Sheilaclapkin's Blog;

I tried to find Bernie’s Bio on Google, but he seems to have disappeared, at least the Bernie Shore I used to know sixty years ago. He became a doctor, one well renowned. He was honest, forthright and slightly Napoleonic.

He was no one I should remember for anything other that what I am going to tell you. I double dated with Bernie, his older brother, the doctor and Anne Francis, a starlet. I was cute, really cute, great budding body, but no match in age, physicality and or in sophistication for this group. I was barely sixteen. I do remember several great one-liners added to my score, but Anne’s deep and slightly graveled voice beat me into a corner. Who can remember what was ordered and or what was eaten. Who can remember even tidbits of the conversation that night. It is not important to the story.

Bernie and I had several dates after the first double date and each thought the other a nice person. I lived in the inner city and he being a Beverly Hills Boy found the distance unmanageable. We parted ways for many, many life changing years.

As the world turns, I came in contact with Bernie about twelve serious years later. He had matured. I had just completed the task of beginning to raise our five children, gained baby mama weight, wore little face saving paint and struggled to get out of the house and home let alone look like I used to look.

Bernie and I stood face to face at an event. I said, “Are you Bernie Shore?” He said, “Yes.” I said, “My goodness, hello, I am Sheila.”

He said, “Oh my God what the hell happened to you?. You used to be so cute?” Crushed to the matt, I said,” I have been busy, you shit head.”

If you are still kicking Bernie, I do hope you are well. But I also hope you are fat and ugly. Toothless. I hope you waddle. I hope you shrunk. I hope you have hopeless amounts of unwanted hair in your nose and ears. I hope you stink. Oh, I do hope so…

I hadn’t heard from you in a long while. I sent you an email inquiring about how you were doing. You sent me an email telling me about your move and the downsizing process and the new building being built for you and the others. You prefaced all you had to say with, “Hi, Wannabe,” and ended with, “Well, Wannabe, you are always in my thoughts.” Wannabe? Where in the heck did you get that? Wannabe? Do you know the Urban Dictionary says,” a Wannabe is most likely lacking in self-confidence and is looking for guidance.” Plus, Dictionary.com says, “a Wannabe is one who aspires, often vainly, to emulate another’s success or attain brilliance in some area.” Did you know this when you called me Wannabe? I only want for continued health. I have everything I need and most of what I want. You called me Wannabe, and I’ll tell you what I really wannabe, but in the meantime think about this: What or who do you Wannabe?

Where did you get Wannabe? Must be you looking in the mirror and found a Wannabe. I don’t wannabe famous, I don’t wannabe be in another house, I wannabe right here in this one. It is perfect. Oh, now you might have a point here, and maybe I wannabe a little smarter, a little younger, and a bit kinder, more understanding, certainly more patient, and I wannabe a singer. That’s right.

Preposterous of course, but I have wanted to be a singer all of my life. When someone else is singing my brain is singing along with the voice, but my voice cannot be found. At first, I thought I was shy about singing out loud, but that’s not it. I am tone deaf. I cannot repeat the sounds I hear or the sounds needed to distinguish between each separate note. Tone deafness seems to be genetically influenced. It is a disability, but only appears to be with music. I can recognize a song, but cannot bring it back on my own. I learned long ago when I was kicked out of chorus in the sixth grade that something was wrong. I realized later that I was so off key, I began to mouth the words hoping no one would hear the off-putting sounds. The teacher caught me, and being put out of chorus stuck to me like a badge of deceit.

I’m whining now, but I wannabe a singer most of all, and if I cannot sing the words to you, I will write them. I do so want to write a song, sing a song, but they say singing takes hearing the pitch, tone, timbre, rhythm and the harmonic consistency in music. I hear none, just the words to accompany and integrate my tone-deaf mind.

I want to sing my song: “Wannabe Gone”

Singing on the mountaintop, biding my time, telling my story, facing the rain, hiding my pain

I want to be a singer, but I can’t sing

Want you to hear my song, but here’s the thing

I can’t sing anything.

It takes hearing music and I hear none, but I wannabe a singer and have some fun

Singing on the mountaintop, biding my time, telling my story, facing the rain, hiding my face, and bearing the pain.

