"Passwords"

            In the not so distant past, I hated generating passwords for my endless accounts. I fumbled to come up with something that I could remember, that would flow from the tips of my fingers over a keyboard effortlessly. I have many friends who use generators, but I dragged my feet over going that route.

            My latest technique for creating passwords stems from my use of obscure things only I will know, like the name of my best friend’s third grade crush. I morph “Jeff” to something like J3ff3rd1966IL? In my way of thinking, I can remember Jeff, third grade and the year I was in that grade coupled with the state I lived in at that time. Right? The question mark makes me stop and think on whether this is the right combination before I hit ENTER. For me, generating a new password changed from a tedious exercise to something fun. Need another new password? How about my second grade teacher? MsWh!t3@Dov3r! (Ms. White at Dover). 

            Occasionally, I generate something that trips my fingers up too much, but usually the end result means I hold within my head more passwords than ever before!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Competition"

            My in-laws thrive on an antagonistic, competitive dynamic that leaves me confused and emotionally battered. Their monthly gatherings, usually doused with alcohol, disintegrate into hostile clashes whenever they are confronted with anyone or anything that doesn’t mesh with their clannish worldview.
I desperately attempted to fit into their tribe for many years. I endured their barbed comments, cruel exclusions, and open hostility because I convinced myself that all I had to do was somehow be “better” to gain acceptance. In my mind, if I could figure out the rules to their game, I would help my husband and son improve their relationship within the family. In hindsight, my constant anger, bitterness, and pain caused damage, too.  It took extensive soul searching on my part, along with a million arguments with my husband, to finally admit that I would never, ever belong.
During the last forty years, my response to the dysfunction varied depending upon my own mental and emotional health. I now pick and choose very carefully which holidays and events to attend, and I no longer take on guilt because I don’t try to improve relationships anymore. Most of the time, I believe that no one in the family even notices that I’ve disengaged from their turmoil and drama. They remain focused on their latest level of rivalry, like how many homes they own or the type of airplane they fly. Although they gather habitually, I don’t think they really like one another. Their connection stems from rivalry that fosters enmity. They are linked more by competition than affection.
They play a sad game.  

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"If You Can't Say Somethin' Nice"

          Remember Thumper’s Rule? My parents singsong of “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, say nothin’ at all” resounded through our household enough that the line from Bambi entrenched itself into my personal philosophy. I admit, this life paradigm proved difficult for me to follow. My too quick and sharp tongue often engages in slicing and dicing a victim before my better, gentler brain kicks into gear. If I make it through the day without saying something caustic or sarcastic, it’s a major victory for me.

            Whenever I start a new journal, I move first to the last page. I write down personal goals that I can easily flip to daily if necessary. My current journal’s final page carries this reminder:  Be generous. Be gracious. Be gentle. 

            During the last few years, I’ve begun to wish everyone adopted this mantra, or one similar to it. Wouldn’t it be grand if our culture sought generosity in how we treated our children, elderly, and impoverished? Imagine if all of us embraced kindness and courtesy as easily as we slip into derision and division; and gentleness grew naturally from each family and sprouted from neighborhood to city to country to world.

           Ugliness taints our daily news. A foul stench wafts through our society that makes me ashamed because I don’t know how to change things. If I contribute to the maliciousness, I mire myself in the hate.

          If I follow Thumper’s Rule, and say nothing at all, my silence implies agreement.

          I must balance my words and write my thoughts in ways that dispute what’s evil while not using vileness to defend humanity. The battle plays out daily in my mind. Be generous. Be gracious. Be gentle.

          Perhaps I need to add one more—Be resolute.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

          

"The Harpy"

Above all, she soars

Her vicious talons sharp

She swoops

Her wicked claws rip and tear

Into her own children

Cruelly she slices her prey

Ignores their anguished cries

Her evil hunger feeds upon the flesh of her babies

She devours their adoration

Her soul-eating cravings insatiable

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

 

"O.C.D. and Me"

            I understand the need to have things in order. Organization reduces my anxiety, keeps my edges smooth if a day becomes particularly frazzling. Some of my compulsiveness became honed during the years Dad spent in the Air Force. White glove inspections are not a myth. I remember before one move, Mom spent days spit polishing the wood floors and scrubbing the bath tub and sinks immediately after every use. Then she hired a cleaning service to come through our quarters for one final cleaning.

            That upbringing remains part of my nature to this day. When I tackle our home, I utilize a top to bottom method that stretches from the tops of doorways to the woodwork near each floor. A sister-in-law commented once that my walls never had any smudges from my son or his constant parade of friends. I told her that I wiped down our walls every week. She shook her head in disbelief that I’d incorporated that into a regular routine.

            All drawers in the house adhere to a strict discipline. My closet, too, reflects my quirky neatness. I arrange my clothing by type: pants, tops and dresses. Then I tidy everything by length and color. Finally, my around the house clothing gets isolated from my work clothing. If I’m going to splash bleach on anything, it’ll be something old. When I taught full time, I once picked up a note being passed between two girls. It said, “Ms. Chapman may be a bitch, but she has cool shoes!” At that time, my shoe collection had its own little cubby that stayed ordered by season, heel height, and color. Retirement means I’ve minimized my shoes down to the basics that I arrange by season and color.

            In recent years, I think because my work week varies from school to school, I’ve developed a technique of making certain I never leave anything behind. This method focused upon my tote, and originally I used it before leaving a campus. This year, I do the ritual before leaving the house each morning and before leaving work each afternoon. I preform the routine diligently and sequentially about 15 minutes before I leave: Phone-zipped into one compartment. Lunch bag and water bottle. Journal. Calendar. Spiral. Book. Every item in its space. Then I zip up the bag and set it onto my bed in the morning or the floor next to my feet at the school. Right before I leave, I unzip and do one more check. I believe this procedure keeps me from leaving anything behind that I may need once I change locations. It keeps my anxiety lower to know I won’t have to make unnecessary trips back to a campus.  

            My habits allow me to spend less energy on searching for a missing pair of shoes or getting to work without my phone. For me, a little O.C.D. goes a long way!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman