Face

Petrified Wood: Facing the Flame

Straight Faced

Face the Facts: Just Your Usual Case of Pareidolia

So I did what many people do when they think they suspect a fever or a case of the crazies: I turned to the good ‘ole internet for some “am I normal?” assessments. Turns out, the phenomena of seeing faces in objects like shoe laces or chicken wings is called Pareidolia.  Whew.

I see you!

A 2007 NY Times article delves into the reasons why we see Demi Moore on a radish or Bozo the Clown in molten lava. According to Dr. Takeo Watanabe, a neuroscientist at Boston University, when the brain is exposed to a stimulus, it continues to perceive that stimulus even when it’s long gone. So, our gray matter holds on tight to all of the faces we’ve seen throughout our lives. From pictures of Grandma to strangers at Disney World, we remember every nose, scar and expression and apparently, we’re always in a state of high face recognition alert. Dr. Watanabe concluded,  “people have gotten so used to seeing faces everywhere that sensitivity to them is high enough to produce constant false positives.”

Sad Candle

So, what does this all mean? Whatever you want, I suppose. Messages from the heavens? Perhaps. A fantastic Jesus on a Jerky eBay sale?  Could be.  

But maybe, just maybe, it simply is what it is. Let’s face it, even Freud once said, “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

Or is it?

All Smiles!

“Life isn’t as serious as the mind makes it out to be.” – Eckhart Tolle

Some pretty scary things have happened to me in life. Knee surgery. Meetings. Air Supply. That kind of thing.

This time of year undoubtedly taps into our fears, (not to mention sugar cravings). Between spooky movie marathons, lawns turned into cemeteries and videos about weight-lifting ghosts, Halloween heightens our awareness for all things scary.

My scariest moment? Had nothing to do with goblins or fake fangs. Instead, my family was put in jeopardy at the hands of an intruder – a true story that I remember vividly. 

I was in the third grade. At that age, my mind ebbed and flowed between slumber parties and cabbage patch kids, school trips and selling Thin Mints. The world was good.

 Picture This

I sat in my living room doing homework when suddenly the ear-piercing sound of glass shattered my thoughts. The noise came from the backyard window, where razor-sharp bits flew through the air and into our breakfast nook. Slivers penetrated carpet as they ricocheted off the table. At the window was a masked man, his leg now halfway through.

Infused with terror, I sprinted up the stairs three steps at a time, shouting frantically for my mom. She was in her bedroom, getting dressed and ready to meet my father for a parent-teacher conference.

I double locked the bedroom door (because clearly, an eye-hook latch in addition to the usual handle lock will stop any burglar in his tracks) and called the police. Time was of the essence. My mom’s hands trembled as she lifted the window and crawled to safety on the partial roof. I joined her, the howls of sirens already echoing in the distance. 

Surely, the intruder was on the other side of the door at this point, foot raised, about to kick the door. My mind played out knives at throats scenarios, where nightstands fly through the air and rattle plants loose from their terra cotta homes.

If we had to jump to safety, we would. I was ready.

Within minutes, unmarked police cars tore down the street. Not just two or three, but quantities of CSI Miami proportions. Guns were drawn, German Shepards exited vehicles. The house was surrounded.

One officer stayed near us, some 15 feet below.

“Stay up there. . . just stay there. . .”

With reluctance, neighbors started coming out of their homes. Gladys, the old lady next door who loved cheese sandwiches and talking about the Young & the Restless, was wide-eyed, looking up at us from her porch. Others watched, more cautiously, through the blinds.

Inside these two minutes, it occurred to me that this might be the proverbial “it.”

At any given moment, I might be floating towards the white light as the Young & Restless theme song accompanied my journey, the scent of my Mom’s White Linen perfume attaching itself to flickering visions of dirty gutters and cheese sandwiches. I was weak with worry, mad with fear.

Frame of Mind

“Ma’am?”

Another officer addressed my mom. His face showed relief as he turned down the squelch of his scanner. 

“Everything’s going to be just fine.” He smiled slightly adding, “We didn’t even go inside.”

What?  I started to hear the soap opera’s violins. Victor Newman. Michael Damian.

My mom asked, “but did you find him? Where’s the . . .”

Again, the smile. “We looked in one of your windows and noticed that a large picture frame had fallen off the wall, in the same area you heard the burglar breaking and entering.”

Pure happiness surged upon hearing his words. Thin Mints. Cabbage Patch Kids. White Linen. Life was good. . . again.

Yet just as I felt safe, I felt completely foolish; the brave fleeing of a scary, scary madman, the heroics of triple stair climbing and calm police dialing . . . vanished. My Mom on the roof, the feeling of wasting the NYPD’s time . . . downright embarrassing. I had been tricked by a sound that caused me – and my imagination – to quite literally leap before looking.

Suddenly, life was so . . . ordinary.

Or was it?

Back inside, the frame was still in tact, its oak arms still tightly embracing an image that, for years, sat quiet and still. Void of its now-shattered protective shell, its image was seen in a new light, perhaps for the first time. It made some noise, caused a bit of a scene and broke away from its normal ways. Sure, it was slightly marred from the incident, but nothing that carefully picking up the pieces and moving on couldn’t fix.

