Keep in Touch With Mommakin

The Woman With the Long Gray Braid

2012-01-30T06:49:00.000-08:00

You know her, right?

She's at every music festival and craft show on the planet. She's at the organic grocery store in the hippest urban areas and she's on the farm in the country. She is a little bit more elusive in the suburbs.

She dances through life - sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively. She moves slowly and with purpose - even if the purpose is simply recognizing the joy in the moment.

Watch her or don't - she doesn't care. Join her and she'll make you feel welcomed.

I want to be her when I grow up.

She wears cotton and colors and silver and she only wears shoes when she has to.

She wears a long gray braid. Maybe two.

Last week, during our visit to Charleston, I noticed her selling handmade bags along Market Street. I stopped to admire them and she in turn admired the one I was carrying. When she found out I'd made it, her demeanor implied that she recognized a kindred soul when she saw one. We chatted for a few moments and when my party moved along she told us to have a nice day - then leaned in and said to me in a manner that was almost conspiratorial, "This is not a funky town."

She thought I belonged in funky town.

I think I do, too, sister.

I'm going to start growing that long gray braid.

Embedded Lessons

2012-01-27T13:38:00.000-08:00

My usual morning routine during my week at the beach is to wake up early and watch the sun rise over the ocean. Sometimes that just involves the sky going from dark to light, but more often than not I am rewarded for my early rising ways with a slow, gentle and profoundly beautiful show. I sit on the balcony or in front of the picture window with a cup of coffee, my laptop, and the camera on my phone. I watch in a paradoxical combination of peaceful excitement.

This morning was basically a dark to light morning. There was a little tease of pink that I hoped might turn into a burst of orange, but it did not. It was rather disappointing, as far as sunrises go. I left the drapes open, though. The ocean on a less than gorgeous day is still not such a bad thing to look at.

I'm glad I did.

Because this morning there was a storm.

A storm over the ocean is not as photogenic as a sunrise - at least not when you're limited to the images the camera on a phone can provide - but it is no less captivating. Waves were breaking all the way back to the horizon. It was loud and fast and dark. It was scary and exciting and dynamic.

A metal morning, as opposed to the usual easy listening.

I like metal.

And then -

The storm ended.

Just Another Tuesday With Mommakin and Momma of Mommakin

2012-01-24T18:56:00.000-08:00

It was the most excellent of adventures; it was the most bogus of journeys.

Mom and I set out today, along with two of her friends, to take a one hour tour of Charleston, SC. If you are humming a little parody of the Gilligan's Island theme song, well - don't stop. You're not 100% on track, but it was a three hour tour - I mean - a one hour tour - gone terribly awry. Plus - it's fun to parody the Gilligan's Island theme song under any circumstances. Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale...

That's Momma of Mommakin on the far right. <3

Mule-drawn carriage tours are a very popular way for tourists to get a feel for Charleston. I have never shied away from acting like a tourist when I am one. We bought our tickets and awaited our carriage. Kind of like Cinderella, except with mules instead of white stallions. And that damned fairy godmother must've been sleeping something off when she was supposed to be turning me into the belle of the ball. Other than that, though - well - other than that it's STILL not that much like Cinderella. You do get the picture, though, right?

Our carriage arrived and our tour guide was a retired college professor - Hey! The professor! Maybe the Gilligan parody has legs! - with a smart sense of humor and a tremendous amount of knowledge abut his city. These are good traits for a tour guide to have. He introduced us to the mules who would be pulling our carriage today: Hit and Run. These are not fortuitous names. I'm sure someone thought they were being very clever, but it's honestly just a little bit unnerving.

Not fifteen minutes into our tour, we were making our way down a narrow street with cars parked along one side. A woman in a van approached us and was clearly not going to let us pass. We could not back up, so this woman drove around us, passing us on the wrong side. This forced our professor/skipper/tour guide to pull the mules over far into the left lane. Farther than they should have been - because when this silly woman passed and we started moving, the top of the carriage snagged on a tree. Before our noble leader had a chance to correct this, the mules ran scared - bolting, a few mere feet from the next busy intersection. My mother grabbed my arm and for a slight fraction of a second I saw terror in her eyes.

It WAS scary.

For a fraction of a second.

The professor was skilled at his craft, though, and immediately gained control of the noble beasts.

Not a single person, mule or car was hurt.

Our carriage, though? Had not fared quite as well.

When it snagged on the tree and the mules bolted, a lot of damage was done to the canopy. It had been held in place by heavy metal rods, which had actually bent in several places and poked through the fabric. The rear supports were completely shot. The folks in the back of the carriage had to hold it up manually to keep it from falling on their heads. We were in the front. We were unscathed. In case you might have been wondering.

The buggy was still functional, so, after a quick call to his employers, our guide informed us sheepishly that we would be embarking upon the ride of shame. People were snapping pictures and taking video as we rode our ramshackle carriage through the streets of Charleston. "Damn", our hero said, under his breath, "this is going on YouTube for sure." I haven't checked, but I'm sure he was right. I was already pretty sure, in that moment, that it was going on my blog. He waved at the chuckling passerby exclaiming, "It's a handyman's special!"

He remained poised and continued to indicate points of interest as we took our ride of shame back to the barn - although a distinct tone of humility and self-deprecation had snuck into his voice.

When we returned, the staff first determined that we were all ok. (And weren't going to sue. Nobody said that, but the implication was there. Oh yes. It was there.) Once it was determined that we were ok and that we were not a litigious mob, he did get a little ribbing. But it wasn't brutal. Frankly, I think he might have been a little disappointed if he hadn't.

In an effort to keep everybody happy, we were given a full refund and then were told that if we wanted to, we could take another tour.

Which we did.

And it was fun.

But not nearly as fun as the first one.

Champagne 18

2012-01-19T02:34:00.000-08:00

A couple few months back, I stumbled upon a blog wherein a woman mentioned how much she loved Champagne Thursdays. She said it in passing and it was not really relevant to the content in her post - so I'm not COMPLETELY confident that I knew what she was talking about - but I made some assumptions. Ok, I really only made one assumption. I assumed that she drank champagne on Thursdays as regularly as we go for Monday Madness at the local pizza parlor. (In case you're wondering how regular that is, the answer is: without fail.)

It set me to thinking - how lovely the week could be if each day had something as wonderful as champagne to look forward to. Martini Mondays, Tequila Tuesdays, Wine-o Wednesdays, Champagne Thursdays (as an homage, of course), Free-Flow Fridays, Sangria Saturdays..... it was all sounding just too magical to be real.

And of course, it was.

In real life there are lessons and appointments and obligations and I'm happy when I can get a dinner scheduled properly, much less a Happy Hour every day. Cracking open a beer once everyone has done everything they need to do and pajamas have been donned and the next episode of whatever we're obsessed with at the moment has been queued up will have to continue to be good enough. On fancy nights, we'll share a bottle of wine. We have a nice collection of fine Ohio wine in the wine cellar (and by wine cellar, I assume that you know I really mean garage).

But I couldn't get those Champagne Thursdays out of my head. Ok - theme drinking EVERY night might be excessive - but one night a week - maybe that would be doable.

Then I thought about my grocery allowance and what adding a bottle of champagne to it each week would do.

Even if by champagne, you really mean sparkling wine - which, by the way, I do - it's still pretty oppressive if you plan on it every week.

Well, frick.

It was such a good idea.

And in discussing it with Tom, we came to the delightful conclusion: if not once a week, how about once a month?

Once a month was a reasonable commitment.

"But," I said, "we need to really make it happen once a month. Not just say we'll do it once a month and then let it get away from us." Because that's the way things go, and we all know it. There's always something and then - next thing you know - the month is gone.

We decided to choose a day - put it on our perpetual calendars - and allow no exceptions.

We chose the 18th.

No particular reason. We sort of liked the way it sounded with champagne. Champagne 18.

Since we instituted this, we have had some rather fine selections. We have also had some rather - thrifty selections. (Can you say Barefoot Bubbly? I thought you could). We've had a lot in the middle. The price of the bottle depends upon a variety of factors. It's not what's important.

What's important is our ritual.

Sometimes the 18th is a Saturday - sometimes it's a Wednesday. It occurs all over the week. Sometimes we turn off the TV and have champagne appropriate snacks, and sometimes we just replace the usual beers with champagne and swig it in our jammies. Sometimes the 18th is festive and sometimes it is mundane. Sometimes conversation is frivolous and sometimes it is serious and sometimes it is non-existent (so that we can better follow what's going on on TV). Yep, the way things shake out on the 18th is a big variable.

But one factor never varies.

It is always greeted with a distinctive *pop*.

Happy 18th.

Cheers.

This post was set to go yesterday, but out of respect for the SOPA blackout, I opted not to post it until today.

A High Maintenance Broad

2012-01-13T17:29:00.000-08:00

If you ask me, I'm pretty low-maintenance. I'm not terribly particular and I have a tendency to go with the flow. I don't kick up much of a fuss. When I say I'll be ready in 15 minutes I generally mean it - I'm not a primper. I don't expect jewelry or any other manner of fanciness for - well, really - anything. I like people who are who they are and if someone tried to change for me, I would be more horrified than pleased.

I'm easy like Sunday Morning.

That's the very definition of low-maintenance, no?

Well, no.

Turns out I'm high emotional maintenance.

I need a lot of reassurance. My feelings get hurt at every real and imagined slight. I need to know where I stand. Tell me more about my eyes.

I'm not, apparently, always easy to be around.

A high-maintenance frumpy bohemian. Sounds like an oxymoron. But it's not. It's me. (And you - the one who said, "Not an oxymoron, then, just a regular moron." - you're not even half as clever as you think you are.)

What sort of maintenance do you require?

Welcome Back, Van Halen

2012-01-07T13:22:00.000-08:00

I loved Welcome Back Kotter in the 70's. Like, really loved it. Tom did, too. When we had pop culture discussions in our early dating life, it almost always came up. What a great, great show, we would say.

Imagine our joy when we learned that Nick at Nite would be showing Welcome Back Kotter reruns. We were dating at the time, and we set the whole weekend aside to crash in front of Tom's TV. We were practically giddy when the theme song came on - taking us back to that same old place that we'd laughed about.

Less than half way through the first episode, we realized that more than the names had all changed since we'd hung around. This show was bad. Really, really bad. Almost unwatchable. Scratch that almost - it was unwatchable. And we were deeply involved in Hercules and Xena at the time, so it's not like we were huge TV snobs or anything. How could that have happened? We made it all the way through the pilot, deciding to cut it some slack because pilots are all about character development and are never all that good. We didn't make it all the way through the next episode.

We both dealt with the sense of delusion this brought on for - well - I'll let you know when it ends.

So.

So Van Halen will be touring this summer. I have never seen Van Halen live. I always refer to them (along with Queen and a few select others) as the ones that got away. But I'll have a chance this summer to make that right. It's exciting. Or is it?

I said to Tom, I said, "What if we get all psyched to see Van Halen and we get there and it's like Welcome Back Kotter only Mr. Kotter has had a hip replacement and Vinnie Barbarino is wearing stupid hipster sideburns?"

Tom laughed and added, "And Freddie "Boom-Boom" Washington has been replaced by Gabe and Julie's baby."

He then added, "Sammy Hagar is Beau."

"Right! Right!"

"Who's on drums? Epstein or Horshack?"

"Probably Horshack. Epstein can't tour. He's got a note."

"Does that make Valerie Bertinelli Julie?"

"I guess so! I wonder if Jenny Craig made her modify the recipe for her famous tuna casserole?"

What do you know. Welcome Back Kotter can still make us laugh. As long as we don't have to watch it.

Fridays With Liv

2012-01-06T09:57:00.000-08:00

Liv and I have a little tradition.

Usually, I take Lea to school, then come home and do a chore or two, then take Liv to school. But on Fridays, Liv and I leave as soon as I get back from dropping Lea off and we have donuts. Always two with sprinkles for her. It varies for me. Sometimes I join her in a donut. Cruellers are my favorite, but I've been known to make a detour into the creme-filled department from time to time. Sometimes I have a breakfast wrap. Today I had a muffin. Hot chocolate is optional. Our Friday morning date is not.

