It is humid

by Lorin Michel Friday, July 5, 2013 8:58 PM

I forget sometimes about humidity.  When you live in the desert or at least on the outskirts of it,  you get very used to dry air. It gets hot to be sure. Over 100 regularly in the summer months and don't believe it when someone says "yeah, but it's a dry heat." Heat is heat and over 100 it doesn't matter. The hottest place on earth is Death Valley with a recorded high of 134. It's in the middle of the desert. Things don't grow there. It is dry and blistering.

Now I'm on the east coast, in McKeesport, in my late Aunt Beryl's house, high above the Allegheny river. The sun is dripping from the sky, through clouds. It is sweltering, everything is damp, even when it should be dry. It is humid.

It's an interesting phenomenon, humidity. It sucks the life and moisture right out of you and deposits it into your hair. I have wavy hair that I can keep somewhat in line in California, but here, it's gone a bit haywire. It curls in unmanageable directions, flips out and then tries to pretend like there's nothing wrong. I had forgotten; I have remembered quickly. 

The air hangs; you can almost see it. Far off clouds gather steam and congregate, first thick and white, then tinged with anger. I watched them from the front stoop of Aunt Beryl's house today as I gazed down the steep, yellowed brick road. At the bottom of the street, only a couple hundred feet at the most, and over the trees, flows the black and brown of the Allegheny. A power boat pulled out from the trees and zoomed across the river, under the gathering humidity.

I knew it would rain again. Rain has a feel to it as it comes in. The air gets heavier; it smells thick and damp. Any breeze dies entirely before resurrecting itself to turn tree  leaves upside down and inside out. There is almost a whisper. The temperature rises ever so slightly.  Then it begins, sometimes in earnest, sometimes timid. The temperature drops and heat rises from the pavement like steam. My hair is curling just thinking about it.

It is humid. My hair may be curlier but my skin is less dry so that's good. In the house, the temp was probably 15 to 20 degrees hotter especially upstairs. There is no air conditioning; instead there are open windows and many fans. I spent time up in the attic, the highest and the hottest room in the house. I went through cupboards and closets and boxes, pulling out old photographs, birth certificates from an immediate family now, nearly a century later, gone.

I found dresses that I remembered my Aunt Eleanor wearing when I was a child. Pink checked light cotton, with a button down front. In those days, they were called housedresses. I don't know what they are called now, if anything. 

I found a portrait of my mother's grandfather in uniform, from World War I. I found one piece swim suits. I found dust and dirt and heat.

After awhile I had to go downstairs. It was simply too hot; too humid.

But today, from the front stoop looking out over the river to the gathering clouds to the stifling attic, I learned to love the humidity, even if just a little. Because once the clouds rained and the air cooled, it was a good day. It was actually lovely.

Crossing over into the downside

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, July 18, 2012 11:28 PM

I have a philosophy. I know; I seem to have a lot of philosophies. I think some of them are even almost if not entirely valid. Plus, in my selfish way, I figure that it's my blog and I'll philosophize if I want to, which is, incidentally, a derivative of it being my party and crying, updated for the 21st century.

Where was I? Oh. Philosophizing. Again. Here's my latest: at noon on Wednesday, the week officially flips toward the weekend. In the morning, it's still early in the week, the weekend is still a very long way off. But miraculously it crosses over and the weekend starts to come into view. I've dubbed this "crossing over into the downside." Clever, don't you think?

This amazing thought was actually verbalized today on our walk, under a very strange sky, dirty cotton clouds stretched thin, the sunlight trying desperately to pierce through. It was humid but the breeze was cool. It felt almost as if it might rain but it didn't and it won't. Still, the threat was nice. We were on our way up one of the nasty little hills here in the 'hood, one we affectionately call lil' EBH (for energizer bunny hill because it keeps going and going and going). Kevin was being uncharacteristically quiet, which didn't keep me from rambling on about my morning, my phone call with my sister, what was coming up for the afternoon. I was getting mostly grunts and one-word responses.

"Did you leave your conversationality on the floor of the salon last night?" I asked. He finally got a haircut yesterday. His hair was so long he was starting to need barrettes and banana clips.


"Are you having a bad day?"


Hmmmm. "What time is it?"

"1 o'clock." He speaks!

"It's official, then. We've crossed over into the downside." Coincidentally we were also crossing over the crest of the hill and were finally starting on the downside of lil’ EBH. The analogy was not lost. My husband looked at me out of the corner of his eye. We used to call it the side-eye when Maguire would do it. I knew that meant "what are you talking about because if it's this hill, you're kind of stating the obvious." We have a nice short-hand, my husband and I.