Fear, it turns out, can be a bit of a good thing.

Both well into their 80s, they smile at the memories of Lawrence Welk, reminisce about their crocheted sweaters, and still use words like, “rouge,” and “brooch.” To both,  “fresh” is not about milk, but instead, ill-tempered children. And they both have the same first name: Irene.

So suddenly, with headlines like, “Irene Blows,” my innocent Grammies have become doily-making demons, publicly branded as ruthless little ladies who, well, blow.

I hear the name and remember a woman once active with her local New York State community lodge. She organized church rummage sales. The other Irene made intricate sweaters and scrumptious lemon bar cookies. Yet, I’m jarred from this memory as constant Hurricane Irene updates inform: 

“Irene Takes Lives of Dozens.” 

Sigh again. When you see your grandmother’s name on par with such widespread destruction, never mind that she blows, it’s a tad unsettling. It’s just . . . odd. 

First, it was the urging for my grandmothers to get the heck out of dodge. “Go Home, Irene!”

“How rude! That’s my Grammie you’re talking about!” Yet at the same time, I thought, “yes! Take that, Irene. You go and don’t ever come back!”

Oh, Irene.

NOAA’s Art: Hurricane Names

Apparently the notion of naming a hurricane in this fashion was adopted by NOAA in the 1950s (women’s names only; the addition of men’s names came later, in 1978). The process began with longitude/latitude designations and later evolved to something less complex. According to NOAA’s History of Hurricane Names:

“Experience shows that the use of short, distinctive names in written as well as spoken communications is quicker and less subject to error than the older, more cumbersome latitude-longitude identification methods. These advantages are especially important in exchanging detailed storm information between hundreds of widely scattered stations, coastal bases, and ships at sea.”

Hence, Irene. Snookie. You know, things like that.

Personally, I’d prefer a name that carries a more sophisticated, yet  fierce label. One that imparts an air of hope, yet subtly suggests a darker side, much like many colognes and perfumes. Drakkar Noir. Magie Noir. Cool Water. Inherent danger? Maybe. Maybe not. 

This notion got me thinking. It’s not just the Irenes. There’s every Tom, Dick and Harry that’s a part of a well-accepted phrase, be it good or bad. Is every Joe just some ordinary “Joe Blow”?  Or every Jane, plain? Great Scott! . . . I don’t think so.

I know we’re talking about a catastrophic hurricane that tore boardwalks and families about. (And continues to, as of this writing). Yet with every mention of the word, “Irene,” I can’t help but see the pleasant, cheek-pinching sweetness of my grandmothers’ smiles.

So 20 years from now when my husband turns to me as we follow the path of Cashmere Mist on TV and asks, “Remember Irene?” I most certainly will. I’ll remember the destruction as well as the doilies, the powerful Irene and later, the weakening Irene – never forgetting the memories of all three.  

Jennifer Lilley, 37, is happy to have two terrific grandmothers named Irene and to have weathered Hurricane Irene with very minimal damage. She’s saddened to hear of the devastation the hurricane has caused and has everyone in her thoughts.

© Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

I think about another man constantly.

A famous man.

OK.

Elvis.

Specifically, I can’t stop thinking about having lunch with Elvis.

This Lunch with Elvis notion is so much more than conversation over quesadillas. The heat between us always gives way to memorable moments that are brimming —no, overflowing— with a goosebump inducing balance of sweet, bold moves. Steamy stuff.

Is it a fancying of those Nike-swoosh sideburns? Thoughts of those rhythmic hip shakes? Not at all. What this all boils down to is very real, and the thoughts brewing in my head are filled with enough desire to fuel entire cities.

All Shook Up – A Lent Decision

You see, Lunch with Elvis is actually a coffee at No Joe’s Cafe in Red Bank, N.J. It’s named for the banana and peanut butter hankerings Elvis supposedly developed in his less health conscious, later years – and it’s delicious.

It’s also what I announced I would give up during Lent. Not just Lunch with Elvis (bad), but all coffee (stupid).

Imagine me, whose kitchen prominently features a sign with the phrase, “Coffee is not a drug, it’s a vitamin.” Me, who, despite the sighting of an employee picking lint from her belly button (NOT at the aforementioned café) still walked in and ordered coffee from her. Me, with orderly, British Guard rows of Turkish roasts and ground Hazelnut packages proudly lining cabinet shelves.

This, my friends, is all about what it’s like to go without hot, bold excitement for 46 days (1,104 hours; 66,240 minutes; 3, 974,400 seconds to be exact).

And I sure do miss every bit of those heart-racing moments.

Heartbreak Hotel

The instant I blurted my declaration, heartache hit. I could have said, “I’m giving up coffee . . . ” then paused at the absurdity and added, “cake.” I’m giving up coffee cake.” But nooooo.

After the announcement, one of my first thoughts was, “I wonder if they make coffee tea?” Is there such a thing as a “Lent Take Back”? Could I go back on my word? Geesh, what had I gotten myself into?

I realized right then and there that if I were going to do this, I’d have to fully unleash my perfectionist, all-or-nothing side. Therefore, I bid adieu to all things coffee related (really stupid). Coffee ice cream, coffee yogurt, coffee infused chocolates – banished.