Liv is a good kid. She plays by the rules at home and at school. She is funny and smart and determined and talented. I could sing her praises for days. She is not, however, a squeaky wheel. I have often likened her to the prodigal son's brother. She works hard. She always tries to do the right thing. She doesn't get in trouble.

The squeaky wheel always gets the grease, but the wheel that hums along nicely, just doing it's job, sometimes needs a little grease, too. What a bonus if, from that grease, a donut emerges.

So we have our donuts on Fridays. And we talk and we listen. Sometimes we even squeak. I look forward to it. WE look forward to it. She really talks to me on Friday mornings - sometimes even opening up to me - a true gift from a teenaged girl!

Yep, I look forward to Friday mornings.
I bought Liv a Babycakes donut maker for Christmas.

This morning, when I got back from taking Lea to school, she said, "Are we still gonna go for donuts, even though I have a donut maker now?"

You betcha, Babycakes.

Not The Village Idiot - But Still...

2012-01-04T06:38:00.000-08:00

Things have been rough around here this year. It's been hard to write, even though I tend to be a heart-on-my-sleeve, transparent, therapeutic-type of writer. That works for some things - and I remain a proponent and fan of it - but some things are just too big for mere words. Some things feel cheapened by words. Some things just can't be expressed, no matter how many words one has at ones disposal.

THAT'S the sort of year it's been.

A few folks have said to me recently, "Write more! We miss your words!"

I've tried.

Every time someone makes a similar request, I try.

I'm a sucker for flattery, and being asked for words feels a little bit like flattery. After all - up until this year, I had literary aspirations! What could be a higher compliment than people hungering for my words?

So I tried.

But it all felt so stupid.

With all of these huge, big, bad things in my life - in my world - how could I write cute little essays about the life of a menopausal fangirl? (Let me clarify. I am menopausal and I am a fangirl. I am not a fan of menopause. Technically, when one can claim menopausal as an appropriate adjective, perhaps one should consider ditching girl as an appropriate noun. Hmm.) And for a few months there - as you know, if you've been paying attention - I couldn't.

A friend and I were chatting about this very thing the other day. One of the big bad things I'm working through right now is the suicide of a beloved classmate. All of us who knew her were - are - shocked to our cores. This couldn't have happened. This shouldn't have happened. It is very nearly unbearable. We find comfort with each other where we can, but it is not enough. We are all working individually through this collective experience the best way we can. Some days are worse than others.

So as my friend and I chatted, she kept asking about the writing. She told me how much our friend who passed had liked my posts. I knew this. She'd told me so on many occasions. But it was nice to hear it from someone else. "Don't stop", she'd said, "we need to laugh together." I told her the same things I've already mentioned - everything just feels so trivial and stupid and inane - it's hard to be light when everything feels so heavy. "Just one thing - every day - that we can laugh about and be thankful for." I told her that I wasn't much on the whole Pollyanna thing. I don't want to laugh and be thankful. I'm sad. She replied, "Only the village idiot is happy all the time."

That really resonated with me. Not only because it is undeniably true, but also because - this particular friend really DOES come across as sort of a Pollyanna type. She's a silver lining kind of gal. Brian on the cross, whistling about the bright side of life. I would've never expected a sentiment like that from her, yet there it was. Only the village idiot is happy all the time.

I am assuredly not the village idiot.

But I don't want to be the village prophet of doom, either.

So, my friend, I offer a compromise: I will not write a happy little ditty every day. That is too close to village idiot territory for me. Also? I have no desire to be the Bill Keane of the blogosphere.

BUT

I will make a strong, concerted effort to get something positive or funny or entertaining out once a week. Some weeks it will be small, some weeks larger, some weeks there will be more than one happy post, but ALL weeks I will try very hard for one. Fair enough?

So here's what's been running all around in my brain on this cold January morning (and, coincidentally, what would have been the 50th birthday of my friend who won't be here to celebrate it):

It is no secret that I love the sun and feel less than stellar in it's absence. It's certainly been a recurring theme. Cold winter mornings are the worst. My feelings about that have been well documented as well.

So.

As I was getting ready to get the day started, I put a little Heart on the stereo - because my love for them has been almost as well documented as my hatred of cold winter mornings. The first words to hit my ears were, "The sky was dark this morning, when I raised my head. I went to the window; darkness was my bane." Sing it, sister. Later, in the car, Boston regaled me with "I looked out this morning, and the sun was gone." Hmmmm - my refusal to bring my music collection out of the 70's seemed to be manifesting itself into a little theme. No sun.

Driving my youngest to school, though (another activity that has been well documented!) the sun made an appearance. The sky was pink and lavender and blue and the black, black, blackness of the barren trees silhouetted against it was nothing short of breathtaking.

And I felt something grinchy starting to melt.

The next line to that Heart song, by the way? "Suddenly a sunbeam - thrilled me to my very heart - it was the prettiest thing I had ever seen." The next line to the Boston song? "I turned on some music to start my day."

So.

Bleakness, darkness, sadness - it will always be there.

But so will the sun.

And music.

(Sorry! Nothing funny today - but maybe a little warmth - maybe a little happy -it's a start.)

One Less Bell to Answer

2011-12-23T16:04:00.001-08:00

Dad was always hard to shop for.

If you asked him what he wanted for Christmas, he'd give the ever helpful answer typical to dads, "I don't need anything."

Mom wasn't much help. "He could use some socks,"

Ah. Thanks. Socks. That should effectively express my love and gratitude to the man who struggled and sacrificed to raise me. Who needs Frankincense and Myrrh when Target is having a sale on Gold Toe socks?

Dad was a golfer, so that was something to go to in a pinch. As a knitter, golf club covers were a nice bet. But how many sets does one man need? Golf themed photo frames and tchotchkes - he had 'em all. One year I knit a golf ball pillow. It still sits on the floor in my mom's house. That was a good one.

Mom didn't fare any better. She'd always buy him stacks and stacks of new clothing that she thought he'd look nice in. He put it in the closet with the tags on, preferring to wear the clothes he already had, which were, as he often proclaimed, perfectly good.

A few years ago I got him a plaque that I, quite frankly thought was a little trite, but I was at that desperate place - it was the plaque or more golf balls. It was about family bonds and such. I handed it to him tentatively - not confident that I'd done well. He opened it, started reading it aloud, became choked up and couldn't finish reading. I exchanged a "what the hell?" look with my sister and my mom said, "He knows our time as a complete family is limited."

"That's dumb." I said, smiling inwardly at the fact that I'd produced the gift that had elicited so much emotion - especially from a man who wasn't known for being terribly emotional.

"It isn't Christmas 'till somebody cries!" said my sister.

We laughed.

Life went on.

Dad was always hard to shop for.

It's a hardship I miss more than I can say.

A Picture Post Card, A Folded Stub, A Program of the Play

2011-11-22T05:24:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school I kept a scrapbook. It wasn't anything formal or fancy - but it was more than a photo album. I kept mementos - scraps, if you will - taped into a big book with no archival quality paper or adhesives or sheet protectors. Just a book of scraps - ticket stubs and programs and newspaper clippings, nametags and feathers and photographs - if it would lie relatively flat, it found its way into my book.

I continued this process in college and for the better part of a decade beyond. Sometimes I added little snippets from magazines if I found something that fit - something that provided narrative to my story and served to make it look a little bit like a ransom note. "Help! I'm being held hostage by the present!"

Those books ended up forgotten in storage in a cubby hole in my mom's house where they became yellowed and brittle and the tape lost any adhesive qualities it may once have had.

After Dad passed away, Mom went on a huge house purge. Dad was a depression-era hoarder and Mom goes into conniptions at the very thought of clutter. You can imagine. They had worked out a compromise of sorts - but when compromise was no longer necessary, she got to work getting everything that she didn't need out of her house. She enlisted the help of my sister and I, not wanting to make the mistake of throwing out something that she viewed as junk and we might view as treasure.

It was in this already sentimental, vulnerable state that I came across my scrapbooks.

Friends that died way too young smiling at me from a time when they were even younger, relationships that had long gone sour looking fresh and sweet and new, flowers pressed from a dance with a boy whose face looks familiar but whose name is elusive - these are just a few of the things that were preserved - albeit unprofessionally - within those pages.

It was overwhelming.

It was wonderful.

I don't keep a scrapbook anymore. I haven't kept a scrapbook since 'scrapbook' became an acceptable verb. I didn't think it was pure. I thought it took something away from the purpose - storing memories - and turned it into an almost competitive craft - something to show off rather than to treasure quietly. Something impersonal. Classes on how to craft a beautiful page - bah! There was really nothing beautiful about those scrapbooks I found in my Mom's cubby hole, but they were among the most lovely things I'd ever seen. I thought the perfectionism of the craft diminished the sweet sentimentality that was inherent in a 'real' scrapbook. ('quotes' around a word twice in one paragraph - tread carefully there, Tammy - it's a slippery slope...)

So imagine the mixed emotions that went running all around in my brain when a digital scrapbooking company offered me the opportunity to do a really sweet giveaway. Digital scrapbooking is not for me. But I knew the moment I read her email that a lot of my readers would really like it. And while I don't grok the concept of scrapbooking as it has evolved, I fully understand the need to preserve today's memories for tomorrow. Just because I'm an opinionated dinosaur doesn't mean everyone has to be one. So I accepted the offer. But I will not be using and reviewing the product. I will leave that to Lea - my eldest - who was thrilled with the prospect. So. Great giveaway coming up soon. Watch this space.

I'll leave you with a little Billy Joel, because it seems appropriate. And speaking of music - I hear there's a way you can listen to it now straight from your phone. I'm more of a vinyl gal, m'self - although I did succumb to CDs. Easier to listen to in the car. But I hear they're about to become obsolete. I hear this phone business works in the car, too. *shakes head in wonder* What will they think of next? (I'm only sort of kidding...)

The Marriage Bed

2011-11-19T13:58:00.000-08:00

Tom went upstairs this afternoon to read his book. I smiled when he announced this. My grandmother made it a habit to go upstairs and read the paper every afternoon. She would never admit to enjoying a nice midday nap. A good, industrious woman would not succumb to sleep in the middle of the day. (My grandmother was a wise woman, but we part company when it comes to that particular sentiment.) She saw nothing wrong, however, with propping oneself comfortably on one's pillows while reading one's daily newspaper. If that level of comfort sometimes led one to snore, well, so be it.

Tom is usually more straightforward. He is not quite as motivated by the thought of being an industrious man. He has been known, on the weekends, to take a good honest nap before he's even gotten out of his pajamas. I will not even feign superiority on this point, as I have been known to do the same. I'm an early riser. Sometimes I take my first nap before anyone else has even gotten up - leading them to the erroneous conclusion that I've slept in. I never sleep in. But I am not averse to a nice morning nap.

Today, when Tom went upstairs to read, I gave him a few moments then joined him. I didn't bother to bring my book. Those of you who spend a lot of time watching happy marriage porn and are expecting this story to take a turn for the bow-chicka-bow-wow are about to be sorely disappointed. I apologize in advance.

I found him as I expected to, sound asleep with his book on my pillow and his glasses on top of it. Bless his heart, it looked like he might have given reading an honest effort before ditching it in favor of sweet, sweet daytime sleep. I put the book and the glasses on the nightstand, kicked off my shoes, and slid in next to him. His arm found its way around my waist instinctively, without disturbing his slumber.

We have a small bed. A full sized bed. The sort of bed most people nowadays buy for their children. Initially, we didn't opt for anything larger because I had inherited a lovely antique bedroom set from my grandmother - the same bed she'd lie on to read the newspaper every afternoon. It would only accommodate a full sized mattress. When the time came to buy a new mattress, I broached the subject of getting a larger one. Sure, it wouldn't fit perfectly, but who would know? It's not like we have a daily parade through our bedroom or anything. But Tom said no. At first, I thought he was just cheaping out - and I was preparing to react in the traditional passive aggressive manner of a woman who has been cheaped out upon. But before I'd even managed to work up a good, "I suppose I don't deserve a bigger bed", he said, "I don't want a bigger bed. I like having you right next to me. Sometimes when we sleep in hotels or other people's guest rooms - in a king sized bed - I can't even find you. I don't like that. I sleep best when you're right next to me."

