Grand Central Sauna

I'm learning that I am handicapped by many judgements about people, places, and things.  I approach situations and relationships with the idea of how they ought to be. Believe it or not, this causes problems because, guess what? People, places, and things are rarely in line with my fixed presumptions and no one follows the script I've written. I should distribute it first.
     Take the sauna--the one at 24 Hour Fitness on Palomar Airport Road in beautiful Carlsbad, CA. I love saunas, any sauna, but not this one.  Why?  It's the fixed idea problem. My idea is that saunas should be hot, clean, dim, and absolutely silent.  I'm in there to forget the world for a while and let that deep, dry heat saturate my bones.  I don't care if six other people join me, as long as they keep their mouths shut.
     This is evidently not the script they're reading from.  This sauna is instead a crossroads, a hook-up, a hang-out, and an alternate workout area when you're bored with the 10,000-square-foot purpose-built exercise kingdom outside this tiny room. In the sauna there are newspapers scattered on the benches.  A man in gym shoes listens to thumping music on his headphones. A couple is engaged in a deep and relational conversation about her automobile engine.  One guy stands coach over his girlfriend who's grunting out guy-type push-ups.
     Is it any wonder I migrate to the steam room, though I feel boiled alive? At least there, it really is too hot and too foggy to talk much.  It's hard enough just to draw breath.  Even so, you can bet some guy will come in and start using the area to stretch his hammies, vocalize, and throw some pine essence on the spigot.  We're following his script whether we like it or not.

Exalted Ruler

If I was the exalted ruler, I would be severely disappointed with this reserved parking space sign. It should be 10 feet tall, carved of of rare exotic wood, inlaid with precious jewels and the words spelled in cursive in gold leaf. There should be two tall and handsome royal guards dressed in purple and gold standing in obedient attendance on either side of it, with staffs to cross if any unworthy should approach it.

No parking here, buddy. Can't you read?

     What kind of sign is this? It's just some ordinary reserved parking space sign, not even planted square to the curb, not even a circle of rocks around the post to play up its distinction. Its utter lack of specialness--apart from the words, which might just as well say "BIG SILLY"--actually invites ironically spurious parking.
     I suppose that among the Moose, it serves its purpose and earns its respect. But non-Moose go to their lodges, too, whether for metal concerts or memorials. You would think that like the mom and dad expecting formal company, who suddenly see uncouth seediness in every corner of their home, some Moose would peel himself away from the bar, take a stroll around the property, then come back and announce, "I'm thinking that sign looks pretty un-exalted, you guys."
     Just take a page from Disneyland's playbook for some great ideas on how to stick a notice in the ground. They manage to make every sign look like it was carved by royal elves.

Golden Things

My eye always catches golden things: gold dust in cats' eyes, hair turned gold in sunlight, paintings ocher and photographs old. My ear tunes to golden sounds in gardens, I feel gold in warmth and safety, in gold-rimmed embraces and watchful golden cats. Dogs wag gold, loving voices vibrate gold, God's heaven is paved with gold. Everything love touches turns to gold. Even green leaves turn gold when cold comes to let trees sleep. 

Phone Covers

Luddette was walking in Best Buy the other day looking for pens. The large preoccupied boy in a blue shirt at the front door said they didn't sell pens, but I wanted to prove him wrong. I have this thing about beating sales clerks at their own jobs, showing them up to myself. It's petty, but satisfyingly petty, since I often win this one-sided game. In this case, the boy was right, so I chalked up the tour of the store to experience. My experience was that there are too many phone covers available, and all of them look silly.

Self-expression or too ridiculous for words?

     I will support any American's right to get rich in the free market and die of complications due to obesity, but that short wall of phone covers just bugged me in its excessive novelty. I may have the term "phone covers" wrong--I sort of perversely hope I do--but what I mean are those rubber or plastic things that snap onto the very big phones all the people are gazing into like mirror-mirror these days.
     Why do we need all that variety of nonsense? It just represented, in one poorly designed display, all the specially-colored crackerjack that we dangle to define ourselves--protracted childhoods and childhood junk. Of course, if I like something cute and nonsensical, it just expresses a lighthearted side of my well-balanced adult personality. Needless to say.
     I eventually found pens at Fry's, and they were really cute little ones, which perfectly match the cute little notebooks I got for the Mister. I thought they'd be cute for him to carry around in his chest pocket. Their being cute and little are inherently necessary qualities of the items, geared for a purpose, and not marketing choices calculated to excite my childish desire for novelty.
     