I was going to do this, come hell or high water.

Caffeine Deprived Confessions

The first three days I woke to a screaming headache just at the base of my neck. I turned to Chamomile tea, you know, the one whose box boasts a bear donning a sleeping cap. Surely images of a carnivore in pajamas, coupled with the promise of a delightful flavor, would soothe my caffeine-depleted soul.

Two days later, the headaches faded, but the yearning for coffee’s wonderful taste did not. Much to my chagrin, not everyone around me chose to give up coffee (the nerve!). And so every morning, the smell of arabica beans beckon. Nothing that my daily ritual of picking up the pot (and yes, inhaling) can’t fix. I wonder how silly I must look, deep breathing fresh brewed java straight from the pot. In some weird way, I almost believe I can acquire taste via the olfactory tract.

Becoming one with the Bean

Other times, I open the bag and draw a sharp breath, hold in the aroma, then steadily release. I feel focused, centered. Someday I will open a yoga center, designed to help others achieve inner peace by becoming one with the bean. Whole bean deep breathing. There, the likes of Suri Cruise and perhaps a cleaned up Sheen will visit, striking poses with names like Bean Tuck and Sunrise Stir.

At home, coffee is reminiscent of a child’s relentless finger tapping. Try to ignore me. Bet ya can’t. Try to ignore me. Bet ya can’t.

At work, coffee presents the same in-your-face dilemma. I find myself discreetly pausing over a just-tossed coffee cup. There, I briefly hover near the garbage can to enjoy a whiff of still-warm hazelnut infused Styrofoam.

Earl Grey, Genghis Khan . . .

Regardless how many tea flavors I have —Earl Grey, Pomegrante Green, Licorice— it just doesn’t impart the same sensory experience as coffee. No matter how robust a tea’s name, it can’t fool me. No Earl, no rooibos, no country or philothantropic endeavored title can trick me into thinking that its flavor is a rich as its name.

Now, a fine blend of Genghis Khan oolong, Cayenne Molasses tea leaves, Horseradish Inferno with a bit of honey. . . perhaps we’re on to something.

Nah.

This is your Brain. This is your Brain Not on Coffee.

A couple of weeks into Lent, a disturbing notion entered my mind: What if I’ve lost my coffee craving?

It’s Easter Sunday. I’m at my parent’s house and take that highly-anticipated first sip of coffee. Instantly, my face turns red, eyes water, and without warning, I spew caffeinated saliva all over the ham and hot cross buns.

Silence. Droplets of Lunch with Elvis bead down my father’s new Easter sweater.

“Whoopsee,” I muster. “ I guess the taste of coffee doesn’t suit me anymore.”

My Mom, rather than being upset at the mess, hands me a tea bag instead, her kind smile suddenly sprouting fangs as her head spins violently. All the while, the whistling teapot reaches an ear-splitting level, with enough intensity to shatter the eggs right out of their colored shell. Then . . . as far as the eye can see are chamomile fields. Fields in the living room, creeping across the ceiling, blanketing neighbors’ lawns, even poking through the hot cross buns. And in each field, Easter Bunnies with teacups and grizzlies in nightcaps dance together, mocking me.

Hmmph. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I think it makes the imagination just go crazy.

Mostly though, I pretend to ignore the cravings. I’m cool, me and my teabag tag stapled to a string, swaying over the sides of a cup. Carefree, nonchalant. Look at me. Look at the tag twirl in the breeze. I’m having non-coffee.

Yip. Eee.

The Five Stages of (Coffee) Grief

This whole experience reminds me of the five stages of grief, a coping model Elisabeth Kubler-Ross established in the late 60s.

Her model described, in five discrete stages, ways people deal with grief (yes) and tragedy (yes) mainly when dealing with a catastrophic loss (yes again). I find it applies to those giving up coffee during Lent, but who knows.

1. Denial — “I feel fine.” “This can’t be happening, not to me.”

Coffee Grief Example: This chamomile tea is just fine, really. These headaches are just from sleeping the wrong way or something. I feel fine. Some people even say coffee’s not that good for you anyway.

2. Anger — “Why me? It’s not fair!” “How can this happen to me?”

Coffee Grief Example: Are. You. Kidding. Me? Another coffee commercial. Damn you and your best part of waking up jingle. This is not fair! Why is this happening to me? And you – yeah you with your job loss and divorce and illness- you don’t know pain until you’ve gone without coffee. I mean, have you even HAD Lunch with Elvis?

3. Bargaining — “Just let me live to see my children graduate.” “I’ll do anything for a few more years.” “I will give my life savings if…”

Coffee Grief Example: I’d do anything to taste even just a little, please . . . Just let me live long enough to have Lunch with Elvis again. Don’t let anything happen to get in the way of this. Please.

4. Depression — “I’m so sad, why bother with anything?” “What’s the point?” “I miss my loved one, why go on?”

Coffee Grief Example: I miss coffee so much, the yeaning in my heart is almost too much to take. What’s the point? Why even bother with tea? I miss my one true love, coffee.