So we spent the next few years cuddled up like two cliched spoons in a drawer. Because what woman could resist a position like that? A bigger bed would put you farther away from me. I want you closer. Sweet. You people in larger beds must not be nearly as adored as I am. I envy thee not. (Apparently the more self-righteous I become, the more likely I become to use phrases like: I envy thee not.)

This was swell, until the hot flashes came along. Suddenly that proximity to another warm-blooded being in the middle of the night became unbearable. We would still fall asleep the way we always had, but a couple hours later I'd end up on the floor or the sofa or - basically anywhere where I could escape the feeling of heat emanating off of me, hitting him, and bouncing back at me in an amplified state.

What a drag it is.

So we're taking the plunge and shopping for a king-sized bed. We figure there's plenty of room in the middle for us to fall asleep in the manner to which we've become accustomed, then to roll away as the night progresses and actually get a decent nights sleep without having to leave the bed.

You don't suppose that once we start sleeping well at night, we'll give up our afternoon naps, do you? I hope not. They are delicious.

Hatrophobia (Fear of Red Hats)

2011-10-20T16:49:00.000-07:00

I have said it before and I'll say it again: When I complete my 50th trip 'round the sun in ten and a half months or so, the first one to buy me a red hat gets a punch in the throat.

I mean it.

Ok, I probably don't mean it. The pacifist in me never could throw a decent punch and the nice girl in me could never scoff at a gift - no matter how snarky. (Yes, there's a little bit of nice girl in me. I keep her under wraps most of the time, but she's there...) But I'd punch that person in the throat in my mind.

Fifty is rough. My mom is one of the most youthful thinkers I know. I can't keep up with her sometimes. Well into her seventies, she still often says things like, "But I'm not middle-aged yet!" and shudders - as if to ward off the very thought. (I'm not sure exactly how old she plans to be - but I'm guessing it's at least a little older than 150...) Anyone who knows her will back me up on this. My mom thinks young. Yet she was not immune to the curse of fifty. That youthful, optimistic attitude left her for the few months preceding and following her fiftieth birthday. She breezed through thirty and forty and sixty and seventy - but fifty brought her to her knees (albeit briefly).

You know who else thinks young and is over fifty?

Members of The Red Hat Society.

If you're not familiar, then - oh, who am I kidding? You're familiar.

I'm a little afraid of them.

(Ok, I had my own little not-so-secret society in college that wore a lot of red and purple (holla, sisters and sweethearts of Alpha Nu!), but that's another story for another day. Today's story is about Red Hats.)

I had a bit of a rough day today and decided that cooking was an additional drudgery I just couldn't bear to face. "Take me out for a nice dinner!" I said.

"Put on your Sunday best, we're going to O'Charley's!" was the reply.

Anxious to relax and unwind a bit, we were led to our table. "We have several margarita specials tonight." our server said, as she showed us into a room off the bar.

"So I see....."

It took me a few minutes to take it all in, but only a split second to realize what had happened. We had been seated on the perimeter of a Red Hat Society Halloween Party. A group of a dozen or so women of a certain age were gathered in the center of the room. There were elaborate red and purple centerpieces on several tables and a huge collection of gifts on the floor, gaudily presented in red and purple and sequins and feathers. Huge. Like - not quite wedding reception huge, but darn close - and with way more red and purple. A broomba in a red witches hat with a long veil bumped our table and cackled. What's a broomba, you ask? I don't know if that's what it's really called or not, but it was like a roomba with a broom on top. And a red witches hat. I mentioned that, right?

Did I tell you that the women were in costume? Because they totally were. There was a cigarette girl, complete with red sparkly hat. There was a Native American with long gray braids and a strand of red and purple beads. There was a prairie woman with a red calico bonnet. There was a flapper. Groucho Marx and Tweety were in attendance. There was a gypsy fortune teller with a beautiful red silky head scarf. There were two women in fright wigs and otherwise typically Red Hat attire - red hats, big boas - they were each wearing name tags. From what I could glean, they were dressed as each other. These costumes, by the way, were not just thrown together. They were well thought out and really elaborate. There were a lot of margaritas.

A lot.

It was quite a spectacle. And these ladies were having a ball. They grouped and re-grouped for photographs. (And no, I didn't take any. It didn't seem sporting.) They laughed and talked and ordered more margaritas. The servers had a hard time herding them to their tables to take their orders. As soon as that task was accomplished, they were up and laughing again.

Lea said, on the way home, "I can't wait till I'm old enough to join that club!"

Spectacle is kind of her thing.

I said, "Not me. The first person to buy me a red hat gets a punch in the throat."

"I am so buying you a red hat."

I gave her the stink eye and raised my fist in a manner that I hoped was light-hearted, but still menacing.

"I'll risk it"

"Right in the throat, kiddo!"

I do look pretty good in purple, though. And I do like margaritas.

Scenes From a Marriage: A Play in Three Acts

2011-10-14T03:23:00.000-07:00

Act I

The stage is split to indicate two separate apartments. In the apartment on the left, a woman is sitting on an overstuffed off-white sofa eating from a take-out container. Two cats have settled into her lap and she holds the container above their heads as she eats. It is awkward, but she doesn't want to disturb them. The large console TV is on and her empty eyes focus on it. There are books on the coffee table and baskets filled with yarn and abandoned projects overflowing onto the floor. There are free weights under the table that serves as a bar, but they are covered with a thick layer of bohemian velvet.

In the apartment on the right, a man is sitting on a brown and tan sofa with simple lines. He is eating a bowl of cereal. His eyes are focused on a TV in an entertainment center that also houses an elaborate stereo system. The decor is minimalist - the apartment is clean and tidy, with the exception of the dining room table. The table itself - as well as every chair surrounding it - is piled high with papers, envelopes and magazines. A glimpse into the bedroom reveals a framed poster of a cut-away of the Starship Enterprise hung carefully over the bed.

This scene lasts several minutes - long enough to make the audience uncomfortable with the loneliness being represented.

He consults a piece of paper and sighs. He shrugs and picks up the phone. We hear it ring in her apartment. She picks it up and smiles.

They move to the front of the stage and a curtain drops, obscuring the apartment scene.

Both still with the phone to their ear, we see other characters swoop in and out - men embracing her, women embracing him - they move on and off the stage quickly, as the couple step slowly towards each other. Sometimes they are both being embraced by another - sometimes just one, while the other waits on the phone - their movement towards each other is slow, but it is steady and inevitable. When they finally meet, center stage, they take each others hands. The cats purr and rub up against their ankles. They bring their heads together in a kiss. They embrace with one arm each, while the other reaches out to grab the curtain and pull it around them, obscuring them from the audiences view.

Act II

As the curtain rises, the man and woman are sitting side by side on a plaid sofa which is located to the side of the stage. The room is littered with toys. A toddler is playing on the floor and an infant is sleeping in a wooden cradle next to the sofa. The woman puts her head on the man's shoulder and he embraces her. The toddler abandons her toys and crawls up so that she is somehow occupying both parents' laps. The embrace that began between the parents happily opens up to accept the child. The baby cries and the mother extricates herself from the group hug and leans over the crib to pick up the infant. She paces the floor, patting the baby, while the father and the toddler look through the pages of a book They catch each others eyes and smile.

The man takes the toddler by the hand and leads her offstage. The mother, carrying the infant, follows them.

The man enters the stage again and sits on the sofa. He picks up the remote and turns on the TV. The woman enters the stage shortly thereafter. She picks up the toys on the floor and places them in a bright pink toy box. When she is through, she sits next to him on the sofa. They hold hands.

A preschooler enters the stage. She is dressed as Princess Leia. Her wig - made of yarn - is askew and she is struggling with a plastic light saber that is taller than she is. She makes it to center stage and bows. At the sound of applause, she bows again, with more flourish. She bows to the left. She bows to the right. She curtsies. The parents rise from their spot on the sofa and gently coax her offstage. She peeks around the curtain for one last bow.

A school aged child and a pre-schooler enter the stage. The older child is wearing round eyeglasses and is carrying a book. Her younger sister is dressed in a blue and white checkered pinafore over a white blouse. Her socks are blue and her shoes are red and glittery. She carries a basket with three stuffed dogs - one black, one brown and one gold. She is walking quickly to keep up with her sister. The older child crosses the stage and sits on the sofa. She opens her book. Her parents flank her and become engrossed in the pages with her. The youngest puts her basket down on the stage and dances with her stuffed dogs, each one in turn. As she twirls her way off stage, the oldest picks up her abandoned basket and follows her. The parents close the gap on the sofa, meeting in a half embrace.

Two school aged children enter the stage. They are wearing capes and battling each other with wands. The oldest grabs an upright bass from offstage. She drops her cape and begins to play it with her wand. The youngest pulls a second wand from a pocket inside of her cape and begins playing air drums wildly and dancing. As she reaches her sister, she spins the bass, pulling both girls and the instrument off stage. The mother rests her head on the father's shoulder.

Two pre-teens enter the stage. They are both dressed in black. One is wearing gothic makeup. Both are wearing concert T-shirts. They cross the stage as though each step they take is torture. The parents shake their heads at each other and smile. They lean towards each other and kiss. The curtain falls.

Act III

The curtain opens on the man and the woman at the dinner table. The table is at the front and center of the stage. It is set beautifully and they are sharing a bottle of wine. He lifts his glass to her and she meets it with her own. A teenaged girl with bright pink hair crosses the stage behind them quickly, takes a roll from the basket on the table and exits just as quickly. Her phone never leaves her ear. She is talking animatedly and barely looks at her parents during the brief moment that she is onstage. Another teenaged girl with long brown hair enters the stage from the other side. She sits with her parents for just a moment before her phone buzzes. She looks at it, smiles, and leaves the table - walking then running offstage. She looks over her shoulder briefly just as she exits. The man reaches across the table and takes the woman's hand.

Act III isn't finished yet. But I bet it will be good. Because that man and that woman? They sure do like each other.

Happy Anniversary, Darlin'. Sixteen sweet years and counting.

Everything I Need to Know, I Learned From Huey Lewis and the News

2011-10-12T12:19:00.000-07:00

First, Huey let us know that it was hip to be square. This was good news for a chickadee who has always been decidedly more L7 than not.

He reminded us that the best drug would be 'one that makes me feel like I feel when I'm with you". Why, being with you is legal (in most states) and has no known side effects. Once again, rockin' good news.

He informed us that there wasn't much you couldn't accomplish through the power of love.

Good lessons, all. We don't always give Mr. Lewis his philosophical props.

Recently my family took a giant step and cancelled our landline. I realize that this brings us pretty firmly up to date. As long as the date is 2006. There is probably a Back to the Future reference there, somewhere, but I'll let you figure it out for yourself.

Anyway.

I'd balked at this decision more than the rest of the family had. I knew it made sense. I knew it was the reasonable thing to do. I knew I - we - needed to step into the 21st century. I knew it - but I didn't love it - and I couldn't quite figure out why.

Then Huey Lewis and the News, in their infinite wisdom, figured it out for me.

I was in a store and they were playing Stuck With You on the canned music. The answer - as I might have known it would be - was right there. When they got to the lyric, "We are bound, like all the rest - by the same phone number....." I stopped listening because I was busy experiencing a eureka moment of divine revelation. That was what had been bothering me. That was the source of my reluctance. We - Tom and I - Tom and the girls and I - were no longer bound by the same phone number.

We had been divided.

I think this struck me as particularly sad because my girls are certainly at an age where they are testing their wings. I had always prided myself on the fact that family dinners were much more the norm than the exception. Now they are rare. "I'll just grab something on my way to ___________" is much more common. Two of us are there - or three - in various configurations - but rarely all four.

The girls would much rather be in their rooms - on the rare occasions when they are home - than in our shared living space.

This is normal. This is reasonable. This is even - probably - desirable - at least on some hypothetical level.

Knowing that it's normal and reasonable and psychologically desirable doesn't make it any less sad.

