Robinswetz's Blog

Yesterday I missed a very important meeting. I did a detailed analysis of how it came to be that I missed it, and also developed strategies for keeping track of this meeting for the next time. That was the quick and easy part. Then I sat with having made a mistake. Part of what kept me from finding the link for the meeting was the belief that I must not have received it, that I had done everything right; I was right.

Today I was talking with somebody who often talks about her experiences in a Catholic junior high school. It brought me back to my days at a Catholic junior high school, and a strict nun named Sister Alberta. Sister Alberta was tall and formidable. I am traveled back in time to her history class. She would randomly call on people with questions about the previous nights reading. I don’t recall if she created the tension and embarrassment if you didn’t know the answer or if it was internal or a combination of both. Nonetheless, I would stay up all night, transcribing the previous night’s reading into my notebook, as you were allowed to have your notebook open on your desk, but not your textbook. This merely fanned the flames of my perfectionism. Mistakes were not allowed, were to be avoided at all, cost, were to be hidden. Mistakes could not exist. So, it logically follows: no mistakes equals perfection. But, perfection is a myth, a myth I have been unraveling for most of my life. And when I wasn’t unraveling it, I was wrapped up in it.

Fast forward to current day. I completely missed this very important meeting based on a mistake that I made, throwing the email into trash, instead of filing it in the zoom meeting folder I created for just this. And then not being able to figure out how to find it the day of the meeting. And not putting a two hour reminder instead of a one hour reminder to allow me for more time to figure the situation out. (I received a one hour reminder while I was driving home, and was not able to figure it out while driving). And here we go again, listing all of the mistakes in this situation. It’s a rollercoaster – I am either beating myself up about making a mistake or unable to see that I could have made a mistake. I talk to people regularly about “all or nothing” or “either or” thinking, and moving more towards the middle of “both and” thinking. Here we have an example of perhaps, taking my own advice. I have been telling myself today “ people make mistakes”, and then I own it even further with “I make mistakes”.

I make mistakes. And I take the opportunity to learn from each one, including how to avoid repeating the same mistake again and again. Repeating the same mistake again and again is a choice or a bad habit or something people aren’t even aware of I guess.

I make mistakes. And that is okay.

Hungry, metal mouth machines lumber up my street.

Halting at each home to dine.

Showing for the standing invitation.

A lady in a pink bathrobe waddles up her driveway to add more morsels to the meal.

Bon appétit!

She keeps standing in front of the projector as she talks. Right now, she has the word “issues” tattooed across her forehead. Now, her issues are gone, having disappeared as she paces to the other side of the room. Her long braid sways as it hangs past her waist. She sips her coffee. At this point, she must be to the gritty, shocking sweetness at the bottom. I had spotted her just prior to the start of the training making herself a cup of coffee. She grabbed the serving spoon at the fruit tray and heaped two actual serving spoons of sugar into her meager paper cup. She dumped it like a toy truck on the beach, from way up high, as the serving spoon doesn’t come even close to fitting in the awaiting cup. By the way she is tipping the cup back now and waiting, I sense she is waiting for the sugar to slowly slide down the bottom of the cup towards her. I am brought back to making cereal as a child, adding sugar to the less sweet ones. At the end, after drinking the milk left from the bottom of the bowl, there was the crunchy sweet sugar. Much easier to get to with the regular sized spoon. But, I feel her. I’ve kind of been there before. Who knew I would be time traveling back to my childhood during this work place training!

This morning as I went down to our living room, I was met with the overwhelming smell of pine, like the Christmas tree kind. My husband is still salty about having to take the Christmas tree down-in April. So, this is his way to enjoy a part of that year round. He has one of those scented plug-ins hidden behind a book case where I can’t get to it. He said this is the last one. Unfortunately, he didn’t buy more and will have to wait until they’re restocked next year. But, for now we’ll enjoy the festive scents of Christmas for roughly 90 more days!

I am sitting in a 60’s style kitchen chair. It’s not mine. Although I wouldn’t mind having it. You see, I am at a consignment shop. I am immersing myself in the furniture. Hoping to pull the stories from their bones, or at least catch or cultivate some inspiration from a new environment. I was planning to do old-school writing with a pen and paper, but I could not find one single writing implement in my car or purse. I guess it’s a sign of the times as I type this in my phone’s notes section.

The chair is actually quite comfortable. The back of the chair forms a c, padded and covered with vinyl. The back of the back-rest has upholstery tacks around the entire outside edge.

I can imagine the conversations around the kitchen table, getting ready for the day or closing the day out. Look, one of the them has a cigarette burn, a scar left by a human chimney puffing smoke as she sipped from her wine glass, glancing at the clock to see how many more minutes of freedom she has before the kids come through the door after school.

People shuffle by me dragging their feet. I’m sure they assume the pictures I take are to send to a friend or relative for feedback- can you see it in our kitchen? Or “ Is this what you were looking for?”. No, my photos are to look at again later for inspiration , to fill out the story I hope to eek out of the pieces.

One of my other favorite consignment shops, where I get bunches of old keys to do things with, has the furniture set up like it would be in a home. Couches and chairs around a coffee table, with lamps positioned just right, area rug underneath, or a kitchen table with chairs, table set with dishes and silverware- all for sale. I wonder if that would lend to better storytelling. I will have to find the time to go and set myself up in one of these scenes, pen and notebook in hand.

It is Sunday morning and I am at the laundry mat. All walks of life are washing their clothes. An older woman in a tie die shirt has taken the opportunity to wash all of her bedding, multiple quilts and duvets, right down to her crocheted afghan. I thought the afghan yarn would’ve melted in the dryer.

A man plays the beat to a tune with his hand in his quarter-filled pocket, a rattling sound emerging with every shake. Each time he leaves and comes back in, the smell of cannabis wafts in with him.