He told me he loved me, he told me he cared, he told me our love would never die and he told me a lie.

I wore his ring, he wore my heart, he was my meaning and I was his receiver.

Singing on the mountaintop, biding my time, telling my story, facing the rain, hiding my face, and bearing the pain.

He took the sun; he took the stars, then he left the moon and my heart with a hole in it. He tried, but he lied; he is gone and this is my song…wannabe gone.

If  you sit on the couch and wish, wish, wish for the dishes to be done, I will tell you here and now, they will not be done anymore than they were when you first started wishing. Get off your duff and do something about the tasks in your life that need doing.

Some of my dear friends and relatives have died. I wish I would have told them how much I will always love them, and most of all I wish I would have told them how much I will/do miss them. Wishes Don’t Wash Dishes and to you B.J. you are right!

I wish to do so many things I think about, and sometimes I just sit and wish for them. Then, I remember B.J. and some of his last words to me were, “Wishes Don’t Wash Dishes.” When I heard him say these words a few weeks ago, I knew at that very moment I would spend the rest of my life doing what I needed to do to get those dishes washed. Now that you have heard B.J.’s words, get going and do what you need to do to get your dishes washed.

I remember as a child I wished for this and that and everything I saw I wished for in that moment. Now I wish for more concrete things. Health is one of my new wishes along with an absence of growing old pains, peace and quiet, plus daily doses of love and respect. My dishes are washed.

Here’s the deal I make with myself. I will DO the dishes if my grandchildren will be healthy, a little wealthy and mostly gain joy and wisdom throughout their lives. Let them live on to a ripe fulfilled age. Dishes are drying in the bin.

I will do your dishes if you will take the time to smell the roses and enjoy what you are doing right now. I’ll even do the pots and pans if you do something kind and nice for someone.

Instead of wishing for more time, I am going to enjoy the time I have. Sometimes I realize I am grumpy and do not enjoy the present moment, all rolled up into a wish for an opportunity to do something way off in the future. Now is the future.

I wish I would have cried out loud and ranted and raved when I wanted to instead of tying my throat up in a knot and swallowing my pain. I wish I would not go back in time and dig up old miseries, so off I go to wash the dishes.

I wish I did not have to make decisions. Some are more difficult than others. If I actually make no decisions, I will be on this chair for the rest of my life. I think I will get up and wash the dishes.

The dishes will get done if I watch someone do them. I like that, but then, I think, what is my role? Watching is so passive, so unreceptive, and so empty. I think I will help the washer, wash the dishes. They will get done faster, leaving time for another adventure.

Your wishes don’t wash your dishes, YOU do!

You perhaps would be able to rule the world, if not the whole entire world, certainly, your world by changing criticism into encouraging “Terms of Endearment.” You would see the doom and gloom portions of your life as bright and full of healing sunlight. Let us take an expression of disapproval, make it approval, fault finding, making it an authorization, having a condemnation, turn into consent, dealing with recrimination and blame turning into acceptance and reception. Are you getting the point? If we continuously turn critical judgments and take fault, we are hurting the stem of our mental and physical wellbeing. I know, I have lived with criticism as a means to motivate me to do better, produce more, climb higher and it worked until it didn’t.

What if you and I take the criticism we get in the next few days and turn it into “Terms of Endearment,” what will change? When a critical moment comes and you are actively changing that moment into love, acceptance and affection, then you feel the internal change immediately.  You are so stymied; you do not know how to react. You do not even remember having to feel this way before now. Heretofore, upon hearing criticism, you have turned yourself into a stick, a brick, and an inanimate object in order to ward off the attack. Instead you have created a complex new relationship with self-enjoyment. Yes, enjoyment. When you are actively changing negative messages into love and affection, approval and acceptance, you feel proud, strong, valued, a prize with great worth.  Honestly, if you surround yourself with constant barrages of endearment, you will rule. You will rule a kinder, happier self, you will spill this endearment over into your family, community, your place of work and in that way rule your world from a satisfied, cheerful place. Congratulations on a good positive choice. Remember, this seed of turning criticism into “Terms of Endearment” has been planted and you have to practice this concept to make it grow and flourish in your life.