The rest of that lyric goes, "We are bound, like all the rest - by the same phone number, all the same friends, and the same address..." Soon, we won't all share the same address, either.

Oh, Huey, you are a fount of deep and profound knowledge! Where is the song about living through letting my baby birds leave the nest? It may be normal, reasonable and desirable - but it's also just damn sad!

Help me, Huey Lewis. You're my only hope.

Sunrise Over the Suburbs

2011-10-07T05:46:00.000-07:00

My Seasonal Affect Disorder has been well documented (and I do apologize for that). There is an upside, though. The depression that I feel in the absence of the sun is rivaled in intensity by the elation I feel in it's presence. And no sunny days are better than the first sunny days of spring or the last sunny days of autumn. But I'll take a sunny summer day. Hell, I'll even take a bright sunny winter day. It's those gray winter days that.... no - we're not talking about that today. Today is all about the sunshine. It's a sunshine day. Sunshine, almost all the time, makes me high. Works for the Brady Bunch. Works for John Denver. Works for me.

I drive both of my girls to school. With the exception of those dreary days that we're not talking about today - those long short days of winter - I get to watch the sun rise every morning. It is always a pleasant way to start the day. Sometimes it is spectacular. Sometimes it just - strikes me.

This morning was one of those times.

I was taking Liv to school when I first saw it peek it's gorgeous orange face over the horizon. The sky around it was pink and the starkness of the silhouettes of the trees juxtaposed against the softness of the sky was nothing short of breathtaking. I mentioned this to Liv.

"I love that big ole orange sun! I want to hug it and kiss it and squeeze it!"

"Don't. You would die."

My youngest is quite logical - not prone to flights of fancy or romance.

"Metaphorically. I want to hug it and kiss it and squeeze it metaphorically. Not actually."

"Good. Because it's just a big ball of gas, anyway."

"Oooooooh!" I squealed, as we turned a corner, "Look at it in the rear view mirror! It even looks good from behind! Oooooooh I just want to kiss it on the lips!'

"It doesn't have lips, Mom. Big ball of gas. Remember?"

Now she is not quite as cynical as this is making her sound. She was smiling. We were playing. It was that delightful sort of play when the parent knows that she is being over the top and embarrassing and the child rolls her eyes and pretends she's mortified but in reality is pretty amused. (I'll keep telling myself that, anyway.)

"I'm gonna pull in here and take a picture."

"You can't go in there, Mom - it says buses only."

"All the buses are gone. And I'll only be a second. Here", I said, handing her my phone, "jump out and take a quick picture."

"I am not jumping out of the car."

"Fine. I will."

I took the picture. It was pretty. Not as pretty as the sunrise actually was - it was taken with my phone, for Pete's sake - but pretty. I jumped back in the car.

"You are a rule breaker."

"I am a scofflaw."

"Scofflaw? One who scoffs at the law?"

"It's a real word. I looked it up. Isn't it great?" I said, as we pulled up to the drop-off point.

"It's pretty great."

It's all pretty great.

World Teacher's Day

2011-10-05T13:53:00.000-07:00

Today is World Teacher's Day.


Please try not to die of jealousy if you do not have a sport coat this groovy. It doesn't work for everyone.

As most of you know, I spent the better part of my adult life as a teacher. Although I am no longer in the classroom, my immediate response to the question, "What do you do?" is, unfailingly, "I am a teacher." This was my response no matter what grade or subject I was teaching. This was my response even in those years when I'd walked away from my profession altogether and was a full-time stay-at-home mom. Teaching was more than a job to me, it was the source of my identity.

I am a teacher.

I come from a family of teachers. Many of my relatives are teachers. Some have retired or moved on to other lines of work, but I assume that they - like me - still identify as teachers. I know I still think of them in that manner.

My dad was a teacher.

He was one helluva teacher.

He was never voted teacher of the year, or anything like that - and it bothered me a lot more than it bothered him. He said that he was there to teach - not to make friends - not to have his students like him or think he was cool - to teach.

And he did.

He was extremely dedicated.

If a student struggled in his class, all they needed to do to get his help was ask. He was always willing to put in extra time and effort to make sure that his points had gotten across.

Algebra is easy. Once you know the right equation to use, you just plug it in and crank it out.

He cared.

Most students saw a strict teacher who taught an unpopular course. Some of the lucky ones saw a man with an extra dry wit. It's cool that not everyone recognized or appreciated that. It made it all the much sweeter for those who did.

Recently I was going through some old pictures with my mom. I suppose it's something folks tend to do when a loved one passes on. We came across a whole box of pictures of him that had been taken for the yearbook. My mom, upon seeing the way I lingered over those shots, offered them to me. I didn't take them all, but I took the ones that were taken during the time that my being a high school student intersected with him being a high school teacher. At the time, by the way, I really hated that. Funny how time changes perspective.

I had been having some difficulties dealing with my father's passing. I was at his bedside, along with my mother and my sister, when he died. We were all glad that we had been there - no regrets. The problem was - in the months following his passing - that became the source of my predominant memories of him. When I thought of him, try as I might to make it otherwise, it was as he was in those final painful hours.

Somehow, those pictures helped. How lucky was I - to know my father as the man he was in the home and also as the teacher he was in the school. I still haven't been able to pull up more recent memories with any degree of clarity, though I am trying - but now - thanks to these pictures - I am able to remember him in a capacity that was lost to me many years ago.

Or was it?

For me, it was his legacy.

Thanks, Daddy.

gasp

2011-10-03T10:12:00.000-07:00

As part of my job, I found myself in a kindergarten classroom today. As I was walking in the door - I hadn't even gotten the teacher's attention yet - a little boy I'd never met before looked at me with the most earnest big brown eyes, literally dropped his jaw, gasped aloud and said, "You're pretty."

I thanked him and smiled, then went about my business with his teacher.

Now let me be clear. I have worked with little ones a lot. I know that *gasp* you're pretty doesn't mean the same thing coming from a five year old that it means from a teen or an adult - teens and adults have established standards of beauty. From a five year old the more likely interpretation of *gasp* you're pretty would be something like, *gasp* you really resemble my mommy (or aunt, or babysitter, or someone else who loves me and makes me feel special. I suppose at my age, grandmother would have to figure into that list, too. Sigh.). It could mean, *gasp* you look kind and I think I want to see if I might like you. It might even mean, *gasp* you are wearing my favorite color.

I know this.

I fully grok this.

And yet.....

Even with complete cognitive awareness of where the compliment came from and how it was probably intended, it was still a darn nice way to start the day.

May you have a gasp-worthy day as well!

Rainy Day Confessions

2011-09-26T12:09:00.000-07:00

'Tis rainy here in the center of Ohio.

A friend of mine recently lamented her Jr. High aged daughter's lack of enthusiasm over the prospect of donning rain gear. The child is not a fan of slickers. Doesn't much care for the old mackintosh. No rain coat for that girl, no way, no how.

Ahem.

As responsible adults, of course, we see the folly in her line of reasoning. But a Jr. High girl isn't quite ready for that lesson. Appearances are everything and there is nothing cool about the way one appears when one is actually dressed for the weather. Somewhere along the line, we learn that it is also not cool to ruin your hairdo, sit around for hours in wet clothes, chafe..... but for my friend's daughter, that lesson is not yet relevant. She's not biologically ready to hear it.

My immediate response to my friend was to ask if she'd tried to make her wear rain boots, too. Except I didn't say rain boots, I said galoshes, which is a much cooler word. Ask anyone. And rain boots are so cute these days, why would anyone - even someone plagued by Jr. High girl sensibilities - refuse to wear them? I'm pretty sure no one calls them galoshes, though. And to be honest - it wasn't the first word that popped into my mind, either. No. The first word to pop into my mind was - rubbers. Because when I was still tender and sweet and not wise to the ways of the wide, wet world, my mother insisted that I wear rubbers - huge red chunky abominations that slipped over my shoes to protect them from the puddles. Sometimes she called them galoshes. But usually she called them rubbers.

No matter what you called them, they were awful.

On rainy days I would try to sneak out of the house under Mom's radar, but in just the second before I would pull the door closed behind me I would inevitably hear, "Tammy! Do you have your rubbers?" There was no use in lying. If I tried to lie, she'd figure it out and I'd run the risk of her delivering them to the school. I could just hear the office secretary's voice over the intercom, "Excuse the interruption. Could you please send Tammy Hunter to the office? Her mother is here with her rubbers."

This was the mindset I had when my slightly older and much cooler cousins went to see Summer of '42 and wanted to tell me about it in that way young girls who have not yet learned the fine art of summarizing like to tell you about movies or books or TV shows or - anything. That is to say, they left nothing out. Every detail was included in their description. I hadn't seen or read it yet at that point, so I wasn't positive, but I was pretty sure they didn't miss a thing.

When they got to the part about Hermie going to the drug store to buy rubbers - and how embarrassed he was - and how he bought other things - a comb and some other sundries to draw attention away from the offending rubbers, well, I laughed more than might have been appropriate for someone of my age and (lack of) experience. I was, of course, imagining how AWFUL it would be to have to actually pick up a pair of rubbers and buy them WITH YOUR OWN MONEY. And why did he need rubbers for his date, anyway? Were they calling for rain? Poor Hermie! The humanity! The concept of prophylactics - of condoms - was FAR in the future. I didn't even know they existed. Didn't know much, beyond vague and exotic whispered half-truths on the playground, about the act that might make them necessary. But I sure knew that buying rubbers would be mortifying!

As a side note, they went on to tell me about the boys in the movie taking a couple girls to the movies. One was trying to touch his date's boob and spent an inordinate amount of time instead massaging her elbow. Again - inappropriate laughter from me. Trying to touch her boob! Why on God's green earth would he want to do something as dumb as that? Boys are so weird!

Ahem.

Every now and then I'll feel the urge to watch that movie again. The title music is just so lovely. Gary Grimes plays Hermie with poignant beauty. And Jerry Houser's character is a tool, but he's such an earnest tool that you can't help but root for him.

Y'know what? You should put on your rubbers and wade through the puddles to rent it at Blockbuster! Or maybe you'd rather minimize the embarrassment and just order it from Netflix.

Calgon, Take Me Away

2011-09-07T14:42:00.000-07:00

It was one of those days. No big drama, just little thing after little thing after little thing that prevented me from getting to the things I really wanted to do. Two o'clock rolled around and I hadn't found my way to the shower yet. I was beat, but when I tried to take a little catnap, I couldn't turn my mind off. Like I said - no big thing - lots of little things - life.

I needed that shower - it couldn't be put off any longer.

No.

I needed a bath.

Maybe I'd have a glass of wine after my bath.

No.

DURING my bath.

I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. Wine is relaxing. A warm bath is relaxing. Put them together and it's - well, it's a little bit of decadence is what it is. I poured myself a glass and headed up the stairs to start the water.

Bubbles.

I needed bubbles.

I was going this far, there was no point in half-assing it now. Darn. No bubble bath. Shampoo then. I poured a capful into the tub and the resulting suds were luxurious. Decadence on a budget. I placed my glass on the edge of the tub and made sure my towel was within reach. Wet hands on glass would not be a good idea. I stepped into the warm bubbles, took a long sip, and relaxed into the tub.

Calgon (ok, Suave...) take me away.

I closed my eyes, but instead of picturing myself falling into a field of wild flowers, or whatever womanly vision the old Calgon ads portrayed, I remembered a bath from years ago.

I was twenty. I was in Paris. I had a room with a claw foot tub in a bathroom with a balcony that overlooked the Paris Opera House. I don't remember what floor I was on, but it was high enough that I felt comfortable opening the doors (the french doors...) to the balcony while I bathed. I filled the tub with bubbles (french bubbles...) and decided the only thing the picture needed to be complete was wine (french wine, of course). I wrapped myself in a towel (french terry cloth, no doubt) and made my way to the honor bar. I read the price list, dismayed. This was shaping up to be a cool moment and all, but holy moley. I pushed the wine aside and grabbed the only thing in the honor bar that was in my price range - a Diet Coke. Ok, there was Evian, too. But it was Paris. Coke was imported. There was Evian everywhere. They pumped Evian through the bidets, for Pete's sake. (Ok, that part is a lie. Or maybe wishful thinking. Can you imagine? All that effervescence.....)