5. Acceptance — “It’s going to be okay.” “I can’t fight it, I may as well prepare for it.”

Coffee Grief Example: It’s going to be okay. I have less than a week to go. I’m going to be just fine until then.

“Until then,” of course, is Easter Sunday.

I’m looking forward to embracing the Spirit of the day. Family. Goodness on Earth. Ham. A time to sit, —perhaps in a corner alone— coffee pot in one hand, a large straw in the other, returning at long last to my true love and the blessed state of caffeinated, steamy bliss that only we share.

Jennifer Lilley, 36, drinks her coffee black, two packets of sweetener, no cream. She thinks “Small” shouldn’t even be a choice offered in cafes and believes there’s no such thing as a bad cup of coffee. Ever. For the record, she does enjoy tea on occasion. Easter will not be one of those occasions.

The author, ready for some java!

© Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

As 2011 unfolds, so too will the deluge of New Year’s texts and tweets, posts and pings. The world will be all Dick Clark This and Drunkfest That. The first New Year’s baby.  The first earthquake. The first bird that flew by a window. Resolutions. Wedding proposals. Thong colors. You know, the usual updates we share with all 3 or 300 of our followers and friends. 

And why not? 

All the World’s an Open Tweetbook

The world’s become one open Tweetbook, all Snookified and a bit out of control: Characters with limits. Everything on full display —loud and proud— all in the name of showcasing the us that we are. Or were. Or want to be.

Suddenly colleagues know that not only do we prefer morning meetings, but that we’re attending them in a hot pink bra.

They know so, because we posted so.

Family members know we enjoy Grandma Petunia’s pancakes, but they also know we enjoy grooming a certain region of our body in the shape of a Christmas tree.

They know so, because we tweeted so. 

A-Merrily we Text Along?

It’s no wonder then, that with every tweet and text, it’s often assumed that an all-access pass to our personal psyche comes standard. Little by little, the world begins to think that every topic, about every person and in any social setting, makes for appropriate conversation in the public domain.

Just because the world’s merrily tweeting along and Ville-trading pigs for goats or goats for soap at work, at home, on the bus, in the bathtub, does not mean our innermost thoughts should be put on display at work, at home, on the bus, in the bathtub. Yet it happens. It’s almost as if the thought process is, “Well, heck, everyone knows I’m wearing hot pink sweet nothings, so what’s the big deal in telling them the real reason behind my fear of mashed potatoes or (fill in the blank).” Alternatively, others think they have the right to prod and push, asking the intimate details of another individuals private life —at a restaurant, at work, during a family outing— because, “after all, they took that ‘who were you in a past life’ quiz and let everyone know about that time (fill in the blank).”

We All Have “Stuff”

As one character on a Grey’s Anatomy episode said this year, “We all have stuff. It doesn’t make it drinks conversation.”

Granted, her colleagues’ prodding wasn’t due to texting or tweeting. Yet it illustrates the point, in this texting and tweeting world of ours, that there’s something to be said for the privacy, and respect of that privacy, behind our own thoughts and decisions. The thoughts that only we own, that stand tweetless and treasured for reasons far more meaningful than any status update could ever convey. It could be a hope, an embarrassment, some peculiarity, a grand notion or an obscure thought stuck marinating in our muddied gray matter. 

Don’t get me wrong. I log on regularly, reading with interest about friends who successfully kept their post-burrito bloat at bay last evening. I enjoy how daily lives unfold in song lyric status “code.” And yes, I admit to posting my bra color during that facebook craze. I’m also pretty sure plenty of folks roll their eyes when up goes yet another one of my Eddie Money or Boston videos or “watch the meteor shower” announcements. This New Year will be no different. 

I’ll be reading posts and posting posts and writing on Post-it® notes about posts I want to post . . . you get the idea. But those private thoughts and “stuff” I hold close to my heart?

Well, it’ll all unfold as it should.

I know so, because I believe in it so.

I’ll keep you posted.

- J

The author, 1970s, one with her own thoughts.

 Jennifer Lilley, 36, says it’s her party and she’ll post when she wants to.

© Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet, 2010.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. 

Poor Janet.

Well, she was Miss. Forssell to all the other properly-behaved 4^th graders who knew better than to inappropriately refer to a teacher by their first name. But you see, to Molly and I —class clowns, delinquents, call it what you will— she was Janet. Together we caused Janet more headaches in one year than she probably experienced in a lifetime. That’s why, on our last day of  fourth grade  —also her retirement year—  her actions towards us left us fully conflicted yet oddly comforted. 

The Antics

From day one, pigtails sprouted from our heads just as wildly as the shenanigans forming inside them. Room 116 was filled with moments like my pulling the chair in front of Scott as he chased me around the room during her retirement party, causing him to erupt in tears. Things like Molly hiding his favorite blue bulldog-shaped eraser, forcing Janet to keep the entire class from heading home until the thief fessed up. Sneaking into the auditorium during recess to play the piano and run around on stage. Laughing during class at a picture of Albert Einstein’s messy hair.

