The end of a love affair... by Liz Flaherty @WindowOvertheSink

My ongoing love affair with fall took three big hits this week. The other day, it rained and blew a lot, which made my hair look like the very worst of the "before" pictures beauty salons post on Facebook. Since I've never had great hair, I don't take that very personally, although I do notice everyone's eyes kind of glaze over when they look at me.

On Sunday morning, I got up in the dark. This is fine, but it was also four-thirty. I hate time changing. So I'm thinking of seeing other seasons--I don't think it's going to work out with fall. Although my body says, "Okay, you can go to bed now," as soon as the Jeopardy music stops, I just can't make myself do it.

Monday morning--or maybe it was afternoon; it was daylight--I stood at the basement door and opened it with dread. There was a noise. The kind that's never good. That usually means a repairman. And writing a check.

However, that big hit wasn't what I feared. The sound was the drone of the

combine, taking down the corn in the surrounding fields. What a relief that was. I thought I'd be able to stay awake until at least nine o'clock!

And I did, but I don't remember anything after the music.

As you can tell from that idiotic thing above, I'm having a slow start getting back into getting the Window open. That's because, other than inherent laziness, I'm busy with the release of a new book. If you haven't seen me and everyone I've begged for support splashing it all over the internet, it's because you've been either asleep or in the fields. I have annoyed everyone.

That being said, The Healing Summer is on sale now. It's not in bookstores, but they can order it for you, or it's available everywhere on line. I hope you read it and like it. And I hope you have a good week.

Too busy

I'm late. Did you notice? The reason I am late is because I haven't had time to get a new post written or dig up an old one to recycle here. Well, I mean, I've had time, but not time I could easily or happily dedicate. I've had company--beloved family and friend. I've had other responsibilities. I've had a last-minute-what-fun shopping trip to Kokomo.

In other words, I've spent the past week smelling the roses.

I am "too busy" by my own design. I like doing what I do. Writing, wearing a pink jacket at Dukes a couple of days a month, sewing quilts with crooked blocks, having deep discussions with people who share my beliefs and values and with people who don't. Watching Jeopardy and going out and listening to music with Duane. Being that kind of too busy means I forget things (meetings), overbook myself (two lunches in the same day), and occasionally fall asleep before eight o'clock. It means I do things pretty much--it must be said--half-assed. I know that's not a very polite way of putting it, but it's definitely accurate.

And I have the best time. I played Farkle with the eight-year-old (he won), fried potatoes for the 14-year-old (he loves them), talked religion with the 44-year-old (he knows a lot more than I do), and worked a puzzle with the 43-year-old (I had to wait for her to come and get it started. It's hard.) I baked three loaves of banana bread, three loaves of pumpkin bread, and three dozen cookies on Saturday morning. There is half a loaf of pumpkin bread left,

So, yes, I'm late. And didn't have anything profound to offer this week. I'm sorry if I've fallen short--it does happen a lot. But I hope you have a great week and that if you didn't get the blog or my column read it's because you're having a wonderful time being too busy.

The case for average

I'm not sure when I wrote this, but my letter grade in life hasn't risen any since then. 

I'm coming clean. It's said that confession is good for the soul — plus it's a novelty in this day of not admitting to anything. Makes me feel all sanctimonious and Marmee-like. So here goes.

I am not a leader.

Umm, felt good. I'll say it again, louder and longer. I'm a follower with absolutely no aspirations to lead.

I have never dreamed of gathering obscene wealth or dining at restaurants where cute guys park your car and paparazzi snap pictures of you as you walk past. I've never longed to be a CEO or a member of any other profession that has initials as its description.

If I'm helping at a seminar or conference, I'm the one making sure the speakers have fresh water and directing people to the coffee urn and the nearest bathroom. I'm never the one smiling out over the crowd and saying, "Can everyone hear me?" I don't want to be heard.

I play Jeopardy along with the TV show at home — badly — but the idea of actually going on television for any purpose makes me turn pale and fumble for my Zoloft.

The last time I had jury duty, I was elected to be the foreperson based on my being the only one who had served before. I explained that all this meant was that I knew where the bathroom and the coffeepot were, but the other jurors seemed to think that was sufficient knowledge. I hope those people are never around when conference speakers are hired; they might recommend me!

When I was in high school, I was always a third-row member of pep club, never a cheerleader. In physical education class, the bane of my existence, I warmed the bench in basketball, was the 27th batter in baseball, and the only time I ever got a volleyball over the net was when the hard-as-a-rock ball bounced off my nose and I thought it was broken. The nose, that is, not the ball. If I'd gone away to camp to improve my skills the way young scholars and student athletes do now, I'd have ended up being the tent monitor because I was too lackadaisical to excel at anything else.

While I admire excellence and do on occasion strive for it, I'm more often happy with good-enough. My husband — whose leadership qualities I hesitate to acknowledge just in case he takes it upon himself to lead me — thinks if you're going to do something, you should do it right or not at all. Having been raised by a mother who ironed everything, I became an adult who can survive years at a time without opening up the ironing board. However, if I'm wearing a jumper or a vest, I will break down and iron the collar and sleeves of the blouse I wear underneath. It looks … you know … okay. My husband considers this beyond laziness and well into slovenliness, so I let him iron my blouses whenever he wants to.

I am — dare I say it? — incredibly average, to the point that I've never been able to buy my clothes off the clearance racks because my size is average, too. When I gained the requisite 20 pounds and two sizes after I stopped smoking, so did everyone else.

And you know what?; I don't mind being average. A friend suggests that this is because I don't want the responsibility of excellence. I don't want to be the idea person, the trouble-shooter, the Moses of the workplace. She's right.

But at the end of the day, when all the ideas are presented and the games played and the conferences over, everyone needs the bathroom and a cup of coffee. They need to sit and unwind without worrying whether there are wrinkles in their blouses. They need to just be average.

So, the bathroom's just down the hall there and the coffee's fresh. Cream? I'll be glad to get you some. That's what people like me are for, and it's not bad at all.