Oh my.

I seem to have digressed.

I opened the Diet Coke. I poured it into a wine glass. The aesthetic could still be there, even if the fruit of the vine could not. I stepped into the tub - the bubbles - and gazed out over the city. A light rain began to fall. Nothing that would warrant a mad dash to close the balcony doors, just a gentle drizzle.

It was divine.

I thought of that bath as I let the bubbles and the wine do their job while my kids did their homework and my house remained uncleaned.

Calgon, take me away.

"Remember that nap you tried to take earlier?" the wine whispered to me. "You might want to take another go at that when you get out of the tub, Gorgeous." Wine always calls me Gorgeous. Vodka calls me Sexy and gin calls me DangerBroad. Rum calls me Baby - BabyDoll with the right mixer. Coffee calls me Hun or Pumpkin. Champagne calls me Dahling. Tequila just calls me Woman. I think that might be because it's heard me roar. Whiskey doesn't call me much anymore. That's probably for the best.

But today was wine.

Just one glass - not enough to do much more than smooth off the rough edges. It didn't take me to a field of wildflowers (maybe that's because I used the Suave instead of the Calgon), but I didn't feel like I was tiptoeing through a minefield anymore. And wine was right. About the nap, not necessarily about the gorgeous.

Just a little nap.

Just enough.

Hey, world. You look nice. Are you doing something different with your hair?

Wine in the tub. With bubbles. I can't recommend it highly enough.

Cheers.

The Particular Sadness of Potato Pancakes

2011-09-06T11:39:00.000-07:00

There is a book which is titled The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake. I didn't much care for it. I didn't get all the way through it, actually, but the premise was an interesting one: The protagonist in the story would feel, upon eating, all of the emotions that the person who prepared the food had been feeling. Lots of potential there, eh?

Execution? Meh. (One readers humble opinion, of course. Your mileage may vary.)

There is, though, something to the idea that different foods conjure up different emotions or feelings. I know I'm far from alone in this - there are specific foods I need to eat when I'm in certain geographical areas. There are particular foods which can evoke a certain mood. The perfect food - like the perfect song - can transport you to a different time and place. Some make you feel young, some like you're on vacation, some taste like the comfort of home. Some foods bring certain people to mind - even if you haven't thought about them in ages.

This brings me to potato pancakes.

My dad passed away just before festival season began this year. He loved a good festival - he never wanted to miss a thing. He listened to every band and tasted nearly every food. That man fested with gusto.

His favorite festival food by far was potato pancakes. He would stand in lines a full city block long for a potato pancake, lovingly made by the little old ladies of the local churches. (I feel obligated to tell you that not all of them are little and not all of them are old and not all of them are even ladies, but there is something about the phrase "little old church ladies" that appeals to me.) He always knew who had the best potato pancakes and would advise me on the best time of day to acquire the same.

Yes sir, he did love him some potato pancakes.

I visited my mother this past festival weekend, during this year of first-time-without-Dad events. As a side note, I have been personally feeling the loss of my father more profoundly this week than I have since the first days after his passing. When I call home (or home calls me) it's always Mom who does all of the talking. Twice a year, though, Dad would call me (at Mom's insistence, I'm sure, but that is entirely beside the point). Those two times would be my birthday and my adoption day. When I went to bed on the night of my birthday without having received that call - knowing that I'd never receive that call again - well - you're a smart person. You know how that played out.

We're getting through those firsts.

So.

My mom has been unable to attend many festivals this summer, so caught up in the memories is she. As I headed out the door on Saturday, I said, "Are you sure you won't join us?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to go. But I wish", she added wistfully, "I could have a potato pancake."

"I can bring one back for you", I offered. I understood why she didn't want to go, but was pleased that I could possibly offer a treat - a consolation.

She shook her head again. "I couldn't eat one", she said, choking back tears.

I nodded, understanding.

When we passed that particular booth, Tom and Livia decided to partake. I found that I just couldn't.

Not this year.

Not yet.

Maybe next year.

I'll try next year.

Those little old church ladies do make a fine potato pancake.

Another Trip 'Round the Sun

2011-09-02T03:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my birthday.

In my own little ego-centric universe, that marks the beginning of the year for me much more accurately than January first does. If resolutions are to be made, I tend to make them birthday to birthday rather than calendar year to calendar year. Reflecting over the past year takes place at this point, too - the good the bad and the ugly.

Every year, it is so easy to say, "Well THAT one was rough! I sure am glad to put THAT behind me and start with a fresh slate!"

There are, of course, a couple problems with that particular line of reasoning.

First of all, we don't get a clean slate. It just doesn't work that way. We bring all of our baggage along with us. Throwing away the old calendar or blowing out the candles on the cake doesn't clear the record - it just marks the passage of time.

Second, every year - EVERY SINGLE YEAR - has good stuff and bad stuff. Sometimes these don't balance out, causing us to attribute particularly high or low rankings to specific years - but if you REALLY think about it - no year is COMPLETELY good or bad.

This past year was indeed a rough one. I lost my dad, one of the best men I've ever had the privilege of knowing. I had other family problems I wouldn't wish on anyone. For a while there, I crawled up so deep inside of myself that I wasn't sure I'd ever find my way out. It was a rough year. One of my roughest to date.

BUT.....

I went to some great places this year. I met some cool people this year. I ate well and drank well and laughed well this year. I felt loved this year - often from unexpected sources. I journeyed a few steps closer to contentment. I watched sunrises and sunsets. I grew. I was humbled. I was joyous.

A year ago, when the past year was the upcoming year, I christened it "The Ugly Duckling Year". I had just had a tooth extracted - right up front - and I suffered a lot of private and not-so-private indignities as a result of the prosthetic and the implant procedure. I thought it would take a year, but it's been pushed back two more months. That's beside the point. The point is, I knew that it was going to be an ugly year. (I couldn't have anticipated how ugly. I was really just thinking aesthetics when I came up with the name.) I accepted it. I welcomed it, even - recalling the story of the ugly duckling - and its transformation into a beautiful swan. I would USE my 'ugly' year. I would lose weight. I would learn the 'beauty stuff' that has always eluded me. I would dress better. When that crown was finally placed, it would be like a big ole' reveal on a makeover show. I would be smokin'.

Well, the truth is, the ugly duckling was a swan all along.

I didn't lose weight. BUT I came a long way towards improving my health and accepting that fabulousness is not one size fits all. (It's a journey. I'm not there yet. But I've made a LOT of progress.)

I didn't really learn any 'beauty stuff'. BUT I am paying more attention to it and learning. See above. It's a journey. Plus I've started to get regular manicures and it is really astounding how much better a small thing like that can make one feel. Could proper hair care be next? Nothing is impossible. Stay tuned...

I don't know if I'm dressing better or not, but I do know that I'm paying more attention to how much I like something as opposed to how good the sale is. Again - not a destination, but a step in the right direction.

Bottom line? I'm doing ok.

A duck is a duck and a swan is a swan and me? As my tagline states, I'm just a frustrated bohemian suburbanite. I think I'll spend the next trip 'round the sun just hanging out being the best FBS I can be.

I'm too old to blow out candles - I'm veering into fire hazard territory - so let's just lift a glass together, shall we?

Cheers.

The Commute

2011-09-01T06:09:00.000-07:00

The start times for my kids' schools have changed this year. Liv starts Jr. High almost a full hour later than Lea starts High School. This is a problem, because last year I got into the habit of driving them to school. They both hate the bus. I still make them ride it home, but I figured if I could start their day on a brighter note, why not do it? Eliminate that first-thing-in-the-morning stress-er.

When we received notification of the time changes for this year, I told them I wouldn't be able to do it. It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the school. I would have to take Lea, come home, and take Liv. Over an hour, all told, spent on getting the kids to school. Ridiculous. Wasn't gonna happen. Sorry girlies, you're back on the bus.

They balked, but understood when it was laid out for them.

The first day of school rolled around and they were set to take the bus. I said, "Aw, first morning, I'll take you - just for today."

Second morning? You guessed it.

I think I'm going to try to keep it up. That's crazy, right? Not entirely. My reasons are more selfish than not. For the first time in a long time I get daily, built in, alone time in the car with each of them.

Every parent knows that the best conversations take place in the car, right?

Realistically, the amount of times I'll be able to do this is finite. Lea will be sixteen in six months, for Pete's sake.

Sometimes when they start talking, I hear the ghosts of their little pre-school voices, chattering at me from the back seat, telling me about their world. Their world has changed significantly, but my interest in it has not.

"Y'know what?"

"Tell me."

Three Dinners: Make New Friends, But Keep the Old

2011-08-26T20:23:00.000-07:00

I am currently attending a training in DC. It is interesting and I am learning a lot - not all of it in the classroom (ask me about my working theories on socialization patterns during out of town conferences someday...) - but a week is a long time to be away from my family - my rock.

The first night I was here was a travel day and I hadn't met any of my fellow trainees yet, so I ate alone in the bar. Mostly olives.

The second night - after the first day of training - I ate alone as well, but this time I treated myself to a lovely dinner. I had it coming to me, because I had felt like a kid attending a new school at lunchtime - looking for a group with whom to sit and feeling like I was on the outside looking in. It's no big deal, right? I'm a grown-ass woman, after all. Who cares if I called my mom and lamented, "Why can't I make any friends? No one wants to sit by me at lunch....." She dusted off the same speech most parents end up using at one point or another in their parental careers. She probably thought she'd packed that one up for good, but I like to keep her on her toes. Just another service I provide.

I comforted myself by reminding myself that while everyone else was probably indeed having more fun than me, I wasn't HERE to have fun, I was here to LEARN. I was even able to convince myself that this made me just a LITTLE BIT superior.

I was just warming up my orthopedic shoes for a nice little superior dance on the third night - when Kate said, "Do you want to get a bite to eat?" "YES!!!" was out of my mouth before she had a chance to put a punctuation mark on the end of her sentence.

Kate and I must have looked like quite a pair as we set off for points unknown with a restaurant guide in our hands. She was tall and thin - wiry, even - to my short and - hmmmmmm - let's just go with zaftig, shall we? We are at different places in our lives - her kids are grown and spread out over the country. She is contemplating retirement. Mine are at home getting ready to go back to jr. high and high school. We found that we had much more in the way of common ground, though, than we did in the way of differences. Our conversation was easy and a high point for me was when she told me that within five minutes of meeting me she had me pegged as - and then she went on to describe me exactly as I am. I was so pleased to think that I actually exude a vibe that is accurate. I worry about that sometimes. (When I run out of legitimate things to worry about)

We went to a Thai restaurant where we delighted the waiter by asking him to bring us his favorite dishes and he delighted us by doing so. It was delicious and nothing we would have ordered without his suggestion.

On the way back to the hotel, we stopped to sit on a stone bench on a bridge. She wanted a cigarette - "I only smoke at trainings and conferences" and I wanted to rest for a moment. The sun set and I wanted to hug the world.

The next night, two beautiful women, Cindy and Linda, who I've known since jr. high, met me at the hotel to join me for dinner. I originally typed, "two high school friends", but that makes it sound like all we have in common is the indiscretions of our youth. Of course we DO have that in common, but through the glory of Facebook we have been reconnected for years now - so we came together not as women who shared a distant past, but as women who know each others day to day lives. Conversation did not revolve around nostalgia, but took place right in the good old here and now.

Our visit was far too fun, and far too short. I left them for my evening session with a spring in my step. (This is an excellent phrase, no? My fifteen year old used it a couple weeks ago and it struck me - because it was so NOT a fifteen year old thing to say. I was going to say, "...with a spring in my step and a song in my heart", but I didn't want to push it.)

So.

I had dinner with a new friend.

I had dinner with two old friends. (It goes without saying, I hope, that I mean old in the sense of - I have known them a long time, not in a sense of them being actually old. They are my age, after all, so them being old is virtually um-possible.)

And I had dinner with a new old friend.

Shall I elaborate?