The Fist

Day in, day out, our Room 116 antics forced her to raise her arm high above her head, until in one fell swoop, her clenched fist slammed downward on her desk like a gavel. She demanded order from the Unruly Duo. BAM! Most of the time, her fist pounding was done in conjunction with the standard “Janet Scream,” her heavy English accent ricocheting off the walls:  “How Daaaaaaah You!” (How Dare You!)

Yet we continued to “accidentally” get locked in the coat closet.

BAM! “How Daaaaaaah You!”

Wedged chalk between the eraser.

BAM! “How Daaaaaaah You!”

Swung from the bars above the bathroom stall doors.

BAM! “How Daaaaaaah You!”

Janet in Room 116 at her retirement party

Lean on Me

However, it was that same angry fist that she’d gently wrap around our wrists every day.

A heavy limp plagued her every step, causing her to call upon various students throughout the day to aid her trek to the ladies room. Oddly enough, she typically called upon Molly or myself, rebellious little human canes walking in silence by her side.

Flash forward 10 minutes later.

BAM! “How Daaaaaaah You!”

Giggles. The sound of 25 children snickering at once.

Students about to Face a Death Sentence . . . or not?

Then, the last day of class arrived. We’d be moving on to the 5^th grade. Janet would be a retired teacher. This was it.

We were moved to a room down the hall so that Room 116 could be cleared out and make way for the new teacher who would take her place. Even in that new room, Molly and I made sure chaos ensued.

Something about knocking down someone’s elaborate domino set up, me on the floor, almost pierced to death by an umbrella spoke . . . it was a bit of a blur.

Then the English accent. But this time: 

 “Jennifer. Molly.”

We walked up to her. Without a word, she positioned Molly to her left, me to her right and clenched our wrists. She exited the room with us at her sides, limping, gripping us.

Surely, she was taking us to our death.

We walked. Her grip tightened.

We knew, just knew, she was going to make us eat chalk til we choked on every last crumbly piece, laughing and saying How Daaaaah You while she watched.

She stopped in front of Room 116, peering inside.

The three of us stood in that doorway. Nothing but an empty room before us. No more bulldog erasers or Einstein pictures. Desks were gone, clearly all the mark of the next teacher’s soon to be redesign. All that was left of her  30-plus years as a teacher were barely legible math equations peeking through dusty chalkboard swirls.

 Heavy silence. 

We stood.

And stood.

Finally, the accent.

“Well . . . Good-bye 116.”

With that, she turned, still holding on to us for support, and led us back to the other room.

It would be the last time either of us would be called upon to act as a human cane, the last time teacher and student would walk side by side.

All that mattered to us then was that we never got to find out what chalk tasted like.

 Letting Go by Holding On

But as we grew older, we understood its deeper meaning, one that touched us immensely. Here was a woman who had taught for over 30 years and she chose us to stand by her side as she said goodbye to a room, an empty room once full of giggles and franticly waving “oooh, oooh, I know the answer” hand raises, and yes, plenty of shenanigans.

She could have picked Amy, who always sat properly and never talked back. Or Peter, probably the smartest kid in the universe. But she chose us, two wild, unpredictable 4^th graders whose Strawberry Quick sugar highs should have forced her into retirement months earlier. 

It all came together: her embarking on retirement was in every way a bit like us. Unpredictable, crazy, scary, a bit of a wild notion, full of the frustrations and anxiety based on the unknown. Just like she never knew what to expect day to day with us, the same would go for her retirement: what next? What will tomorrow bring? There will be chaos.

Heck, the world outside of Room 116 might be even crazier than the world that existed inside of it. Maybe in some strange way, our antics weren’t that awful after all. Much as we were unruly, perhaps we provided her stability: literally in her wobbly walks to the restroom, and in some ways, stability in her mind knowing that silliness was always a given inside the familiarity of Room 116. Perhaps our silly 4^th grade antics were a bittersweet notion, one that sharply contrasted with the not-so-silly notion and seriousness of retirement.

And so, we learned that she needed us as much as we needed her. As much as she was there for us with all that Einstein hubabaloo, we too, were by her side when she needed us.

So it goes. Turns out that in the madness and uncertainty of life, how you hold on matters just as much as how you say good-bye. The most important part, though, is making sure you have the right people by your side when you choose to do so.

Oh, and a little silliness doesn’t hurt either. 

 Jennifer Lilley, 35, likes this Horace Mann quote: “Mix a little foolishness with your serious plans; it’s lovely to be silly at the right moment.”

© Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet, 2010.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

You see, right now, my heart is racing and my pupils dilated in sheer anticipation:  the cutest heels are on sale at Target, and my size 8 tootsies are ready to drink them in, taking me from 5’ 5” to 5’ 8” fast, getting me high in a heartbeat. Instantly, my mood and body are elevated; I feel oh, so incredibly good. 

Head over Heels

“You really should wear sneakers more often,” warns my flat shoe-wearing friend as she hands over an article about snapped ligament risks. It suggests we put our foot down on heel-wearing tendencies, for the love of our arches and health of our spine. My Jolly Green Giantness skims the article, then responds. “Nah.” Right then, as if by design, I magically descend from 5’ 8” then 5’ 6” to 5’ 5” in front of her very eyes, my heels slowly sinking into the soggy ground we’re conversing upon. Flat Shoe smirks. Whatever. 