"We're more than half way through the week."

Philosophy is defined as love and pursuit of wisdom by intellectual means and moral discipline. It's also defined as the investigation of the nature, causes, or principles of reality, knowledge, or values, based on logical reasoning rather than empirical methods. In other words I see therefore I know what I see when I see it so there.

Midway through the week is Wednesday at noon. Once one has gotten past 12, the slide toward the weekend begins. The downside. In this case downside is a good thing. It represents the upside of working hard and steady and strong. It elevates what was groundward; it gives rise to even greater optimism and cause for celebration. I could almost see us skipping down lil’ EBH, hand in hand, shouting “the weekend is coming! the weekend is coming!”

Luckily, we don’t skip. Which is a whole other philosophical discussion to have at another time in another post. For now, I leave you with a humid, cloudy Wednesday afternoon and two of the OPs most intrepid residents, sliding – but definitely not skipping – toward Fritini.

Grunt, sayeth the husband-unit. But then, just for a minute, I’m pretty sure I saw him skip.

Attitude is everything

by Lorin Michel Monday, August 29, 2011 10:08 PM

The beginning of the week can bring the dread. If you work a regular Monday thru Friday, or the equivalent, the night before going back to work, a pall can descend. But it doesn’t have to. Starting the week with a positive attitude can help create a good week. Honest.

I know I’ve always tried to have a good attitude, to look on the proverbial bright side of life. I believe it helps to create a good atmosphere as I go forward into the world, even if the world is only just the next few days. I try to smile. If something goes wrong, I try not to immediately get angry but to look at the situation and figure out how I can make it better. Sometimes I’m actually successful. If there’s no coffee to grind in the morning because we haven’t been to CostCo, I don’t get frustrated. I either pull out one of my Starbucks gift cards (thanks, Pam) or I break into the e-coffee, an emergency stash we keep in the pantry. I know I’ll have coffee; it may just take a little longer than usual. I may even get a muffin if I go to Starbucks. See? Having a positive attitude feeds me, in more ways than one.

And it’s not just me. According to a study by the American Psychosomatic Society, women who are optimistic about life live longer and are generally healthier. The findings came from a clinical trial of more than 97,000 healthy women ages 50 to 74. Of those, optimistic women had a 14 percent lower risk of death from any cause after eight years as compared to those who were more pessimistic.

Harvard University even has a how-to-be-happy course, one of the school’s most popular classes where the first lesson is to embrace failures and frustrations. Psychologist Tal Ben-Shahar explains it like this: “When you give yourself permission to be human, you are more likely to open yourself up to positive emotions.”

Not to be left out, Carnegie Mellon researchers have discovered that positive people come down with fewer cold and flus, even after being exposed to the virus. Happy people are also less likely to suffer heart attacks, strokes and pain from conditions like rheumatoid arthritis.

And happiness researcher Martin Seligman who started a positive psychology master’s program at the University of Pittsburgh believes that a positive outlook and attitude come from inside. He’s even been so kind as to identify some steps that can help increase happiness. Things like setting realist goals: enjoying your work, what you like to do outside of work and the people you love. Check. Gratitude. Thanking someone can make you feel better. Check. Focusing on the good. Seligman suggests writing down three things each day that went well. Sort of check.

I don’t do three things but I do one and I write it down here. I embrace that one thing and live it out loud, shout it through my keyboard and celebrate something good, something fun, something funny, something beautiful. When I started, I wondered if I could find something every day. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that it’s not difficult at all.

Because attitude is everything.

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In search of happiness

by Lorin Michel Monday, August 1, 2011 10:16 PM

My friend Bobbi and I have this discussion quite often: what is happy and how is it qualified? I don’t mean happy during every minute of every day; that’s simply not normal. But overall. What does it mean to be happy, and if you’re not happy, is it possible to become happy?

It’s such an odd word, happy. It has a flat sound for what it means, unlike joyous which has a lovely, melodic note to it. Happy is to be delighted, pleased or glad. It’s characterized by pleasure and comfort; it can feel fortunate and lucky. It actually came to us from Middle English – not Middle Earth, which was decidedly unhappy – around the mid-14 century and was derived from haphazard, chance and fortune. The Greeks and Irish used it to mean luck, the Welsh to mean wise. I like it to mean contentedness.

