When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.I’ve never been the kind of person to tuck in my shirt, use bobby pins, or follow a recipe. I’m happy standing over the sink with a cheese sandwich so as not to dirty a plate. I choose my bookmarks with care, I stack a dishwasher like a jigsaw, and I always leave my reading glasses in the same place. I don’t believe that when one door closes another opens. I don’t even want to believe it. I want to believe that I will win an Oscar. Full stop.
What kind of person are you?
Filed under: Uncategorized |
Betsy Lerner 
I remember birthdays.
Try to keep my word for whatever little it is worth.
Sometimes it is the small things both good and bad that get me going… up/or down.
I dress for artsy success whether I’m going anywhere or not. I’ve gotten compliments at the end of the driveway when going out to get the mail. And ever tried to pull up a dandelion with your bare hands? That’s me. Plus I’m a mind reader.
I like the sour tang of plain Greek yogurt. I believe I will finish writing a book by August 31st, 2020. It will never win an Oscar but I’ll drink a well-chilled glass of Mateus in a plastic flute glass sitting on my deck overlooking a parking lot to rejoice in its completion.
I’m the kind of person who counts my calories and my steps and am still too big for my britches. I love my routine but shy away from sex with it. I believe I will step beyond my bylines and have a cover eventually. AND when you win your Oscar I get to say I met you in Madison at R.J Julia and you were “…fabulous baby.”
The kind that pines for her native country, especially these days.
I’m an information junkie, either feeding factoids into my brain or seeking out some new and untapped source that I can mainline. I’ve been vegan for seven years because I’d rather MacGyver my food than eat it. I’m an atheist who cries during choir performances. I’m a better parent to my dogs and houseplants than my kids. I have no craving for or understanding of money. Zero, zilch, nada. I’m terrible at gifting. I get up at 3am, no alarm, and I go to bed at nine. I run the dishwasher every night and unload it in the morning, whether or not it’s full. I loathe award shows of any kind. I’d turn down an Oscar if it meant I had to walk onto a stage to receive it. I can forgive anyone but me.
“What kind of person are you?”
Selfish. Compensatory. Appetitive. Hunting. Yearning. Protective. Gathering. Hoarding. Fearful. Manipulative. Skittish. Stubborn. Contemplative. Sentimental. Volatile. Grateful. A fluid seeking its own level.
Despite the current trend to use my name as an unfavorable descriptive, I’m not THAT kind of person. I don’t lie, I believe in giving back to the community by working with organizations that are trying to make the world a better place, while acknowledging my top tier membership in the “no good deed goes unpunished” club. I’m a magnet for slobbering dogs, feral cats and, regrettably, mean-tempered drunks. I keep everyone’s secrets, secret – especially my own.
I love to cook but would rather eat a Party Size bag of Jax for dinner. I didn’t care when my dog chewed up my new shoes, couch pillows or sunglasses but I cried when she destroyed 2 hardcover books. I hate that life Involves so much maintenance – showering, haircuts, housework, laundry, replacing old underwear, flossing…Uhg. I believe any complement, encouragement or psychic prediction people give me is a lie. When I’m anxious I look on-line at beautiful dishes made in Italy or England or at Syracuse China. I’m certain I’ll publish a novel someday but I think it might kill me. I love Post-It notes.
For one, I hate to talk about myself, but since you asked. 😉
I am a person of habit. Get up at the same time, and go through the same motions, make the bed, grab my standard daily outfit (yoga capris for summer, long version for winter – and some sort of cotton shirt from the big box store everyone hates). I brush my teeth, wash my face, slather on lotion, get dressed. Downstairs, I fill the dog’s water bowl, start the coffee pot, take dog out, get the newspaper, feed the birds, and . . . you get the picture. <–THIS every single day without fail + the rest of the day falls into this sort of "order."
Dogs love this. Husband? Maybe not so much.
I love my husband, and family, the mountains, coffee, writing, books and movies. I don't like loud noises, fake laughter (or people).
I'm a clean freak – and clean house every Thursday and have since I can remember. (thx Mom)
I just finished the 5th fucker, and I'm on a high.
Okay, it’s not an Oscar and I didn’t win it, but I got to hold a Grammy. A postal customer was mailing a box to a wonderful artist*. He said, “You know what’s in this box?” and then showed me. He had engraved new inscriptions on a plaque on the back. And I held it. It was heavy and way cooler and impressive than I thought it would be. I only wished I had a guitar with me so I could pose ridiculously with it, phony poser that I am.