Why, she wonders. She offers up Shoe Psychobabble, suggesting that my enjoyment of heels is an outward declaration that I sometimes have my “head in the clouds.” (Well, I’d like to think it puts me at least two or three inches closer to them, anyway). Flat Shoe continues:  Perhaps they demonstrate my need to go “above” and beyond, and may even suggest a constant making up for any perceived “short”comings in my life, or a need to always be on the “up and up.” Wow. 

Head in the Clouds?

On the other hand, she says it’s indicative of my enthusiastic nature to “step it up, rise to the occasion, get a leg up on tasks and have fun . . .” Wow again. So literal. 

However, it’s her final comment I enjoy the most. She points downward at my shoes, muddied heel and all, and mumbles, “Well, those are kinda cute.” 

Justification for Higher Elevation

Flat Shoe’s ramblings gnaw at me like last week’s almost-healed toe blister, making me unusually aware and intrigued by us persistent heel wearers. So rather than see it a display of “short”comings or wonder why my tendon isn’t mendin’, I decide to have some fun with it all, putting my own positive, silly spin on this (because my head is apparently in the clouds, you know). Kind of the anti-podiatrists creed of sorts. If a favorite color, animal or meal supposedly offers up snapshots into our collective psyches, so too, can something be said about pumps and the people who get pumped up over them.  Just who are we, these mysterious creatures who enjoy the high?  

The Heel Wearer is:

Considerate. Much like the throat clearer or nose sniffler who intentionally makes the noise in an attempt to pre-announce – and therefore reduce the startle effect – on the person he is about to approach, heels too, provide adequate warning. The rhythmic click-click-click of heels, growing louder from the distance, provides sufficient time for others to, say, minimize inappropriate website screens. 

Fun & Spontaneous. Consider the phrase about kicking up your heels. Why, of course!  One gentle, nonchalant kick of my ankle and off they fall, allowing me to run around barefoot in the grass at a moment’s notice or better yet, declare that I’d prefer footsies over fries at the restaurant. 

One flick and the heel is off with ease, ready for fun in the sun

 Uncomplicated, Free. No tying, no double lacing —quite literally — no strings attached. Simple, genuine, pure and uncomplicated. Feet need not hide behind the confines of socks, smothered yet again with layers of leather. My sole is free, relaxed.

Free your Sole

Environmentally Conscientious: Heels, as they poke mini holes in lawns, aerate the soil, allowing homeowners to bypass the tedious springtime process. The action also provides a great start for lawn-boring creatures (not ideal for the humans, I realize). Plus, sockless feet contribute to less of a laundry load, thus reducing water consumption and keeping our reservoir supply fuller than ever, leading to an eco-happiness that makes one want to hug the Cheerio-buying stranger in the supermarket for no reason and engage in random acts of kindness worldwide . . .  

(Head in the clouds, hmmph.) 

Sigh. 

Clearly, this is all a bit of a stretch. Overly literal. Bottom line is, I wear ‘em for no other reason than I like ‘em. Yes, they are impractical some days, downright foolish-looking others. I may teeter at times and shiver at others, but in the end, I’m always very comfortable in my own shoes.  

Relaxing with the new cat, cross legged in heeled boots

Just like Seaweed Atheists are not algae-wrapped humans who chant deity existence theories from atop sea jetties.     

So what’s with the odd concoction of words?      

Blame the unusual word pairings on a box of lunchroom chocolates and the question: Where DO some of these bands get their names?      

Hootie & the Blowfish, or, What’s in a Name?

We were at work. The announcement that a box of chocolate truffles had just arrived was made. The three of us emerged from our department like wolves on the prowl, the scent of cocoa running deep in our veins. Just moments before lunch, we lived up to our “life’s short, eat dessert first” philosophy.    

It was there in the kitchen – surrounded by the official bulletin board promise that our bathroom was “satisfactorily sanitary” and a golden Godiva^® box on the table – where we unleashed the silliness.    

Prelude to Silliness

Just as random as the array of assorted chocolates that sat before us, someone suddenly broadcast:     

“Some band names are really strange.”    

(LONG PAUSE)    

“You know, you’re right. . .”    

A slew of examples were quickly rattled off: Alice in Chains. Grand Funk Railroad.  Smashing Pumpkins. Jefferson Airplane. Herman’s Hermits.    

“Yeah, how do they come up with such unusual names?”    

And with that, “imagine if” scenario #982 unfolded right along with the foil around my dark hazelnut truffle.    

“Imagine if they sat around, each band member writing random words on pieces of paper, one word per piece of paper. Then they toss ‘em all in a hat and pick out two or three pieces at a time. They abide by the rule that they must – absolutely MUST- make the words scrawled on those chosen two or three pieces of paper their band name. Forever.”    

That said, the adventure began. High on phenethylamine and raspberry sweetness, we armed ourselves with pens and scrap paper. We let the words flow.    

Potato. Hamper. Flames. Jock strap. Fleas. Elixir. Moss.    

Mixed them all up, chose a few at a time.    

The fate of a band name was about to be determined by a plucked Post-It bearing a caramel-creamed fingerprint:    

Jockstrap Elixir.     