Happiness is feeling good about work or a job. It’s about enjoying life, about embracing possibilities. Happiness can be found in spending time with friends and family. It’s a feeling that washes over a situation and a person, leaving behind a feeling that’s calm, sustained, joyous.

Everyone in the world wants to be happy, but if you’re unclear about what you’re looking for, it can be impossible to find. It’s not a particular thing, it’s a feeling, a state of being. It can be exhilarating and peaceful, short term gained from external things and inner happiness that comes from acceptance of self, of living with purpose. Inner happiness is the hardest to find and the one Bobbi and I have spent our conversations discussing because it’s not about what so many think it’s about. It doesn’t matter if one has the newest electronics or car, or all the money in the world. There’s a reason why the saying “money can’t buy happiness” exists. It’s not even about having no worries at all, or lazing around all day in front of the television, or the computer. It’s deeper than that.

What I’ve found is that happiness means waking up every morning to enjoy the day, being grateful for the opportunity to explore that day. I love loving what I do and I like to think that maybe some of it makes a difference. I find happiness in having direction, and purpose, a goal. I find happiness in the way Kevin and I live our lives, together, with laughter and yes, joy. The smallest butterfly alighting a flower can make me happy because it fills me with peace, two squirrels fighting in the trees makes me laugh because it’s real; it’s an honest existence.

I find that the truest form of happiness comes from the soul, not the mind, and it is both a constant search and the exquisite feeling of not needing to search. It comes from choice and change, of finding strength in the positive. It’s satisfaction of self rather than material goods. It is at its core about being happy. It’s not something that can be described; it’s more nebulous. It simply is and when you have it, you know it.

I have great joy in my life, not every minute, but most often. And I choose to live it out loud by celebrating the little happiness-wrapped presents that arrive every day. A cool breeze at night, a great glass of wine, a talk with a friend, a phenomenal book, a tear-stained laugh; the sound of my husband’s voice, his laugh, Justin’s ‘Hi, mom!;” the smell of my dog’s fur. A good conversation with a client, a strong paragraph of writing; Saturdays. If you look and listen and open yourself up, you can find happiness where you left it. Deep inside. That’s where I found mine and where it continues to reside.

The keys to

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, July 26, 2011 8:24 PM

I find keys fascinating. They have such incredible shapes, mostly round and inviting at the top and then jagged and craggy toward the ends. They’re sort of like people that way. We all start out as rolly babies, squirming and soft, full of rounded angles and curves, and then we become adults. Our heads stay round but everything else becomes sharp edges, especially our personalities. I blame curiosity. If we weren’t hopelessly curious about everything from why the sky is blue to how come Brussel sprouts make your mouth squinch up to if there’s a heaven, we wouldn’t find things out and we could stay hopelessly naïve and round. In other words, not keyed in.

In so many ways, the key to how we live can be found in the keys we carry. Kevin and I have a key rack in the shape of a motorcycle mounted just outside the garage door.  It has five hooks on it, all holding single keys on appropriate key chains. There is one for the car, one for the truck, one for the motorcycle; one with the house key and one with the key to Kevin’s studio. We don’t have a lot of locked up ideals in our lives.

Single keys work to lock something up or to unlock something else. But they are really the keys to release. Keys to the city give the recipient special access to something entirely nebulous but it sure sounds important. The keys to success seemingly provide a solution to what had otherwise seemed unattainable. I think I’ve had my hands on those keys a time or two. Sometimes they’ve fit into the keyhole; sometimes not.

The keys to my heart were first given away a long time ago, when I was in high school. I was a junior and his name was Jeff Peterson. He played football; I don’t remember what position. He had been dating a friend of mine but they broke up right around the time I broke up with my boyfriend. We commiserated, spending countless afternoons after school, hanging around the lockers. Before I knew it we were dating, and I was hopelessly in love. I don’t remember when but somehow I got the keys back and locked up my heart again until Tim, my first husband. I picked him up hitchhiking, and fell stupidly in love, but I was 18. What did I know about love? By the time I took those keys back, I was in my early 30s, though if I’m being honest, I took them back much earlier than that.

Then came my favorite husband, my beloved Kevin. I gave him the keys and I don’t want them back.