The third dinner referenced in the title was with Mary. Mary and I have known each other a long time, but this dinner was the first time we'd actually met.

As is so common in this digital age, we know each other solely through the blogosphere and Facebook. We have common ground like crazy. We have shared stories for years. Now we have shared Greek food, a little wine, and some pretty darn awesome hugs. We were both, as the conversation unfolded, a little nervous about meeting the other, but that melted away instantly. She was as down to earth, funny, and sincere as I knew she would be. Like there was any chance that anyone as obsessed with Springsteen as she is was gonna be high falutin', right?

When we parted ways in the hotel lobby - she to go home to her family (I miss my famileeeeeeeeeeeee) and I to go to my evening session - I knew that I'd be ok if I had to sit alone at lunch tomorrow.

Sitting alone every now and then doesn't mean you don't have friends.

Sleeping in Hotels

2011-08-24T04:48:00.000-07:00

I didn't sleep in a hotel until I was 15. It's not that I wasn't well-traveled, I had just done all of my previous traveling in a camper. When I was 15, though, my high school marching band took a trip to Disney World and I knocked "fly in a plane" and "sleep in a hotel" off the bucket list. I shared my room with three other girls. The first morning - I made my bed. My roommates teased me, but I thought the joke was on them. They said a maid would take care of it. Right. A maid. For a bunch of high school kids. Oh, that was rich.

To my great surprise and delight, they were correct.

Well I'll be.

Since then I have traveled less than most and more than some, I'd say. I've stayed in the nastiest of nasty rooms as well as the poshest of posh. Because I do travel less than most, though, I have maintained some (thankfully not ALL) of the innocence I displayed in that first room when I was 15. I jumped on the beds until I was well into my 20's. I will spare you the story of the first time I stayed in a room with a bidet. I open every closet, cabinet and drawer - and I always fully unpack. A phone in the bathroom can still make me giggle and - if there's a room service menu - I can be counted upon to read aloud in my best fafafa voice - "I would like the club sandwich for $17.95, please. Oh, what the heck, through in a bowl of chicken noodle soup for $9.95. A liter of Evian for $8.95 and - that ought to do it - oh - wait - may as well send up some ice cream too. $8.95 for that? That will be fine. Thank you, my good man." I take the notepads and pens and - when I am staying multiple nights REALLY fight the urge to take those little shampoos and soaps every day (I DO take them on the last day. They are so darn CUTE!)

Nope, not a seasoned traveler.

A traveler capable of delight, though - a traveler who is not jaded. I'm glad.

I'm glad that I still feel a little silly when a uniformed man insists on pulling my luggage to the desk for me. (Sorry it took me so many tries before I realized that was a tippable service. My bad. We didn't have to tip anyone on the campground circuit - it was ignorance, not rudeness. I know better now, I promise.) I'm glad a well appointed lobby can still make me say, "whoa".

I'm typing this while reclining between high thread-count sheets. I was a little intimidated when I first checked in - I felt very outclassed. But a friend reminded me that it was all a show and I should relax and enjoy it. It didn't take me long to take that advice.

I still feel a little giddy when people dote on me, but I've learned to be gracious and accept it with a thank you (and a tip).

I still have a little trouble leaving the towels on the floor and the bed unmade, though.

But I bet I could get used to it.

It's amazing how quickly the sublime can become mundane.

Son of a Mother, That Was Some Big Bottom

2011-08-17T07:51:00.000-07:00

Oh, but there has been a dearth of squealy fangirl posts this summer, hasn't there? The planets just didn't align properly for me, I guess. Some summers are like that. But last night I finally got to a show - and I'm seeing another tonight. Feast or famine around here, kids. Feast or famine.

Yesterday was Tom's birthday, and months ago he had heard that Return to Forever would be playing our town that night. Stanley Clarke is one of Tom's earliest jazz influences, so his presence, in our town, on Tom's birthday felt sort of like kismet.

A band like that does not really require a warm-up act. Tell a certain fanbase that Chick Corea, Stanley Clarke, and Lenny White, along with Jean-Luc Ponty and Frank Gambale are going to be on the same stage and - believe me - they're warm enough. Tom is firmly in that fanbase. I generally sit on the fence, but I have to tell you - they blew my mind. But I'm getting ahead of myself. There was indeed a warm-up band, and that band was Zappa Plays Zappa.

Now ZPZ, we reminded ourselves, is a tribute band. Tribute bands are just dedicated cover bands, right? Not generally my cup of tea. This one gains a little credibility because it was put together by Frank's son, Dweezil. You may remember him from MTV. I know I did. It's hard to forget a boy named Dweezil. Now Dweezil is an accomplished musician in his own right, but this show isn't about that. This show is about Frank Zappa and his music. It is a legacy.

And it was cool as shit.

One thing the junior and senior Zappa have in common is the ability to attract and surround themselves with really really high caliber musicians. The show was tight, the music was fun, and - oh - did I mention that we were third row, center? 'Cause we totally were. Yes, I think you could say that we were reasonably warmed up.

As the roadies took the stage to tear down the ZPZ equipment and set up the Return to Forever equipment, Dweezil remained at the front of the stage, greeting fans, signing autographs, posing for pictures, and generally presenting himself as a helluva nice guy.

The crowd shifted between shows. A lot of folks had come just to see ZPZ and left before RtF took the stage. There was an influx of new folks who arrived late - the purely jazz/fusion crowd. They intimidated me a little bit, as hardcore jazz folks tend to do. There is definitely an attitude and it makes me feel dumb and simple and superficial. They know music - or pretend to - whereas I just feel it.

Maybe you'd rather hear an overview of the concert from them. It would assuredly be more informative. (Maybe we can coerce Tom into leaving some commentary.....) Right here, though, you're stuck with me and my feeeeeeeeelings.

They took the stage and the excitement in the venue was palpable. We were in the presence of jazz gods. I don't know jazz, but I know that. And if I hadn't known it before, I would've known it then - the air was thick with the feeling of worship.

They hadn't taken the stage for very long before I got it. This was the real deal.

About midway through their first song I found myself thinking about my high school band directors, my college musician-friends, my husband and of course, my dad. All of those people had, in one way or another, led me to the place where I was able to appreciate this and I was grateful. I felt their ghosts - or - perhaps it would be more palatable to those of them who are alive and well and perhaps even reading this - their spirits - surrounding me - whispering, "See? This is what I was talking about."

And then Mr. Clarke sat down with his upright. Tom held his breath. He knew what was coming. I didn't. Now let me remind you that my husband and daughter are both bass players and that it is not unusual at all for one of them to call to the other to watch some virtuoso bass performance on YouTube. I have seen and heard some seriously righteous bass playing. I have never - and I can't emphasize this enough - NEVER - seen or heard anything even remotely similar to what Stanley Clarke was doing with that instrument. "Holy SHIT!" I said, leaning back into my seat. Tom registered my shift in position and smiled at me - the way a seasoned veteran smiles at a new recruit. "I don't even know what that IS!"

THAT, my friends, is jazz.

I promise I won't get all pompous and superior on all of ya'll who haven't reached this stage of enlightenment. But I DO have a feeling that I'll be spending some time chasing that high.

And those who have gone before me are folding their arms over their chests and smiling smugly. "Told you so."

Trojan Horses

2011-08-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

I had a boyfriend in college. With the advantage of lots and lots of years of hindsight, I can tell you that he was a nice guy, but not a terribly good boyfriend. He had a routine for handling his many indiscretions. He would bring me a red rose, look at me with sincere regret, and announce, "the bottom line is, I love you and I don't want to lose you." He was a bottom line kind of guy. Then he would tell me what he'd done and we would both cry and I would forgive him and life would go on until the next chippy turned his head. It got to the point where my stomach would clench in a Pavlovian response every time I saw him approaching my house with a rose.

We broke up shortly before graduation - the last chippy to turn his head turned it real good. When I went back to my house after the ceremony, I found a red rose on my desk and a note that said, "I'll always love you." I didn't stop crying for days. I knew what red roses meant.

I find myself experiencing that same sense of dread now when I come home from the grocery store and my eldest helps me unload and put away the groceries without being asked. It almost never ends well. I can almost see the red rose in her hand in place of the canvas shopping bag. I keep expecting her to say, "the bottom line is, Mom....." She doesn't - how creepy would that be? - but something is usually still said. Oh yes, something is said.

Trojan horses, right? It looks like I'm getting something good, and when I let my defenses down, I get annihilated.

That boy grew up. He married the final chippy. I like to think he takes her flowers from time to time, and that they mean nothing more than - "I love you". My girl will grow up, too. The grocery bag confessions will turn into funny stories we tell around the table when her kids are teens.

Till then, I guess I'll just need to remind myself to slow down every now and then and regain perspective. I won't stop to smell the roses, though. And that? Is the bottom line.

What I Meant to Say

2011-08-09T06:42:00.000-07:00

I had the title for my vacation post all picked out: Upgrades and Downslides. It's good, right? I was going to emphasize the upgrades - of which there were only two, but they were really, really good upgrades - and downplay the downslides - of which there were many, but they were much smaller and didn't really add up to the equivalent of the upgrades. I was really only going to mention them to keep things real as well as to keep you from dying of jealousy over the upgrades. I'm generous that way.

Then I thought about a two part post: Tom and Tammy's Excellent Adventure followed by the obvious sequel, Tom and Tammy's Bogus Journey. That would've been fun, too - and it would've given me the opportunity to trot out my near frightening proficiency with Bill and Ted quotes/Bill and Ted speak. It would've been totally triumphant. Totally non-heinous.

I decided, instead, to talk about one woman I encountered on my trip. We didn't meet - we didn't even speak - but - as we made our way home - I found that I couldn't stop thinking about her.

Tom and I had just finished eating at White House Sub Shop. I had, of course, spilled crushed wet red peppers on the front of my shirt and they left an oily stain. I was a little distraught. I had planned to wear that shirt later that evening when we would be meeting Tom's friends for drinks. I only knew a couple of them and I was nervous. Maximum arm coverage coupled with summer coolness was essential to my brittle self-esteem. I had almost cried with joy when I'd found this shirt. Now I wouldn't be able to wear it. It didn't only have excellent sleeves, it was the perfect color for me. And I'd ruined it before we even had a chance to check in to our room. I was NOT off to a good start. Fat girls have no business eating subs. This was retribution.

Tom thought my concerns were silly, but he's a smart boy, so he didn't dismiss them. Instead he said, "Let's go buy you something new." I have to tell you - I like Tom in vacation mode.

As we walked towards the shops, I resentfully took notice of all of the girls in their tank tops, camisoles, sundresses and even bikini tops. Some were skinny, some were not. Some were toned, some were not. Some were tan, some were not. None of them seemed to be concerned about their arms - and why should they be? Their arms were fine.

And then I saw her.

She was walking towards me with her handsome husband and her adorable little boy. She was a little younger than I was, but just as big. Even her arms. She smiled confidently as she gave her husband a half hug and reached for the hand of her little boy, as the crowd was thickening. She looked beautiful and happy. Her sundress crossed her shoulders with the thinnest of spaghetti straps. A young man walked by and gave her a double take. It was not a flattering glance. He did not see the same beautiful woman that I saw. As she drew closer to us, I wanted to compliment her on her beautiful dress. I wanted to mention how much I loved her aggressively cute pixie haircut. I imagined her smoothing that dress out in a full length mirror, running a hand through her super-short locks, and smiling at what she saw before heading out the door. I wanted to tell her that I appreciated it - that it was working - that she looked great. I wanted to tell her that that boy - who had not gone unnoticed by her or her husband - was an idiot who wouldn't recognize beauty if it smacked him in his stupid little face.

I did none of those things. I walked past. It's what people do. The sidewalk was crowded. To slow down the flow to deliver a compliment to a stranger would've been weird. And I didn't want to draw any undue attention to myself with my stained shirt and my own huge arms. I walked past. I hoped she had a nice day. I hoped she knew she was lovely. I'd meant to tell her...