This went on. And on.    

Ladies & Gentlemen, Give it up for . . .

Among those on our list that day:    

Band Names:    

Blind Johnny & the Menstrual Bag Ladies     

Junkyard Erosion (heavy metal, we envisioned)     

Random Cyanide (ditto)     

Cyclone Blues (jazzy, with a wild, unpredictable edge, hence “cyclone”)     

Nylon Sexpots (well, at least we knew how the band members would look)     

Seaweed Atheists    

Funky Dumbass & the Critical Nosebleeds (funk)    

Album/Song Titles:    

Sleepwalkers of the Earth    

Boiling Ego Trip    

Diabetic Wedding    

Eternal Flatulence    

Sadistic Taco    

Toothless Lamp Post    

Coed Mooning   

Flighty Urges    

Taking silliness seriously: a formal listing of our band name creations

This went on for months. Co-workers began to wonder what could possibly be causing such lunchroom hilarity. Egg salad sandwiches were not THAT funny, after all.  They might lead to a bit of Eternal Flatulence, yes, but what was going on that that was so darn amusing?

When mumblings of  “Derailed Turtles,” “Melting Shoehorns” and “Borescope Monstrosities” leaked, a few joined in on the fun while others feigned smiles and scratched their heads (the latter, likely listeners of the aforementioned Boiling Ego Trip album).    

The Sweet ‘n Sour Chicken of Word Platters

The point to all of this?    

Zip.    

We simply found something silly about the random injection of words, the surprise fusion of pairing the nonsensical with sensical. It was the Sweet ‘n Sour Chicken of word platters.    

It was a crazy little mid-day diversion from the ordinary that fueled our imagination, allowed us to escape from the routine, and always led to good laughs.    

After lunch, we’d get back to work. We’d finish, turn in our work, then turn out the driveway. On the way home, our grins were as broad as the music played on the stations, but none got our attention more than the latest hit we heard that day, “Contagious Endorphins” performed by none other than the Eccentric Truffle Girls.    

Funny, that number 13.

Some places skip the designation on doors and elevators to keep the fear associated with the superstitious digits at bay. My unlucky run-in with the number has an entire day associated with it. 

A life I had known was taken from me.

I opened the door to find everyone sitting in silence. Their faces, once vibrant with color, now showed more pallor and panic.

They knew. I knew. It was time.

I looked over at him. I heard his breath draw in – still strong, steady, succinct – delivering the last words I would ever hear him say: “ . . . the economy . . . and as a result, we’re laying you off.”

October 13, 2009. Something in my little heart died. I was no longer a creative writer at an ad agency.

 Heavy

Just like that, the world became heavy.

Boxes were made heavy as I filled nearly four years of brainstorming ideas and taglines into them. My words and concepts were now suffocating inside musty cardboard, smothered by salt packs, staplers and lavender hand lotion.

Home. Work.

Thoughts were heavy: “I’ll drive across the country tomorrow . . . I’m driving to the unemployment office now . . . I’m afraid to drive for fear of an accident and dealing with insurance costs . . . I’m driving myself crazy . . .” The barrage of mixed emotions left me feeling fully menopausal at 35.

Even the air felt heavy as a few others received the same news after me that day, October 13, 2009. 

Suddenly, I felt undefined. After all, “what do you do for a living?” is often the first thing people ask. What you “do” conveys personality, ambition, ability. Heck, it even appears first in an obituary, coming even before the list of beloved family members left behind.

However, in heaviness comes hope. Prior to leaving, I looked at my office door. Two months before, I taped a picture of a tiny dog mustering up a bold expression, the words “BE BRAVE” alongside. I did not cry. Instead, someone got my scented candle, another inherited my plant. With that, I left on my journey to “be brave.”

Forge on.

Blueberry Muffins & Gary Wright

I once wrote something about the company saying, “if you’re here just for a paycheck, then it’s time for a reality check.”

We worked hard and played hard. In between early morning work arrivals and last-minute ad campaign frenzies were made up stories of the semi-fictitious Jean, her love of blueberry muffins and her passion for the Greek singer Yanni. 

Jean's Favorite

Jen Lilley (aka Betty to some, J'Lil to others) at work back in the day

Lightening Up

Sigh. But that was then. As of this writing, it is now November 13 (a Friday, no less), exactly one month later.

Reality is, one is not defined by a name on a business card. There’s a ton of options out there. It’s time I explore them. Time to lighten up and “BE BRAVE.”

The world sits before me. Just like those half unpacked boxes. And somehow, neither feels so heavy anymore. 

Jen Lilley Getting Heaviness Out of the Way.

Jennifer Lilley, 35,  is ready for the adventure to begin. She lives in Freehold, NJ.

 © Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet, 2009.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Time Flies When You’re Having Fun

That old comment about time going by fast may be cliché, but it’s true. And it’s especially true when you’re at the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome in Rhinebeck, NY, where several fun-filled days seem to whirl by so fast, you feel like you’re no sooner greeting familiar faces hello than you are wishing them a safe drive back home. So it goes at the Model Airplane Show at the Aerodrome, where you have nothing but a spectacular runway and pleasant smiles to start your every day, and the only bad part is the whole thing just doesn’t last long enough.