Keys, like just about everything else in history, probably originated in Egypt. Clay tablets from ancient Babylonia, some 4000 years ago, depict key-like structures, probably made of wood or stone. Then the Greeks stepped in and began using keys to lock and unlock temples, with women usually carrying large, angular bronze keys on one shoulder. Homer even speaks of the key to Odysseus’s storeroom in his literary masterpiece The Odyssey. Roman keys were technically more proficient, with finesse and elegance, becoming status symbols for those who had something to protect. They also invented the finger key, worn and used by women to lock and unlock jewelry boxes. During the 6th thru 9th centuries, Merovingian keys and Carolingian keys, shaped like religious symbols were in vogue. Keys have been a symbol of power in the United States since William Penn, the English real estate entrepreneur and eventual founder of Pennsylvania, arrived in Delaware in 1682. By this time and to this day, keys were made of various forms of metal.

There are master keys, control keys, transponder keys, double-sided and four-sided keys, paracentric keys, internal cut, Abloy, Dimple, Skeleton, Tubular and Zeiss keys, DO NOT DUPLICATE keys, restricted keys, magnetic keys and Alicia Keys. There’s also the very popular keycard, the keyboard, and the Francis Scott Key key used in a West Wing episode.


Here’s the thing about keys, they can often be used to keep people out and lock things up. But I like to think they also open doors and unlock new possibilities. Step inside and find what you may. Perhaps a treasure, perhaps just another door, and always a way forward. That’s the key to my future. What’s the key to yours?

In which I return home

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, July 5, 2011 10:34 PM

Home. It’s a word that conjures up images of familiarity, warmth, and comfort. It is intensely personal, with an outer dwelling not always chosen because of its exterior but made special by its interior. A home is different than a house. A house is simply a place; a home is an experience to be shared with those you prize most. Some are lucky enough to have several homes, vacation or second homes. Others view where they’re from, or where their parents live, as their ultimate home. “I’m going home to visit my mom,” or “I’m going home to visit my parents” is a common phrase. I use it myself.

I’m home tonight after a trip home. Home is where I live, where my husband and son are, where my dog slobbers the floor.  Home is also where the mother is. I remember many years ago having this conversation with my mother as she was preparing to sell the family home in New Hampshire after she and my dad divorced. She was concerned that I wouldn’t feel like I was coming home anymore and that, somehow, it would influence how often I actually made the journey. I assured her then and believe now that home is not a dwelling. It’s a feeling. Interestingly my mother used that same logic on me years later when I was getting divorced and was selling my first home. She pointed out that I was actually selling my house; the home I took with me.

According to Wikipedia, a home is most often where an individual or family can rest, relax and store all of their personal property. Photographs, books, furniture, accent pieces like antique toys, throw pillows, clothing, pets. But it’s not just people who make homes. Animals make homes, too, sometimes with their humans, sometimes on their own and often in the form of dens.

It seems to be instinct to inhabit a space in order to feel safe. Maybe that’s why there are sayings like ‘home is where the heart is,’ or ‘you can’t go home again.’ There are group homes, nursing homes, retirement homes, senior homes, foster homes. Home can influence behavior, emotions and emotional health. Perhaps that’s why being homeless can wreak such havoc. As human-animals, we need to be home. We can be homesick and home-makers. Aspirational homes are model homes. Some people are even homely, which is another idea entirely.

The word home has origins prior to 900 AD, and can be found in any number of languages including Middle English, Old English, Dutch, Norse, Danish, Swedish, German and Gothic where they called home haims, something akin to a haunt. There are single-family homes, military homes, multi-family homes, custom homes and tract homes, condo-homes and townhomes.

I went home to visit my mother this past weekend even though my home is here in Southern California with my husband. This is where I’m most at ease, where my stuff is, where my dog is, where my life is. I’m home tonight, on my couch, feet up, computer on my lap, TV tuned to a rerun of Criminal Minds because nothing says home like serial killers; Kevin is on the opposite couch, Maguire on the floor. The windows are open, a cooling breeze is sneaking in.

I’m exhausted but content. And that, ultimately, is what home is all about, contentment. Because as Dorothy Gale put it so perfectly: There’s no place like home.


Click your heels together and celebrate.

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Lizard's eye view

by Lorin Michel Monday, June 13, 2011 10:16 PM

It’s spring, almost summer and though the sun hasn’t really begun to drench what we lovingly call the Southland, it has brought out some our friendly neighbors. The short but exquisitely fast ones that dart along the sidewalk, scurrying away from everything and everyone as fast as their tiny legs will take them, seeking cover under the brush after exposing themselves to a little sun and fun. I speak, of course, of the lizard.

Lizards are odd little creatures and very plentiful in the desert southwest. They come out with the sun and disappear in the evening. And we see them constantly when we walk. They’ll be on the path in front of us, waiting as we approach, waiting until the last possible moment before fleeing to safety. We were talking about this today, about how life must look from a lizard’s eye view. Think about it: everything with the exception of ants and spiders are huge. If a leaf drifts down from the towering trees above, it could be cause for alarm. They could be trapped! Trapped!

