Just Call Me "Talks With Strangers"

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: So I was listening to an NPR show about happiness. I should preface this by saying that at this point in my life, I get 90% of what I know of the outside world from NPR (the other 10% comes from Twitter.) I listen to everything: TED Radio Hour, This American Life, All Things Considered, The Commonwealth Club, Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me - you get the idea.

At any rate, the host was interviewing one of these happiness researchers, who found, for the 100th time, that people in Scandinavian countries are the happiest in the world, despite the hellscape of socialism and the fact they are shrouded in eldritch darkness six months of the year. One of the important factors in happiness, the researcher said, was good social interactions. "People who live alone are more likely to suffer from depression," he said.

"Uh oh," I said to the cat. "I live alone." (Apparently cats don't count as "robust social support." Which I can see, because my cat is a more a combination panhandler/demanding massage client - the wholesome kind of massage, not the Robert Kraft sort - than a Friend In Need.) My kids have all expressed concerns about the quality of my life since they've moved out. Youngest keeps threatening assuring me she'll be back lots and lots of times during the school year.

The researcher then went on to say the research had changed some of his habits. "Now I chat with people on the elevator instead of staring at the fire escape instructions," he said. "It improves your mental health."

Okay, excellent. I'm good. Why? Because I talk in the elevator. I chat with the Uber driver. I ask questions of the cook making omelettes to order at the Hilton. I interact with little kids in the grocery store. 

I am that woman.

Being that woman is a combination of nature and nurture. As anyone who has ever met me has already figured out, I'm extroverted by nature. Not that socializing can't wear on me - like many of you, I limp back to my hotel room after a day at Bouchercon and require a full nine hours of sleep to function again the next day. But I like people. I enjoy talking and finding out what they have to say.

On top of that, I was raised by a woman who thought conversation was the highest art form. My mother's maxim was, "You have to sing for your supper," -  if you were at table, you had better contribute to the dialog. Youngest told me about a documentary she had seen about Consuelo Vanderbilt, who became the Duchess of Marlborough. Evidently, young Consuelo's nanny would stroll her around the garden, and at each bush, the girl was made to converse for a period of time. With the bush. And a different topic for every stop. My mother never marched me around to talk with shrubbery, but the end result was the same, I can - and will! - find something about which to converse with anyone, anywhere.

Over the years, my children have been alternately horrified, embarrassed, impatient and amused by my predilection for passing the time of day with store clerks, auto mechanics, and their friends. There were several years when I was entreated to never say anything to my kids' peers other than, "Hello," and "Would you like [name of food dish]?" Ironically, they now encourage their friends, especially those whose own mothers are far away, to talk with me. This is, I suspect, because a vital part of being a good conversationalist is being a good listener.

As I've gotten older, I talk more, rather than less, with strangers. When I was a younger woman, I had the usual concerns about safety, and more to the point, I didn't want anyone thinking me weird or pushy. Now I'm a silver-haired lady in her fifties, I don't give two snaps of my fingers if someone decides I'm odd or too outspoken. Resembling Everybody's Mother gives a woman a great deal of leeway in her actions.

I will continue, therefore, to happily interact with the people fate puts in my way while running errands or traveling (unless I'm in the Amtrak quiet car. No speaking on the train!) It's good for my mental health. And if you're ever trapped with me yammering away at you, please remember, it's nothing personal - it's you or inviting my children to come back and live with me again.

How about you, dear readers? Are you Chatty Cathy? Or Bashful Bill?

Wake Up Alone and Like It!

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Friends, I have finally achieved Empty Nest. And a truly empty one it is; with Ross gone, it's just me and an eight-year-old cat manning the fort at chateau Hugo-Vidal. (Perhaps that ought to be manning the chateau at Fort Hugo-Vidal...)

The Smithie was out this past spring, moving in with her Very Tall Boyfriend, although her place was taken almost immediately by her friend Samantha, who lodged with me while she got up and running at her new Portland job and apartment-shopped. This took some time, mostly because the rental situation in our area closely resembles the Death Race scene in Mad Max Fury Road, with far too many contestants peeling ahead recklessly and doing anything to win.

Meanwhile, as you know, Youngest headed up north to the University of Maine in September, so although she's still "residing" at my house (honestly, tax agents who may be reading this blog!) I don't expect her to be here for more than a few weeks at a time from now on. She's already looking into a summer job...in Kosovo. We have dear friends who are Serbian, so that's going to be an interesting conversation.

Samantha finally found a terrific, affordable, safe rental and moved out the week before Thanksgiving, which gave me a week to clean, cook, pick up Youngest, etc. etc. I was so busy, it wasn't until the guests had all departed and Youngest was back up in Orono that it really struck me - I'm all alone.

And I like it!

Let me tell you - there are some nifty advantages to living on one's own. First and foremost: it's insanely easy to keep the place clean. I was worried about this, because for the past 24 years I've struggled to keep the giant dust bunnies and ghostly fingerprint buildup at bay. I used to consider the house well cared for if three of the five downstairs room were not embarrassingly messy and you couldn't smell any cat pee or dog barf. I always had the sneaking suspicion that my family was making most of the mess, and now I have proof - I'm keeping 3000 square feet tidy and dust-free in less time than it used to take me to do one load of laundry.

Which is another delightful change.  For years and years, I did at least one wash a day. Every day, and of course, that didn't count special, tiny little loads when someone's team uniform or only remaining school shirt was dirty. (Catholic school. regulation shirts.) Now? I'm only limited by the amount of clean underwear in my drawer. It takes me three weeks to get full white, colored and dark loads, and yes, that included the sheets. Heck, I used to have a whole basket each week comprised solely of face cloths and towels (for some reason I've never ascertained, the Sailor used THREE facecloths every time he cleaned his face.)

Of course, this means I'm probably going to wind up tasing my children to keep up standards when they're all home for Christmas.  Needs must, I suppose.

Some other benefits? Last night I made myself pearl couscous with roasted winter vegetables, feta cheese and walnuts. Every one of those ingredients would have raised an objection from at least one of my offspring, and my dear Ross, a man who thought all salads should include steak, chicken or bacon, would have asked, "Where's the beef?"

Also, unhitched from the demands of after-school rehearsals, homework, and 9 to 5 work weeks, I'm eating earlier these days. I like prepping dinner while there's still natural light in the kitchen. On the plus side, it's supposed to be good for you to get the bulk of your calories in early and have time to digest. On the minus side, I'm clearly just one pair of sensible shoes away from the 5pm senior citizen all-you-can-eat buffet.

There are a few quasi-negative aspects. I talk to myself these days. A lot. I haven't started losing arguments to myself, so I guess I'm still okay. Per my kids' request, I carry my phone with me whenever I go outside to haul wood or shovel snow - in case I Fall Down and Can't Get Up. And when I get take-out pizza, I can't pretend I'm doing it as a delightful treat for the kids - I have to own the fact I have a craving for ham and pineapple and run with it.

How about you, dear readers? Ever experience the upside of solitude? Or, surrounded by kids, cats and dogs, do you ever dream of what you'd do if you were left home alone?