    

I Don't Want To Feel This Way

Sad Bear Represents Ludette

Whether he was placed here by a humorous employee or left by a distracted mother will never be known. Ludette came upon this poignant sight at a local (now defunct) Big Lots! Why Ludette would shop such a lowbrow merchant is no secret: I'm cheap, but I'm not heartless, and Sad Bear moved me.
     I identify with Sad Bear, especially when it comes to work. Can't you just feel his sense of being overwhelmed, outnumbered, wholly inadequate to the task? His forehead to the cool surface of the cardboard is the best thing that happened to him that day. (In Dialectical Behavior Therapy it's called "soothing touch.")
     Yesterday was a case in point. We received a list from Merchandising that had something like 99 new price markdowns on various shoe styles. I write "99" but it might have been 999. What this means to you, Dear Reader and Consumer, is that if you came in our store yesterday, you would have seen four women between the ages of 22 and 50 peering at shoe box labels and scratching numbers on peel-and-stick flags with Sharpies, which flags were to be put on said boxes.
     This scenario repeated for hours on end, while cruel fate, in the same spirit of whimsy that drove Sad Bear into a depression, decided to send us five running children; four needy women; three crying babies; two sullen husbands; and a busload of yelling families. Per hour, it seemed.
     I am sorry to report that I did not use Wise Mind. In fact, I was limping pretty heavily in Emotion Mind most of the day, and "snarling" was the verb I used to describe my customer service approach--or close to snarling.  I don't want to feel this way today. It's a new morning, and I have a right, as God's creature, endued with intelligence, wisdom, and spirit, to feel OK, and see things in a better light. And that's my call on myself.  I wish myself a Good, Calm, and Happy Day. (First, I'm going to write "How To Be a Polite Customer" and post it in Leaves From the Brain Book.)

Self-Indulgent Luxury Addict

The warm, "right brain" collection

Anno Domini 2013-ish, Luddette discovered perfume. Like most women, I had some scent in the cabinet (later to find out that the typical warm, moist environment of a bathroom is a fatal location for fragrance) but it was well in hand--not a hint of excess. (On a related topic, see Luddette's busy little Bathroom Cabinet how-to in Leaves From the Brain Book.)
     What happened, I don't know...something about a Christmas gift for the Mister, a suggestion of sexiness, the decisive spritz onto the wrist (later to find out the anterior of the arm, with its hair and oils, is a far, far better place to trap scent molecules), and I boarded a train that took me $1,900 and head-first into a world of self-indulgent luxury.

The cool, "left brain" collection

     Most mothers have a few bottles--mine had L'Air du Temps and Tabu, and maybe a couple others. I eventually amassed close to 75, not including miniatures. (See the full-blow addiction in photo #3.) the first two photos are of my collection in its infancy. I didn't see the incipient danger in my making it all just so. Collection I, top, from left to right, first row: Givenchy Amarige, Dana Tabu, Cacharel Anais Anais, Chopard Casmir; second row: Emanuel Ungaro Diva, Jean Desprez Bal A Versailles, Estee Lauder Sensuous; third row: Giorgio Armani Red, Oscar de la Renta Volupte, Yves St Laurent Opium, Rochas Femme. 
     Collection II, below, from left to right, first row: various miniatures; second row: Nina Ricci L'Air du Temps EDT, Guerlain Mitsouko, Guerlain L'Heure Bleue; third row: Oscar de la Renta signature EDT, L'Air du Temps EDP, Molinard Habanita; fourth row: (hidden) La Perla signature EDT,  Gres Cabochard, Rochas Eau de Rochas.
    

This wasn't even all.  By the end, I had stuff stashed.

Luddette has a tendency to take a good thing, and then go and spoil it.  Not satisfied with what I could buy outright, pry from my mother, or hunt for at yard sales, I started selling perfume online to support my increasingly expensive habit--the addict who deals.

The secret from the husband, the hoarding, the final revelation and showdown...it was halted.  I repented.  I sold or gave away almost all.  But there was a time when I felt rich and exquisite. The secret charm of the Good Life is learning how to feel rich and exquisite without spending a small fortune. That is Luddette's next life lesson plateau.

Unpin Me

Pininterest is the latest technology I'm avoiding. I don't know if I spelled it correctly, and I don't care. I don't like the association with pins. Pins stick me when I reach for one, they're unnecessarily sharp, they fall on the floor and roll away, or hide in the carpet and stab me like scorpions. I'm not interested in pins, because they're not interested in me. They actually like to hurt me. Pininterest is only for people who get along with pins. I prefer pens. The worst they do is smudge my thumb and middle finger pad. Sorry! That's okay, little pen. You didn't mean it.

Charming Things

Things that are charming:
--take a penny, leave a penny
--a toddler inspecting her pacifier
--an insect grooming its antennae
--a freshly washed old car
--a slice of moon over a chimney
--a boy in a tuxedo

Right-Turn Lanes

People in right-turn lanes seem to fall under a meditative trance when it's their opportunity to go.  Where they may have sped up, passed me, and jammed back in to get ahead, the approach of a right turn recalls all their mindfulness skills, and they travel each degree of the arc with steady, observant grace. During this exhibition of presence of mind, cars veer off wildly behind us to avoid a crash and I pray I'm not too badly disfigured.  Or perhaps they're mere sensualists, and a curve, even a concrete one stuck with a preoccupied teen and a trash can, begs a slow caress of the flank. Maybe they realize this last turn means Home Sweet Home, and any unhappy or begrudging association makes them to slow to a crawl to stave off the inevitable. All I know is that it scares me every time.