Then along comes a human, a big shadow falls over the lizard’s world and from his line of sight, this enormous black waffle, otherwise known as a sneaker’s sole, begins to descend. Run!

Everything they see at eye level is short. The earth is flat, the journey to safety both short and long. Even when one lifts its head to take in more of the world, nothing but terror looms above, nearly everything big enough to cause panic. A fence. Oh! A bird. Move! A dog, a mammoth creature much like the buffalo that roamed the plains in the 1800s. Outta here!

I find lizards both fascinating and a little frightening, largely because I’m not a big fan of reptiles. Though I do love iguanas. There are nearly 3800 types of lizards and they can be found on all continents except for Antarctica. Did I mention they tend to like it warm? They have arms and legs and ears, and most can detach their tails in order to escape. Their size ranges from just a few centimeters to over nine feet long. The distinction of the biggest lizard belongs to the Komodo Dragon at nine feet, six inches.

Interestingly, most lizards have highly accurate vision. They use it locate their food as well as for communication. They also rely heavily on body language to communicate. I discovered this first hand one Saturday morning when I went to open the screen on the back door. In the track was one angry green and black lizard. As I startled, and stepped back into the family room, he reared his head up at me, flicked his partial tail, looked me straight in the eye, defiantly. And then he hissed. I started to laugh. Here was a reptile that could fit easily into the track of a sliding screen door, and he was hissing at me as if to say: “how dare you, big giant animal with too much hair on top?” We think he wanted to come in; I was equally defiant about that. Absolutely no way. Eventually Kevin coaxed him into the back yard with a flip from the fly swatter and he sped off through the jungle of grass. After turning once more to hiss at Kevin.

At which point I’m pretty sure he cozied up to a bottle of tequila. It’s what all the fashionable lizards are doing these days.


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Ringing the bell

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, March 8, 2011 11:30 PM

Alexander Graham Bell changed the world on June 2, 1875. It was that night that his partner, Thomas Watson, plucked a reed, part of an ongoing experiment that Bell was running to create a harmonic telegraph, mimicking the overtones necessary for creating speech over telegraph lines. Then, on March 10, 1876, the famous words were uttered over a liquid transmitter: “Mr. Watson ­– Come here – I want to see you.” Words that Watson heard clearly over those same lines.

The telephone was officially born that day, and it forever changed the way we could, and do, talk to one another. Hallelujah!

Since Bell and Watson, we’ve gone from boxes that hang on the wall with separate ear and voice horns, to rotary phones, to touch tone or push button. Portable phones made their debut in the 1980s, right around the time that car phones became popular. Then came cell phones, 1G, 2G, 3G and now 4G. Smart phones.

These phones allow us to talk as well as type so we can communicate in many ways, using just one device. We surf the 'net, we tweet. We are forever talking to one another in one form or another and I believe that's a good thing. It keeps the lines of communication open to all sorts of messages and all manner of information-sharing.

People often bemoan the lack of communication skills with today’s younger generation. Supposedly they don’t know how to talk on the phone; all they do is text; they’re on Facebook or Twitter all day long. All may be true, but what’s also true is that every one of those is a means of communication. The older generation may not like it but the fact is, they’re communicating. They’re “talking” to each other in a myriad of ways, setting up food dates and making plans, connecting, spreading important news instantaneously, even letting parents know what’s going on. They’re talking.

In the 1870s there was one official means of communication, the telegraph, and one beginning to gain popularity, the telephone.

Today, we don’t think about how we communicate; we simply pick up the phone. 

Cell. Text. Email. Twitter. Facebook. Blogs. The Internet. All accessible by phone, with caller ID.

We’re talking up a storm over all kinds of lines and wireless devices. Alexander Graham Bell could never have imagined that his tiny liquid transmitter would lead to this but thank god it did.

In 1877, the first long-distance telephone lines were laid and in 1915, the first coast-to-coast long-distance call was completed, with Bell in New York City calling Thomas Augustus Watson in San Francisco.

I talked to my mom tonight. She’s in New England and I’m in Southern California. I think she’s got a little Bell in her, and I’m out here celebrating Thomas Watson. We talked for an hour, and I celebrate that. It's Alexander Bell's greatest legacy, the ability for those far away to have contact with those we love virtually any time.

And I love that.


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