This year, members of the model airplane club I belong to—the Jersey Coast Sport Fliers (JCSF) did as they—and hundreds of other clubs and radio-control enthusiasts do every September—pack their trailers and vans to the gills and head on over. There, they become captivated by the whimsical realism of days gone by, as only the Rhinebeck Aerodrome can do so well.

Within its hangars sit actual WWI-era planes and wing-warping aircraft, and down its long runway land Averos and other spectacular planes.  Add to that the Aerodrome officials who dress in vintage fashion and an occasional spotting of an old-time automobile, and one is instantly transported to another time. Greenery surrounds you. What better place to fly your model Fokker, Jenny or Taube?

Planes, 2009 at Rhinebeck

Sunday’s noontime airshow consisted of the amazing flights of the Aerodrome’s planes, where the likes of wing-warping aircraft lifted off the ground, if only for a moment, and barnstorming thrills also took place. Of course there was ribbon-cutting fun as a Great Lakes plane tried to get the most cuts from the falling stream of paper, the ladies vintage fashion show, and the adventures of Trudy Truelove and the evil Baron running about the field. Many club members also flew their models as part of an afternoon show; seeing their planes as well as the others against the blue sky, some trailing smoke, was a wonderful sight.

Airshow at Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome, 2009

The desire to reach for the sky runs deep in our human psyche.  ~Cesar Pelli, Argentine Architect

The Hill, or Life in the Woods

And while the spectators head home and some pilots stay at nearby hotels, there are several of us who prefer to let the spirit of the Rhinebeck Aerodrome linger on. Rather than return to cable TV, it’s the famed “top of the hill” where we’ve returned to for decades after a day of flying. There, the sky is filled with stars and satellites, and woods surround us. 

It’s where we go, well . . .  because we don’t want to go.

View from the Top of the Hill

You see, there’s a welcome solitude at the top of that hill, where after a day of loops and landings, the fun of Rhinebeck continues. Being up there is simply an extension of the very essence of the Aerodrome itself—like the Aerodrome, it too has a history of friends, fun, nostalgia, and imagination. It’s there where we fire up our little portable grills as well as great conversation. We reflect on Rhinebeck through the years—everything from memories of Cole Palen, founder and curator of New York’s Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome, to the earlier afternoon’s events—passing the spirit of it all to others who want to hear the memories again, or learn about them for the first time. 

It’s where we are taken from flying with friends during the day to getting to know them all over again as the night goes on—even after not seeing some for a year. Stories are told, lives are shared, new changes unfold and most of all, laughter echoes through the trees. It’s where we get away from Blackberry’s, and feel no guilt for abandoning CNN or the lawn back home. All that matters—and all we want to matter—is the top of the hill and simply being.

People make their way up that hill gradually throughout the evening, fresh faces semi-visible only by the flicker of a campfire, so they too, can be part of the fun that so many others have been drawn to for decades. This year, there was (again) Poncho Man and  Alien Man, and new this year: The Distractor as well as The Jumper. You’d have to be there to know.

One measure of friendship consists not in the number of things friends can discuss, but in the number of things they need no longer mention.  —Clifton Fadiman, American Radio Host, Author

From fashion (shirts with statements and socks with toes) to some unexpected memorable moments, it’s a place where fun is had and never forgotten. And it’s all true to the spirit of Rhinebeck: filling up on a good dose of nostalgia and creating new memories, all with—like at the bottom of that hill—a backdrop of music and yes, entertainment. (Self-created, admittedly, but entertainment nonetheless). 

Alien Man

Trees Over TVs

Up there, we prefer to get wrapped up in the stars and each other’s presence, rather than a hotel blanket.  We prefer trees over TVs. We dub areas within a canopy, “The Cozy Alcove Cafe” (complete with some leaking patches in overhead spots, hot dogs and LED lanterns) and tell lots of jokes (some hokey puns, others to make you blush). Daring moves are made between canopies as little electric planes dart about them, much to the cheering of others. We roast marshmallows—and each other—pointing out one another’s unusual, but still likable quirks. Corn becomes funny. “Imagine if” scenarios are made up. There are smiles. Lots of them.

It’s really that simple. Being at the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome for this particular show may only last a few days. But it’s a few days where the day starts with the roar of an engine and extends into the evening with roars of laughter. In the end, your heart is a little lighter and your mood better, all because of the flying, the camaraderie, the spirit and yes, that hill. It gets a hold of you and stays with you.

While packing, I heard someone shout, “364 days left ‘til Rhinebeck!” That’s how excited people are to arrive, and how much they don’t want to leave.

I’m counting the days.   

Sky over the Rhinebeck Aerodrome

Jennifer Lilley, 35, wants to share: “Never stop being a kid. Never stop feeling and seeing and being excited with great things like air and engines and sounds of sunlight within you. Wear your little mask if you must to protect you from the world but if you let that kid disappear you are grown up and you are dead.” — Richard Bach, Author, “Nothing by Chance” 1963

© Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet, 2009.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jennifer Lilley and Jen Lilley’s Thought Buffet with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.