Mary Mott's Podcasts

I realize that I spend a lot of time thinking about fish.

My cousin had a goldfish named Sweeney.  It exploded in front of us while she was feeding it from one of those little brown fish food boxes.  Thus started my strange relationship with fish.

I order it all the time in restaurants. Women do that. It’s supposed to be healthier than it’s legged competitors.  If you eat the right fish that is.  The ones that stay out of the dreaded mercury zones.

I never order halibut.  Always comes in a high square. Like a big piece of vanilla cake. Very unfish-like.  Seems as if it’s been puzzled together.  Have you noticed that? You lose interest about halfway through.

I like Chilean sea bass, but that’s a bit of a political hot potato.   So a bad idea when ordering.  Particularly if eating with environmentalists.

Salmon.  Every menu has salmon. Ugh.  It’s like doing time while you’re eating dinner. You keep going with no idea why. Could anyone aptly describe the taste of a salmon filet?  And now, to be acceptable, it has to be line caught by fifth generation Eskimos claiming residency above the arctic circle.   Please.

When I was growing up my mother would make fish on Fridays. Catholics ate fish on Fridays.  So it was always on sale.  We weren’t Catholic, but my mother loved a bargain and would bake a large rectangle of frozen cod every Friday. With sliced tomatoes on the top.

My children share the same weirdness with fish. We had a vacation in the Amazon.  The whole family fished for piranha.  When you catch a piranha you have to bop it on the head with a mallot before you take out the hook so it doesn’t bite you. Which was a touch traumatic for all of us.  But you have to do it. The stories are true.  Piranha love eating people.

And so it goes.

Did you know that fish can’t swim backwards?  Only sharks have eyelids? Jellyfish and starfish aren’t really fish? Tuna swim at forty-three mph? A seahorse pairs for life? One-third of male fish swimming in British waters change their sex?

Now ain’t that a fine kettle of fish?

Every year I feel like I miss summer.

And now, yet again, it’s almost over.  I’m left with an achy regret.

I’m living summer like I live the other seasons.  With the possible addition of eating outside and drinking rose.

That’s not enough.

Everyone has their ideal summer.

For me it’s sandy feet and endless beaches.

Every year towards the end of July my parents would pack up the car and we would head to a little shake-covered cottage on Cape Cod.  Stopping on the way at Howard Johnson’s for a “grilled frankfurter” in a buttery squared-off bun.  And a strawberry ice cream cone.

We spent days on the beach.  Picking up every scallop shell we could find.  Bits of abandoned crab legs and tails.  Rocks with stripes.  And occasionally a conch shell with a conch still inside.  Which my father would boil out for stew when we got home.

Those endless beach days will stay with me forever.  My sister and I in our Villager bathing suits.  Riding the frigid east coast waves until we too were the color of those crab parts.  My father with a beach towel wrapped around his feet so he wouldn’t burn them yet again.

And the concerts on the town park bandstand.  Everyone on blankets.  Sharing plaid-wrapped picnic suppers and a glimpse of Venus on it’s early summer rise.

Sandy feet.

But this summer I’m in the mountains of Idaho.  Rushing rivers.  Wildflower hikes.  Loping bike trails in sandy high desert.

My girlfriend said this is true summer to her. She grew up here.  Her “sandy feet”.  Earned on the rocky beaches of the crystalline alpine lakes of Idaho.

I may have to understand, and partake in, the essence of summer wherever I am.  Take the time to relish its uniqueness.  Take the time to experience summer in these craggy western mountains.  Or wherever I find myself.

But, oh, what I wouldn’t give for an amble down a Cape Cod beach, striped bag at my side,  filled with scallop shells, colorful striped rocks and abandoned crab legs.   Maybe I’ll even find a conch shell.  With the conch inside, of course.

First you have to know what that is.  

The person that you are when you are with your silliest friend?  Or the more moderated person that walks through your daily life. You prefer the first, but that’s unfortunately a small percentage of your time.  So, your authentic self might just be the more moderate one you spend the most time being. But is that really you?

Do you alter yourself to fit in?  Pretend to be the person you think you should be?  Of course you do. We all do. But you might have lost yourself in the bargain.

One problem is that there aren’t venues for being your authentic self.    

A big cocktail party won’t do it.  Too superficial.

A dinner party won’t do it.  Too structured.

A meeting at work?  Lunch with the school board?  Watching Netflix? Nope.