I held a Grammy and it meant something to me; that’s the kind of person I am.
* If you came to her window, you might guess who it is, but I’m not saying…
Okay, I know I already answered your question here, Betsy, but I was thinking earlier today — not so long ago — and here’s what I wrote.
What do I do, and why do I do it. (July 19, 2020.)
I read. I love to read. I have since I first learned how. It takes me away. It informs me, helps me believe I better understand the world. I believe it makes me a better person and a better writer.
I read both hard copy – that is to say, books in my home library – and my digital library, which is works I’ve collected through the internet. Some of what I read I don’t precisely enjoy. I read such materials because I think I should – to strengthen my mind and my character, make me a better and more effective person.
I write. I have a mixed love for writing. I think this is the way a lot of writers – that is to say, those of us who write because we feel compelled to write – because we cannot not write – I think this mixed love is what we have. We are compelled. When the writing goes well, when the end result is pleasant to me to read, I love that. When I find something that I’ve written that needs to be made better and I see how I can make it better, I like that. But often, it’s with me as it is with many writers – sitting down and doing the writing is psychologically difficult.
I write to please myself. I write because at some point, around the age of eleven, I saw that the way, or a way, an available way, out of the terrible loneliness I felt was to write. And it’s a form of communication I can control. I don’t have to argue with anyone other than myself. I don’t have to please anyone other than myself, though when my writing pleases others, that leaves me feeling very good. When it doesn’t, then I feel bad, of course.
My writing and my reading both are sorts of sacred spaces for me. I can be myself in those realms, and in a way be safe in those realms, in ways I cannot anywhere else.
I spend time on social media because I am a person. I need society. I’ve always been in some sense lonely. Alone. In a fundamental way, I don’t trust people. Hence my love of reading and writing. That’s a way to be in the company of people with minimal or controlled risk. Social media’s a little riskier, as are actual social interactions. Since I work from home now, and have so worked for nearly four years – and since the world is now in the paralysis of a pandemic – other, actual social interactions are limited and fraught.
I both love – or am compelled by – and loathe – or am at times appalled and disconcerted by – social media. I’ve learned to be careful what I say and do there. People can be very cruel and vengeful. I am among their number.
I dislike housecleaning, but I have the same feelings for it that I often have for reading and writing – the work can be tedious, but the end result can be fulfilling.
Same with exercise. On one level, I don’t like it and really would rather not be bothered, but on another level, I know it’s good for my health. It’s an intelligent investment. Plus, if I go too many days without exercising, I physically feel bad – stiffness and such.
I don’t like working for a living. But to be a waged worker is a decision I made early in my wage-earning life. I recognized even as a teen that I need the structure of answering to someone else. Or to something else, some externally imposed structure calling for my attention.
Photography. The visual arts. I love photofinishing. In my darkroom days, I could spend all day developing film and printing photos.
I’ve always been afraid of commitment. I don’t know why. I’m not sure I want to contemplate the issue much. I’m pretty sure it’s rooted in, or sourced from, or an emanation of, the difficulty I have in trusting anyone. I myself am another person I’ve learned not to trust. But from this fundamental difficulty with trust has unspooled my life. I’ve never wholeheartedly committed to anything other than trying to protect myself.
I hate cooking and cleaning, but do it because no one else will. I think I have a skirt somewhere, but no one out here wears anything but jeans and tee shirts, probably purchased at Tractor Supply along with fence posts and engine oil. I eat Mexican food at least six days a week, with an occasional lapse into Chinese or a steak. My dogs are smarter than I am, and have me very well trained. I abhor streetlights and sidewalks.
My morning routine isn’t. I might take time for a chat with Loudmouth, the raven who drops into the juniper tree to pester me most mornings. I might feed the smaller birds, and check the yard to see what wild things visited over night. Most mornings I do drink my cafe con leche, and sit down to write. Every other week or so, a neighbor drops by. The conversation revolves around his goats, and why the calf he bought to fatten up is so scrawny. I tell him, again, that he bought a Corriente and they do not tend to fill out well. He thinks she is a Hereford. Nope. Pura Corriente. I go back to writing. Winter mornings I split wood. Summer mornings I sweat. Both seasons, I would rather not.
Yup! This is just about the ideal life