What a Long Name You Have, My Dear
Of the many rules for domain name selection, a few stand out. “Don’t make it too long.” Whoopsie. “Don’t make it confusing.” Uh-oh. “Don’t include unnecessary words.” Yikes! Sorry folks. Allow me to share two hints for remembering this rebel URL: First, there are no numbers. Not one inch, not one mile—an inch, and a mile. And second, start small. Start with an inch, finish with a mile. The deep and wide parts will sort themselves out. And and is and not ampersand, or plus sign, or ‘n’. You can do this.
I was on a plane. A tall and handsome man chatted me up. His true colors came through within the first few minutes of our flight-long conversation. He was what today would be called an influencer; in those days, a pitchman. He was lively, engaging, polite, and out to sell me on something, or to promote himself, or recruit me, it wasn’t clear at first. Then it was clear. He was in a multi-level marketing scheme of some sort. It was nothing I was remotely interested in—which is not to say I have never gone there. I’ve been involved in a few. Still, one sweet little takeaway came along with his pitch. I snatched it up and took it home with me—and, unlike those darling little salt and pepper shakers shaped like airplanes, it has influenced me ever since. He said, “You can go along, living a safe, little life an inch deep and a mile wide, or you can build a world of riches by going for it—the only way to succeed is to go an inch wide and a mile deep.”
He was right. People who go deep win big. Take-it-easy folks, like me, do not. Riches are not derived from caution. All of my life I have been the easy path taker. A late bloomer. A wait-and-see gal. I knew his advice was good for some but not for me. And I have lived a satisfying, healthy, safe, and trouble-free life as a result of my caution—plus my good genes, good friends, and good luck.
My good fortune was not solely of my own making. I had one husband who helped raise me, and after he couldn’t carry me anymore, there was another one who picked me up. He gave me a good life and two fantastic children who, in their uniquely different ways, have truly made my life worth living. I’m grateful for both of my husbands, ex-husbands, but I’m even more grateful that I have had the good sense not to marry all the men in my life. Some men are better left unwed.
As I mentioned, I am blessed with a finely curated collection of friends. You know how you drive long highways and see miles and miles of orchards and wonder, “Is that almonds, peaches, apples, avocados?” (I wish there were a rule that says farmers have to put a sign on the fence.) My friends have all been hand-picked from different orchards, vineyards, gardens and a few fished from the sea. Some are vintage. Some are still fresh. A few are in the deep freeze. Some have already exceeded their shelf life, rest in peace, dear friends. I’m not far behind.
If I die, which I will, and if there is a celebration of life, which there damn well better be, there what remains of my friends will be a fabulous, blended cocktail—all together, mixing and talking and drinking and laughing and crying. And over there, will be my urn on a table, with a book and a pen. I want everyone to sign it and doodle in it and bury it with me and my urn. And somebody please write, “She loved America.” And draw a flag. Please bury me more than an inch deep. Because, squirrels.
My parents not only created me, they loved me my whole life, and love me still from wherever they are—let’s say Heaven. And I have a sister—correction, two sisters. My big sister is gone with the wind. She’s here, but her memories are not. Last time we spoke we agreed, “Cats are soft.” My little sister is my best friend. We check in every day to make sure neither of us is dead. We exchange weather news, go through our daily to do list, and about every five minutes for an hour one of us says, “I gotta get on with my day here in a minute but before I let you go, I wanted to tell you…” and the talk timer resets. Aside from some elder-sister finger wagging from me, we don’t have too much of a sibling rivalry problem, it’s mostly sibling hilarity, but we have been known to argue like cockfighting roosters from time to time. (Someday I will share the origin story of The Thundercunts.) The only good that comes from our fights is that we learn we can recover from a bloodbath. In defense of living life an inch deep, it seems our problems arise only when one of us trips and we both fall into a mile deep crevasse.
I don’t like going a mile deep. I wake up at night dreaming about being trapped in a well, or a pit, or a culvert, and I am gasping for air. (I might have sleep apnea.) What’s more important than that is this: Now you know why this blog is named, An Inch Deep and a Mile Wide. And you’ll never forget the name…if you know what’s good for you. Cats are soft.