Sitting in the laundromat waiting for your underwear to dry might do it.  Kibitzing with strangers. But most of us don’t go to a laundromat anymore.  Or have a chance to kibitz with strangers. Who are, I might add, the easiest to be yourself with.

Sleepovers used to be good for the authentic self  thing. Sharing Cheetos and innermost thoughts at midnight. But once out of your tweens, those times are few and far between.

Yesterday I went to lunch with a friend and then wandered around a few local galleries.   We talked about brushes with art in past lives. And the past lives. We experienced color and light together. Puzzled by some pieces. Enchanted by others. In the end, we couldn’t put our finger on what art we truly liked but circled around until we found a smidgen of clarity. About the art and each other.  We were in our own authentic little bubble. I got to know her a little better yesterday because we took the time to be just us.

If you had to write down who you really are, could you?   Tough to be your authentic self if you don’t know what that is.

You’d probably start with what you do.  Your resume. Decade by decade the boxes you’ve checked.

But that’s not who you are.

“I like to sing to Queen in the car.  I feel good when my dog Rosie is sitting right next to me.  I prefer carbohydrates. My favorite date night is going to the movies and eating sushi.  I’m politically and socially liberal. I don’t look in the mirror with glasses on so that I don’t see how old I look. I park illegally a good deal of the time. I stay up late. I crave information. I love going to lectures. I like houses that are spare.  My closet is messy. I love to laugh. I write so that you can get to know me. I don’t think it would happen otherwise. ”

One study reported that 50% of people “fake it” at work.  Not feeling they can be themselves. Which is sad. On some level, your co-workers know. You are never as believable as when you are your true self.  I didn’t see a study on how many people just “fake it” in everyday life. Be the person they think others want them to be. But I’ll bet a lot of people do that.  Maybe if you’re a real jerk it’s a good idea. Probably is. But that’s the only time it makes sense.

If you Google being your authentic self, you’ll be amazed.  A lot of suggestions out there. Three steps. Five steps. Ten steps.  All about finding and living your authentic self. All agree authentic people are happier. Healthier. More confident.   Some may not be popular. But authentic.

So, try it.  Put yourself in situations where you can’t hide. Skip cocktail parties. Hang out with people that make you feel safe.  Get to know yourself and be committed to peeling off a layer now and then.

People may not like you anymore but you’ll be authentic.

And that will be a very good thing.

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I’ve been in a bad mood for a while.

It started when I fell and broke my shoulder last June.

It still ticks me off when I feel this heavy appendage hanging by my side.

Or when I try to put the cup back on the shelf in the kitchen.

Or attempt to blow-dry my hair.  Heavy, useless appendage.

My husband has Lyme disease.  Taking all these meds that attack the little zygotes in the bloodstream.  They mostly attack him.   He’s not happy either.

My dog Rosie is concerned about her weight.  She’s taken on a tube-like state because I’m not walking her.  The road by our house requires double runner ice skates and I’m petrified to fall again because of the broken appendage thing.  Rosie continues to morph into a tube.

And I’ve stopped writing.

I stopped because I’ve been in a bad mood and nothing is funny.  You can’t write when you’re in a bad mood.

I’m amazed how negative you can be if you set your mind to it.

Donald Trump will be elected for a next term and start another civil war.  The coast states against Ohio.

Miami beach will disappear underwater.

There will be no more post offices, fancy stamps or letters.

We will never hear a jukebox again.

I will forget all of my passcodes and be unable to exist in the world.

The network news will be erased from the airwaves.

People will become fatter.   Feet and ears will continue to grow.

Clones will be everywhere.  Twins will disappear.

Restaurants will close.  Micro-dosing will flourish.

Books will only be available on “Antiques Roadshow”.

It goes on.

Have I depressed you yet?

When you’re in a bad mood it’s good to drag as many people down with you as you can.

“Misery loves company”, as someone once said.

But I don’t love it here. In my negative state. Would like to work my way out of it at some point.

My trainer told me to drink more water.

My girlfriend told me to take vitamin B.

My therapist told me to use CBD oil.

My husband told me to meditate.

Maybe I’ll try all those things.

Maybe.

But I’ll probably stay gloomy for a bit longer.  It’s familiar here.

Tough to change direction when I’ve gotten so darn comfortable.

To stay up-to-date on all of the Mary Mott Podcasts, download iTunes here – Search for Mary Mott in the Podcasts section, and “Subscribe”.

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Listen to a Podcast of Bad Mood: