J Segal Design- Design a Life

I put some flowers in my window box the other day. I viewed the sad, empty box for as long as I cared to, and after a few shopping excursions purchased 5 plants to fill it. My neighbor had planted flowers a week earlier, and she mentioned how nice mine looked. Thank you. I’m pretty sure I mentioned hers when they went in. Everybody needs a little praise for their efforts. In my head this simple exchange of pleasantries takes on a life of its own. You see, there are rules to these things- floral arranging, gardening, even giving and receiving compliments. And up there in my head, its important to appear that I know the rules. When people think about rules, we tend to think in terms of following them. Follow the rules and achieve success. Okay, so what, specifically am I following. I’m going to need to learn these mystical directives in order to follow them. Also, my compliance will be observed critically and even compared to the performance of others. I say this because when com...

On a Friday evening, or rather Saturday morning at 12:15, Walmart won’t sell you alcohol. The cashiers don’t even know. It just stops scanning. Luckily, the gas station across the street still sells it, till 1 o'clock anyway. What is it about booze that makes it just fine at 11:59 and wrong at 12:01? But still okay at a gas station till 1? I don’t particularly care who drinks what and when. But why do we, as a group, think that time limits are appropriate for something like buying booze? What’s the goal here? Walmarts around here are open 24 hours, and it amazes me that any time of night people are out shopping. Nobody works 9 to 5 anymore, so why not? That said, why is it that a factory worker or security guard can get off work at 4 am, wander in to Walmart, and be denied some product that anybody with green money can buy all day long until midnight? (I’m guessing midnight is the cut-off. It could be 11pm. Not sure.) And at what time does the devil drink become available a...

Nostalgia is a complicated thing. Sentimentality can be counterproductive and time-consuming. It might seem an odd topic for a style blog, except that my blog has lately become a meditation on grief and loss. Allowing time for grief to infiltrate every aspect of my life is something I once sought to avoid. My reason for bringing this up at this time is that today I found some writing Bob had done prior to his illness and death. Inside a legal pad which I thought was blank I found a mission statement he had written for what is called a Self Evaluation of Job Performance. Not surprisingly, there was an outline and the final composition. Something about a working copy of Bob’s Assets, written in his own hand, I found charming. Then sad. But mostly charming. With a sprinkle of guilty conscience. My attitude of this recent discovery reminds me that in the recent past I was not so sentimental about these things. Until now I didn’t really have the luxury of time for fond reflection. ...

So I have this little car, the Scion IQ. They didn’t sell a ton of them, so you may never have seen one. But know this: its small. At 10 feet long, it is roughly half the size of the average car. But I adore it. It’s not just about saving the planet, it’s just that this car is about me. Just me. Over 50. Live alone. No kids. A widower. Just me. How much car do I need for just myself? Okay, so I also have a minivan that allows me to drive Uber and Lyft, plus shlep cargo if need be. But to drive the IQ is something special, because it really is just for me. I like to say that Bob bought it for me, since his life insurance paid for it. And I’m pretty sure he would have adored this car. To his credit, my brother Greg sealed the deal, because I called him while test driving the car, perhaps so he could bring me back to my senses, and he said to me, “If you like it, and you have the money, then buy it.” Sage advice. So I did. So in a sense, Bob bought it for me, and I think of him ev...

So I’m on Facebook, but I don’t exactly have a lot of friends. Seven as of this writing, to be exact. I dumped 2 last week. I guess nine is a crowd. I’m enthusiastic about social media, in theory. I just find Facebook friendships more difficult than RT- do the kids still say that? Maybe its my age. I do a little better on Twitter and Instagram, although I recently noticed that all my Insta likes were from the same 3 or 4 people. Wish I hadn’t noticed that. My tweets are just my inner monologue typed into an app. Before Twitter, I’d just think these things, maybe smile for a moment, and they’d be gone. Now people can be called on the carpet for expressing some random thought. Even deleting tweets doesn’t help. It can and often will be discovered and used against you. And by you, I mean Trump. But Facebook? I have to share my life. Document it and offer it up to the world. Will my life measure up to yours, or theirs? Maybe you’re young, cute and popular. Maybe you’re clever, whac...

There’s been a huge emphasis in cable and phone companies on bundling. Cable, internet and phone. Land line and cell service. But in Hudson, Ohio, City administrators may have taken the concept one step too far. Hudson provides utilities. Plural, but in a singular way. Their approach is so bundled, in fact, that I’m not even sure what a utility bill is actually billing me for. I wonder if they know? And while I appreciate the chutzpah of sending a polite letter informing me that I’m being charged an amount for some nebulous concept, I ordinarily need a little more background before parting with my money. But I gave them direct access via auto-pay, so they don’t exactly ask first. The term “utility” is a measure of the usefulness of an item. But, of course, “utilities” in our modern world are electricity, gas, water, sewer, cable, and phone. The City of Hudson sells these services to the public and has a centralized billing department. Perhaps too centralized. At this point, not e...

Bob didn’t cook. He liked to eat, especially home cooking. But he couldn’t cook at all. I always liked that about him. I cook. I can probably cook just about anything. I’m knowledgeable about food and techniques. But not Bob. He relied on me for sustenance. Luckily I take requests. And being an athlete, Bob had a hearty appetite. When we first met, I’d go to Bob’s apartment, he’d pop popcorn in the micro, and we’d eat it watching Sabado Gigante on his pull-out couch.  When we got to the unpopped kernels in the bottom, he’d always try to repop them by placing them in the micro again, but in a bowl. He didn’t know that the bag has a metal pad on the bottom that causes the kernels to pop. I cooked him dinner in his kitchen before we moved in together which involved removing the styrofoam and packing tape from his stove and dishwasher, which he’d had for a year. Which is fine. As I said, he didn’t cook. He actually set a potato on fire in the micro once. There’s a button marked...

I sold an item today that was a gift from Bob. It was never used, still in the box, and has been in storage. Despite this, I’m feeling guilty about it. I’ve mentioned previously that Bob was not required to give me gifts, but occasionally he’d see me admiring something, and then quite by surprise it would end up under the tree. I was always charmed that he could actually surprise me in this way. This really only occurred a few times in 26 years, which is fine. One of my favorite surprise gifts was a crepe pan. Talk about the gift that gives back- oh the many crepes I served him that year! But I enjoy simple little gifts, because I’m so picky that elaborate gifts often leave me cold. If you’re going all out, why give something I don’t like? You have my permission to just skip it. The item in question is more elaborate than I would prefer. It’s a home silkscreen making machine. And it seems to me they cost $300. I could be wrong on that. Hope so. I happened to point it out while ...

A former friend of mine, and one of the most emotionally draining people I’ve ever known, is the owner of a book called How To Deal With Difficult People. I find this ironic. Perhaps I should admit, right here and now, that I, myself, am difficult to deal with. I’m not naive of this, especially now. I’m in grief and my whole life is in turmoil. Transition? Everything changed recently, lets just say that. Painful? Yes. Difficult? Not really. And yes, I said “former friend.” She knew my late partner, Bob, for 40 years and has kind of been reaching out ostensibly to help me during this time. I appreciate the gesture, but it quickly became me helping her, and her probing into my life choices, as if I have to account for my actions to her or anyone else. But she’s a preacher’s wife, which I guess gives her the right. Or so she thinks. Thought, past tense. I’ve been seeking to understand and overcome the hoarding impulse in my own and Bob’s lives lately, and making good progress. O...