A Little Ditty

2011-07-26T08:48:00.000-07:00

I think I might turn into one of those old ladies who doesn't give a fig - like that fabled old woman "who shall wear purple" and who spawned that awful red hat business that I am almost old enough for but will never really be old enough for.

I think this - because today I broke old lady rules and fat lady rules and threw caution to the wind. It felt amazing.

It is a beautiful day here in suburbia, so after the oppressive heat of the last couple weeks, I decided it was time to read on the deck. I grabbed my book and headed for my beloved lounge chair, but I paused on the way. The decking itself was beckoning. I never do that. I've mentioned that I have a lounge chair, right? But the call of the boards was loud and I was helpless to resist it. I laid down flat on the deck, my knees bent so that my feet rested comfortably on the first step. My old back - from whom I had expected protest - practically sung in relief. I'm not sure, but I think the song it sang was Take the Money and Run. It didn't make sense to me either. Not right away.

I couldn't figure out a way to read in this position, and the sun was gently forcing my eyelids closed anyway - so I put my paperback under my head and spread my arms out - a pose I refer to as The Sun Worshiper. It felt glorious.

But something was missing.

The sun on my face was perfect. My pose - unlike any of my poses in actual yoga - was flawless. But....

My hands worked as if by muscle memory - pulling the hem of my T-shirt through the collar and knotting it through once again. I tucked the sleeves of my T-shirt under the shirt itself. My arms were exposed, my neckline was plunging and - *gasp* - my belly was exposed.

Now this is the sort of exposure that causes people who aren't very nice to reach for their cameras and post pictures online for other people to laugh at. Hahahahahaha - get it? Someone who is not genetically blessed still enjoys the way the sun feels on their skin. Just like real people. It's funny, right?

Ahem.

But I ignored the little voices in my head that reminded me of those not very nice people. I ignored the little voices that told me that no one wanted to see my old, fat mid-section - especially since it has not seen sun in over two decades! I ignored them and I enjoyed the way it felt to have sun touching so much of me.

It felt like summer.

And that's when I understood why I'd heard Take the Money and Run when my old back sang. A million years and a lifetime ago, that was part of a summer beach vacation soundtrack. It's not one of my favorite songs. It's ok, I guess. But damned if it doesn't take me to a pretty wonderful place.

The Skin I'm In

2011-07-25T08:55:00.000-07:00

When I was wee, as the story goes, my mother was bathing me after a full sunny day in my sandbox. She was scrubbing to the point of scouring and I was crying to the point of screaming. Dad poked his head in the bathroom to see what all the fuss was about. "I just can't get her clean", Mom said, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice.

As I've been told, what happened next was that Dad stepped in for a closer look and, upon assessing the situation, proclaimed, "She's not dirty. She's tan."

Yep. My mom was trying to scrub the tan off of me.

A few years later, at the height of my self-conscious, angsty adolescence, when the sweaters of winter gave way to the halters of summer, my mother said, "Your elbows are filthy! You need to scrub them!" Now elbows are one of those out of sight/out of mind body parts that do tend to go neglected. You just don't see much of them. You're trying to look at yours right now, aren't you? Unless you are weirdly double jointed, it just ain't gonna happen. At any rate. I raised my elbows to the mirror and - sure enough - wildly discolored. It was the beginning of a long crusade involving lotions and potions and loofahs and lemons. I convinced myself that each new touted 'cure' was working, but none of them actually did.

Eventually, I gave up. It was the unique way I was colored in and I could accept it or go nuts trying to change it. I was never a huge fan of coloring within the lines. Acceptance it was.

This went well - after all - I never really saw them, so they were easy to forget - until I joined a gym. The mirrors were there, I knew, to remind me to watch my form, but I just couldn't take my eyes off of my elbows. I didn't even really hate them anymore, I just sort of found them to be mesmerizing. I did, however, begin to wonder if others judged me by them. They DO look dirty to the unenlightened...

A few weeks ago I went to the dentist for a routine cleaning. The tech scraped. And she scraped. She applied unnecessary pressure. I winced. She apologized. She scraped some more. Finally she paused. She was sweating from the effort. "What did you do to make your teeth so discolored?" she asked in frustration.

Are you kidding me? This torture session was taking place because my pearly whites were neither? "They are dark." I said, trying to hide my annoyance. "They have always been dark. From the time I traded in my baby teeth they have been dark". My dentist did some experimental whitening in the early 70's. Session after session. Nothing happened. Techniques have almost certainly improved since then, but the point has always been moot for me because I had a cap (and now - soon - a crown) right in front. Whitening doesn't have an effect on them - so even if I did manage to whiten the rest of my teeth, well..... "They are not discolored. This IS their color."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, laughing a little bit in an ineffective attempt to conceal her embarrassment.

Is it any wonder that I laugh right out loud when I hear something described as flesh-colored? You'd need the whole deluxe 64 pack of Crayolas to accurately color me! Manatee and Purple Mountains Majesty might combine well to shade my elbows. The veins that show in my legs and arms are Royal Purple and Mulberry and Jazzberry Jam. The beds of my nails are Melon - or maybe Pink Sherbert. I have freckles (NOT age spots. BIG freckles.) that might be colored Raw Umber or Chestnut. I have scars that are Cotton Candy and Silver. All of these are much more interesting than the Peach or Apricot crayon most of us reach for when coloring in Caucasians, no?

I'm sure there are cosmetics available that would cover all of my 'imperfections'. They'd probably have cool names, too. But I've been there. Done that. I think it's time to start loving the colors that are me.

Free Hugs

2011-07-09T05:44:00.000-07:00

I woke up crabby this morning. Really really crabby. Don't-talk-to-me-because-I-don't-have-anything-nice-to-say crabby. It was not a huge surprise, because I had gone to bed crabby.

Coffee will help.

No coffee.

Well of course there's not. Just fucking fantastic.

So I got dressed - which is not something I especially like to do on a Saturday morning - and headed to our little local coffee shop.

I am having a fantastic hair day and the sun is shining - a combination of factors which is usually enough to guarantee a good day, or at least a good morning - but even those two events weren't enough to cut through the denseness of my crabby mood.

I walked in among the runners beginning to congregate for their post-run coffee. Fuck you, Mr. Runner-Man in your stupid running shorts and your stupid running shoes drinking your stupid power smoothie or whatever the fuck. I'm too crabby to feel guilty about my sedentary lifestyle today.

I got in line behind a woman and in just a moment two of her friends walked in the door. They greeted each other enthusiastically and they both hugged her in a way that made it clear that they were NOT trying to usurp my place in the line - they just wanted to greet their friend. The three of them were so happy - to see each other, to share their coffee, to enjoy the sunshine. I wanted to be happy, too, but I was too darn crabby. It was at this point that one of them, the one directly behind me in line, addressed me, "I'm sorry! You must feel left out!" and quick as that, her arms were around me and I was being hugged. By a total stranger. In the coffee shop. Because her joy this morning was as strong or stronger than my negativity. Before I had a chance to recover, her friend hugged me, too.

I'm not the best writer in the world, so you may think that sounds creepy - I did, as I read over it - but it really wasn't. It was spontaneous and sweet and I smiled from ear to ear as a torrent of good feelings washed away my crabby - at least for a moment or two.

When I got home, I was informed that we were out of creamer. Well that's just fu...

That's cool. Skim milk will do just fine.

Hugs.

Cute is What We Aim For

2011-07-06T04:52:00.000-07:00

The other day I was shopping in the sort of establishment where the salespeople wear little blue smocks that resemble the pinnies we used to wear in high school gym to indicate what team we were on. It's not a great look, but it does provide uniformity and recognizability - plus it hides a multitude of sins and protects your clothes. So it's not all bad. I will confess, though, that I often picture that moment when one realizes, 'Yeah, this is my life. I work here, now.' and then - as if to bring the point home - as if they weren't resigned enough - they are handed their pinny and name tag.

Now most folks, based on my own casual observations, tend to dress down under their pinnies. Makes sense to me. May as well be comfortable, if no one is going to see your outfit anyway.

But the other day, the young lady who rang up my order was dressed very nicely. Her hair and makeup were perfect. Her nails were perfect. She was clearly a young lady who put a lot of thought and effort into her appearance before being forced to cover it all up with a smock. Her job, like so many jobs, also required her to wear a lanyard with keys around her neck. And this is why she drew my attention. She was wearing her lanyard backwards so that it resembled a choker beneath the open collar of her blouse. It couldn't have been a convenient set-up for when she required her keys, and frankly it didn't look very comfortable - I imagined the weight of her keys pulling back against her throat - but she was doing her damndest to look cute under circumstances that fought her every step of the way.

My initial instinct was to giggle. Pinnies and lanyards aren't cute. No amount of manipulation is likely to change that. Save cute for after your shift.

And then I remembered ROTC.

That's right. In college, this peacemonger was in the ROTC. Judge if you must. To those of you who are judging because I took a military obligation casually - I apologize. You are right and I was wrong. My only defense is the naivete of youth. To those of you who are judging because I did something that goes against my basic ideology - I apologize. You are also right and I am wrong again. Same defense. The thing is - I could complete my physical education requirement with two semesters of ROTC or three semesters of health/phys ed. You do the math. Also I got those kick-ass combat boots out of it. I know. It was terribly flawed logic. Even offensive to some, I imagine. But I was young and selfish and it made sense to me at the time. If you call me out in either direction I won't defend myself. I may have then, but I won't now. It wasn't a good or right thing to do, but I did it.

The reason I was in the ROTC was not the point I meant to make today, though - I wanted to talk about the uniform.

We were provided with the aforementioned boots, pants and a shirt in Army green, a webbed belt and a hat. We were also told to wear a white T-shirt under the shirt, but were not provided with one. We had to wear this uniform to class once a week. This was during the big, neon-bright, highly individualistic 80's. Wearing a drab uniform on campus once a week was a major buzzkill. I did it, though - because frankly - I would've done almost anything to get out of gym. I looked at the uniform as a means to escape a pinny.

I, like the young lady in the lanyard choker, did the best I could to make what I was given fashionable. I regularly ditched the T-shirt, preferring to wear my collar unbuttoned a button or two below regulation and popped (I already told you. 80's.). I wore my permed hair (80's. Stay with me here.) in a side ponytail and positioned the hat in a way that would set that off rather than straight on top of my head as I'd been instructed. I was a little unclear, in my youth, about the concept of uniformity. I guess if I HAD been clear on the concept, I would've rejected it anyway - so it's sort of a moot point.

It was pretty hard to look cute in that uniform, but I gave it hell trying.

Just like the young lady in the pinny and the choker.

You do the best you can with what you've got.

I am at a place in my life, now, where fashionability - while still desirable - is not a huge priority. That's a pretty comfortable place to be. (Literally. You should see my shoe rack. Comfort reigns supreme.) BUT I need to remember the follies of my own youth before I think about passing judgment on others. And, once again - 80's. My fashion follies were massive and awesome.

Totally.

Eat, Drink and Be Merry

2011-06-28T06:35:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago I went out for cocktails with friends. A good time was had by all and there was much laughing and merry making. Making merry. Now there's an underused term. I think I'll start a campaign to bring it back. Are you in?

Ah, but I've already digressed.

As the merry was being produced, the cameras came out and I was forced, once again, to realize that my arms are bigger than your legs probably are.

That's an easy way to kill a buzz and a serious drawback to being able to see (and share) pictures instantly. It separated me from my merry. Killed my merry. Would that make me a merry widow? No, I think that's something else. Still. I miss merry. I like merry. I've got to find a way to get merry back.

You're a step ahead of me, right? If you don't like something about yourself, change it! So - despite all of my experience to the contrary - despite everything I have learned the hard way - I get it into my head that I can change my weight. Everybody says so, right? It's so easy, really - eat less, move more. Oh - and also? You have to want it. I've heard that, too. Maybe I just didn't really WANT it all those years that I starved and exercised like a fiend. Well this time will be different. This time I really want it.

Ugh.

