I still haven't opened the white envelope my boss gave me a week ago.
But I did call the 800 number to ask about my retirement benefits.
Then I thought I'd chat with my accountant.
I asked him if my retirement pension would be taxed and how much I would get. Was it a 401K? I don't think so. Did you contribute to it? I don't think so. It was a long time ago, with a different company.
If you take it out now before you're 59 1/2, you'll be penalized. You'll only get 40% (or maybe it was 60%). You don't want to do that. You'll lose 60%...
I was slammed with a feeling in my gut so strong I thought I was going to be sick.
I felt dizzy and was reeling in my chair.
I mumbed something about calling him back.
I had to get out of there.
I went outside for a walk...and sat on my bench by my trees.
I want to feel better.
"Child."
I want to feel better. I feel sick.
"Child."
I want to feel better. I think I'm going to be sick.
"CHILD. Breathe. Trees. Breathe. Sky. Breathe."
Oh, breathe. I can do that. Breathe in...breathe out...breathe in...(I could hear Esther Hicks' voice in my head from the "Getting Into the Vortex" Meditation CD).
I felt better. Hmmm. They've (those that watch over me) never yelled at me before. Guess they had to because I wasn't listening.
Breathe in...breathe out...trees help me...breathe in...breathe out...birds, I see birds...birds mean freedom...they fly anywhere...my thoughts can fly anywhere...they can fly someplace good or someplace bad...I choose good...green trees...clean air...warm sunshine...I'm OK...it is OK...I'm OK.
Whew! Yuk! That felt awful. Now that I've calmed down and back to myself, I realize those horrifying, nauseating feelings weren't mine. I picked them up from my accountant. I know they're not my feelings because I never feel really bad intense feelings like that and I was perfectly fine a second before he talked to me. I gotta remember to put a column of golden light around me before I call him again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I picked up my baby brother, Johnny, at the airport. He flew in for Thanksgiving and plans to remodel my bathroom. When I saw him at the curb, I got all weepy. I felt relieved...just for a second...that he was going to take care of me. I don't mean forever and I don't mean financially, I just mean he was going to take care of little things (OK, so remodeling a bathroom isn't little, but he does a lot of other things while he's here like replace a headlight and install a new water filter) or maybe I mean he was going to care for me.
Sometimes I get tired of being the man of the house. You know, unplugging toilets, touching up the molding with paint, trying to fix the latch on the gate. I get cranky and have a hissy fit about once every couple years. Maybe I'll send myself a Father's Day card this year.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I drove Johnny, Bachan ("obachan" means grandmother in Japanese; when Alexis was little she used to yell "bachan" so much that now everyone calls my Mom "bachan") and Asako to San Francisco to a Japanese festival highlighting the beauty of Japanese culture and the passing of the seasons in the Ishikawa prefecture (on the main island of Japan, known for its arts and crafts and cultural traditions). Bachan doesn't get excited about much. In fact, she often says "closer closer" in any conversation (meaning "I'm getting closer to the grave" or "I am closer to death"). So when showed me the newspaper announcing the festival and smiling and saying how much she would love to go, I knew I wanted to take her.
We made it OK to the City. It took a little while to walk to the event. Bachan is Japanese. She doesn't walk, she shuffles...slowly...so I tend to herf her from behind trying to get her across the street before the light turns red, "come on...you're doing great...5 more seconds before the light turns red...keep going...you can do it." Whew.
We get inside and find good seats. The emcee greets us and announces the events. There are 140 performers. A female choir group sings four or five songs, a men's choir that sings a couple songs, then the men and women sing together, there is poetry...crrk...ccrkk...crrkrrCCRRK. I look over. It's Bachan...trying to wrestle the wrapper off a hard plum candy. She has no teeth so she can't tear it off. I give her the evil eye. Big mistake. It scares her, she squeeze the bottom of the wrapper, the candy shoots out of the wrapper, flies into the air, hits the floor and then Bop...pop...papapapapa...as it rolls down the floor to the stage.
Someone plays a biwa (short-necked flute), sword and fan dances, shamisen (three-stringed banjo; doesn't she need to tune that thing?), folk songs, models wearing kimonos, ballet ("is tha you baby?" Bachan yells to the man in front of her. Of course it's his baby, he didn't find it on the street. "Don you lose." He's not going to lose the baby. How do you lose a baby?), kokyu (stringed instrument played with a bow), choir ("sing along if you know the words;" Johnny says, "He has no idea what he has done." Bachan begins singing at the top of her lungs).
I'm tired, this thing goes on for hours. It cost $20. I would have paid double that if they would have cut the show in half. I tried to sleep without looking like I was sleeping, but the four women Taiko drummers woke me up.
And the drummers were amazing. We get home after midnight...yawn...I'm up at 5:30 to get ready for work.
Note to Self: Find out how long an event lasts and take all hard candy away from Bachan.
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