Another man has neatly folded and stacked all of his items. The bath towels are a little larger than I fold them. They are making a strong base for the entire pile, though. Perhaps that’s why he has them folded so largely. He carefully slides them into a presumably clean white garbage bag and carries them out.

Two women work their way through 10 loads of laundry. I know the number because they’re using the two oversized washing machines that have a sign that says “five baskets” above it. They’re old pros. They know to roll the metal laundry basket right under the open door so items fall right in as they unload. I see they bought two dryer sheets for a dollar out of the laundry essentials vending machine. I did remember to bring my own dryer sheets.

As I’m sitting here waiting, I see a few things that I didn’t when I first started today. There are small plastic cups next to the change machine in which to put your quarters in -kind of like at Chuck E. Cheese when you carry your tokens around in the little cup they give you. Also, I now see that the laundry detergent goes in the top part of the washing machine not in the washing machine itself. Hopefully that won’t be an issue with my load.

I like that this laundromat isn’t steaming hot. It’s actually comfortable, with the exception of the news loudly playing on the flat screen televisions they have set up for us. I purposely avoid the news because there’s nothing positive to it.

They open at 5 AM every day. My younger self would have loved this. Today I got here at 8 AM; early enough these days.

They have a sample set up of what a basket of laundry should be right down to the clothes in the basket not heaping over the top. It’s rather small. In fact, I’m not even quite sure where they got such a small laundry basket. Maybe at the dollar store.

I only had to ring the bell for service once. The door light for the side loading machine I’m using is still on even though it’s started to fill with water. The guy said that’s OK even if it leaks.

Oh, hold up. Mr. Cannabis coin in pockets musician just left, all of his clothes stuffed in an oversized pillow case, flip flops flipping and flopping as he walked by. He kept some extra quarters in his pocket by not having to buy a plastic bag for a dollar from the laundry supply vending machine. Also, it’s great that he didn’t put another plastic bag into the world.

The two ladies are folding their laundry now. They’re chatting with each other and making full use of the folding table.

Okay. Six more minutes on the dryer. A man just walked in with a backpack on. He’s not carrying any laundry of any kind. He went into the bathroom. Maybe he has the public bathrooms figured out. Maybe he’s going to get ready for the day in there. Maybe he had to use the restroom quickly and his laundry is outside. I may not have enough time to observe the outcome of this. Once my dryer stops, I will grab my King-sized comforter and go. The pet store opens at 10 and I need to get a special net to fish the tadpoles out of our pool for relocation. This is a big job and will take a while. Until next time, laundry mat.

He put his phone with the charger attached on the table as he looked around. I took a guess he was looking to charge it and was looking for an outlet. I obliged and scooped up the phone and charger and headed over to the wall.

“I was going to call Jonathan” he said.

“Oh, my apologies. I thought you were looking to charge your phone. I guess I can’t read minds” I said with a laugh of embarrassment.

“Well, thank goodness you have been spared” he said.

After he had left, I thought about this. Yes, yes indeed. The pain and anguish in another’s mind. I often cannot watch shows or movies that have the potential for disturbing content. I don’t think I could handle being in someone else’s hell in their mind. My job as a therapist can be difficult enough, baring witness to an individual’s pain and suffering.

As I was stepping over a stretched out electrical cord attached to the fan, I was reminded of Chinese jump rope in elementary school. The fan cord is about 2 inches off the ground, just like the Chinese jump rope would be. And, as I’m shuffling across the floor with my slippers, my foot actually slides underneath it in, allowing the cord to press against my ankle. That’s when the memory kicks in.

Miss Jensen. She didn’t like kids, which created a problem, as she was a first grade teacher. At recess this particular day, I did something that warranted punishment in the form of standing against the brick wall and watching all my friends play. I didn’t agree, and would not stand against the brick wall. Miss Jensen grabbed me by my upper arms, and I pulled away. Her nails ran down both of my arms, leaving 10 long deep scratches from just above my elbows down to my wrists. At home that night, my father asked what happened. I told him. He got so angry. I remember wondering what I had done wrong. The next day he went to the school and talked with the principle.

When I look back on this, I think of 2 things. First, how much school environments have changed for what is allowable. And, second, that my father was so mad that someone else would mistreat his kid and the immense irony in that.

They’re starting to show up- those junk piles on the sidewalk spilling into the street. You know, the ones that show up near the end of the month, more so in cities. Mattresses, tables, chairs, anything really. Some junk piles are punctuated with bright plastic children’s toys. In my former years of dumpster diving and side of the road freebie grabbing, I never touched these piles. I knew what they were, and had a certain sense of reverence towards the piles, towards the families that left them. Each pile symbolized a starting over, whether by choice or by eviction. I always felt like these families were evicted. These junk piles, a collection of a family’s essentials and basics. I can see them now, filling black garbage bags with their clothing and a few other things, and walking away from the rest. I’m not even sure who brings their worldly possessions to the curb. The family themselves? Or is it too painful so the landlord does it? Maybe me calling it a junk pile is an ouch moment, too. These are new beginnings. Let’s hope for a new beginning.

I recently saw a Now Hiring sign. A sign of the times, though, it provided instruction to text the number on the sign. Wow. I remember my job hunts. I would take my list of jobs, dates worked, addresses, telephone numbers, and reference information, into each store, and very neatly fill out the paper application with all the information. Then, I would ask if I could speak with a manager while handing in the application. I wanted to demonstrate my interest. Now, you text. Professional etiquette would probably say this text is not the time for abbreviations such as “ bruh, can u see me rn irl”. And, emojis would certainly be off limits. And, no memes, no voice memos, no tick-tock’s, no links. How the times have changed.