So the next morning Tom is making me breakfast. I have married an excellent breakfast cook. He doesn't want much to do with preparing any other meals - he isn't even big on grilling like a lot of guys are - but man can he turn out a breakfast. He asks what I want and I say I'd like an egg white omelet. Because he is an astute dude, who knows that I didn't request my eggs sans yolks just for the taste of it, he asks, "Should I cook it in olive oil instead of butter?" This is not, after all, the first morning after the picture before he's spent with me. Yes, I told him. Yes you should. And very little of it, please.

Enter my mom.

"Is something wrong with the eggs? I thought you liked these eggs."

Ok, there is some serious truth to that. My mom gets her eggs from a farm. They vary dramatically in color and size. They are rich beyond belief. My mom keeps WAY better eggs in the house than I do. I look forward to them when I stay at her house. To discard any part of this egg - particularly the huge golden yolk - seems vaguely sacrilegious. I rethink my response.

"Y'know what, hon? Make it one egg and two egg whites."

Tom begins to do just that, but my mother interrupts, "Why are you doing this?"

"Having breakfast?"

"Having egg whites and olive oil instead of eggs and toast and butter which is what I know you want."

She was right. I wanted two of those big, beautiful, rich eggs, fried in butter with some toast to sop up the yolk. But more than that, I wanted arms that didn't require a special blood pressure cuff. No. I would be strong.

"I just want it that way today." (Stop there, Tammy, stop there, Tammy, stop there! Don't say another word!) "I'm trying to watch." (Well, now you've done it...)

"Watch? What are you trying to watch? Why do you do this? Why can't you just accept yourself as you are? You are what you are. Tom, make her eggs in butter. Olive oil isn't good for you. Butter is the best. Butter and sugar - that's what you're supposed to eat - not all this crazy stuff."

Tom looks at me. I shrug. I'm not good at standing up to my mom. One breakfast wasn't gonna change my life. If eating whole eggs fried in butter was gonna make her happy...

"Go ahead and cook them in butter."

"Really?"

"I don't care. I am what I am and I guess this is what I am."

"Tammy! Why would you say that? You just need to accept..."

"I do not accept it! Those pictures were not acceptable!"

"Then you need to do something about it!"

"That's what I'm trying to do!"

"Don't yell at me!"

Just another typical morning in the life of a conflicted fat chick.

An external reminder of the internal conflict. I am big. Fact. I could be big and beautiful. I could be big and healthy. I could be big and happy - merry, even. Or I could try to become - less big. Society keeps telling me I ought to. Society tells me there is no such thing as big and beautiful or big and healthy. I know I can't be much smaller - I've tried and tried and tried. It doesn't work and it sends merry flying right out the window. And, as I mentioned before, I really like merry.

In a three minute conversation, my mother told me to both accept it and do something about it. One cannot do both of those things simultaneously. I thought it was ridiculous when she made this argument, and yet - it's what I tell myself constantly. I have to accept that I cannot change this. I cannot accept it. I attempt change. Change does not occur. I have to accept..... round and round, up and down.

A merry-go-round, if you will. (I know. I groaned, too.)

The next day, back home, over a big dinner salad, my daughters begin to debate the merits of various salad dressings - whose choice is healthier. (Ok, you've got to love it when the dinner table argument revolves around whose salad dressing choice is healthier, right? I mean, if you've got to argue...) I said a little olive oil and some vinegar - red wine, balsamic, whatever - was probably the healthiest choice.

"That's not true." my handsome hubby chimed in.

"It's not?"

"No. The healthiest choice would clearly be to drizzle it with some butter. And a little sugar."

Hello there, merry. Nice to see you back. I've missed you.

Spring Goes Up the Mountain

2011-06-10T04:09:00.000-07:00

I originally wrote this about a month ago. I revisited it today with the plan of changing it - giving it a different ending, as the story is now over - but I decided to let it stand as it is. It was a slice of life. Apologies for giving you a story about Spring in the Summer (TECHNICALLY still Spring, I guess.....) and for telling the story out of order, but I wasn't ready to post this when I wrote it. Now I am.

I’m on my way home.

I don’t even know what that means anymore.

Is home the suburban tract house where my husband and children sleep? Is home the small-town house in the mountains in which I grew up? They say home is where the heart is. If this is so, home, right now, is a hospital bed in the neuropathy wing on the tenth floor of Memorial Hospital.

It doesn’t matter. It seems like I’m always headed to one of those places these days, and whichever place I am, I’m missing the other. Can one be homesick from home?

Most of the time, when I am not driving, I sit with my mother in my father’s room. We watch him – making too much of every minuscule sign of progress and every equally diminutive sign of regression. We react to every sigh. We hold his hand and fuss over him when he is awake and we exchange concerned glances when he is asleep. Although we rarely leave our vinyl covered, hard backed chairs, it is exhausting.

My mother washes her clothes every night because she can’t stand the stink the hospital has left on them.

His window affords us a view of a mountain; a small mountain, to be sure, but decidedly more than a hill. When he first took up residence in room 1034, the trees at the bottom of the hill were bright green with young leaves. These gave way, further up the mountain, to trees that were red with buds, which went on to give way to trees that were still presenting their stark, winter silhouettes at the top of the mountain against the horizon.

We watch, day by day, as spring moves further up the mountain.

We watch, day by day, as my father moves nowhere at all.

I’ll have to go home, soon; home to my husband and children. I don’t want to leave him, but neither do I want to be away from them. I miss them – I miss being around people who like me for who I am – who aren’t constantly telling me how I need to change – how I need to be someone who I’m not – someone better. Ah, home.

When my father’s stroke stole his ability to speak, I taught him to squeeze my hand three times – I. Love. You. He did so every night before I left his side to go home. I cherished it. One night he did not squeeze and I was disappointed, until I leaned closer and heard him laboring to make out the words. I. Love. You. He got all the vowels out, but none of the consonants. His eyes filled in the gaps they left. Yesterday morning, when I left for home – my home – the home where my husband and children were missing me – he didn’t squeeze. He didn’t attempt to make words. He didn’t register my message in his eyes. “I love you, Daddy.”

His response was a mumbled, “yeah” – the same mumbled “yeah” he gives in response to all of the queries of the doctors and nurses and therapists.

“I miss you already. I’ll see you in three sleeps.”

“Yeah.”

I cry in the privacy of my car. I’m headed home. Over the mountain, past the dark, maturing leaves to the light leaves in their hopeful infancy, through the red buds and into the bare branches, then down again – the same progression in reverse.

I’m headed home for now; for three sleeps. And then I’ll turn around and head back home.

Where my heart is.

Mourning, Memorials, and Meat

2011-05-29T05:20:00.000-07:00

"We need to decorate the graves," said my mom.

Selfishly, shallowly, I thought only of my dad's grave. It was still piled high with dirt and rocks. There were still a few flowers from the funeral strewn about - wilted, limp, beginning to give off the sickening perfume of decay, but still there. It would be weeks - months - before it settled and was able to be covered by grass. Months before it would look normal - like nothing unusual had happened. Months before the wound and indignity it had caused the earth would heal. Months before it would be ready for anything that resembled 'decorating'. I didn't mention any of this. My mom didn't need to be reminded of how fresh my dad's grave was.

No, I didn't mention it. I went with her dutifully as we picked up flowers and gathered trowels and gloves. This was an annual ritual for my mom - one which I hadn't taken part in since I was very young. One which I wasn't particularly enthused about taking part in now. I wanted to be done with cemeteries for a while.

But sometimes, as I am slowly figuring out, it isn't all about what I want.

Traipsing through the cemetery, reading the headstones, I was overwhelmed by the palpable sense of history - the history of my family and the history of our town - our nation. So many graves -each one represented a life. Some represented lives that were all too short - dates that fell much too close together.

Many were already decorated with flags for Memorial Day - all in brass holders indicating the war during which they served. Dad has one from Korea. It had been planted awkwardly - off to the side. A lump rose in my throat, surprising me. It was not a lump born of sadness - that wouldn't have been a surprise. That was - is - the norm. No, this was pride. It caught me off guard.

I looked around at the graves of my ancestors and those surrounding them. Gulf War, Vietnam, Korea, WWI, WWII -I even saw one from the Civil War. So many flags. So many served. I looked towards the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. There would be a ceremony here in a few days. There would be a parade and flags and poignant speeches. I would go with Mom - she would want to go. It would be a moment for community - for shared grief and pride. Not this moment, though. This moment was for personal grief and pride. I succumbed to it.

The next day was settled upon, after a quick check on the forecast, as the day to decorate Mom's family's graves.

My hometown is beautiful - almost heart-breakingly so. It is a small town, centered in a valley and spreading out over the hills surrounding it. There is a river and there are many creeks. There are lush wooded areas. There are tree-lined streets and houses that do not look anything like those in my own cookie-cutter suburban community. The houses have personality. The town has personality. If I were to extend the personification metaphor, however, a town physician would be likely to prescribe Prozac. It is beautiful, but very depressed.

My mother's hometown, where her parents are buried, is about 30 miles and half a world away.

"We'll pick up kielbasi for our Memorial Day picnic", she said, as she added an empty cooler and some frozen bottles of water to our gear.

"Why would we go all the way out there for kielbasi? Don't they have it at Giant Eagle?"

Ah, silly suburban girl.

Mom smiled. That was nice. Haven't seen a lot of that lately. "We're gonna get the good stuff."

We headed out of town and I was once again struck by the overwhelming beauty of the landscape. Why had I been in such a hurry to leave, all those years ago? Ah, well. Town gave way to bucolic countryside. Mom was driving. She made the turns to her old stomping grounds as if by muscle memory. Now her hometown is a place that has always made me feel sophisticated, cosmopolitan and urbane - three words - and you'll have to trust me on this one - no-one would ever really choose to describe me. All things are relative. There were times in my life, I'm not particularly proud to say, when I liked that feeling - times when it gave me a false sense of superiority. Not this time, though. This time it made me feel uncomfortable - out of place - something that didn't belong in a town that was humming along quite nicely without me or my high-falutin' ways. The town was charming. I was not.

Mom made a couple turns down narrow one-way streets - more like alleys, really. "I know it's around here, somewhere." I sat in the passenger seat drinking it all in. If my hometown was on Prozac, this town was on homegrown weed and moonshine. I loved the stark contrast between this town with all of its Mom and Pop businesses and my suburb with all of its chain stores and restaurants. I found myself wanting to stop the car and walk around -shop, eat - but we were on a mission. Kielbasi or bust.

"Here it is," Mom said, pulling into a dirt clearing by a small, white, non-descript building. There was a steady flow of pick-em-up trucks and muscle cars entering the clearing, parking briefly while their drivers entered the building. There were no signs - not even the hand-painted signs that indicated the businesses on the main streets - just a building, in a dirt clearing, accessible only by a series of one-way alleys.

Maybe when Mom said we were going for the good stuff she hadn't been talking about meat at all. Maybe kielbasi was some sort of weird euphemism for....

We got out of the car and any trace of doubt was erased. We were in the right place. The smell of smoked meats was so thick in the air that I could almost taste the nitrate-y goodness. We opened the door to the building and entered a glorious and foreign land. Mom made a beeline for the counter, where she scored the very last of the kielbasi. I watched a man at the checkout plop a GIANT baggie full of ground meat on the counter. The walls were lined with memorabilia from the Whiskey Rebellion. Although I didn't see it, I know with the same confidence that assures me that the sky is blue that there was not a pistol, but a shotgun behind the counter with the register. A register which was manned, by the way, by a woman who looked exactly like you'd expect her to look - overly tanned, aging skin, big bottle-blonde hair, and a Harley tank top that was just a smidge too tight. Awesome. I wondered for a moment which pick-em-up or muscle car was hers - there had been no bikes in the clearing - then decided it didn't matter. It was all good. Mom paid for her kielbasi and I bought a small jug of local maple syrup.

As we packed the meat into our cooler, I asked my mom why we'd gone there first rather than last. "It closes at noon", was her response.

Of course it does.

We decorated her parents' graves and headed back to town, but not before buying an ice cream cone from a dairy in the middle of a corn field. For lunch. Man does not, as you know, live, by kielbasi alone.

What Do You Mean By That?

2011-05-09T05:02:00.000-07:00

That's so gay.

Let's start there.

In my own lifetime (long by the standards of my children, short by the standards of - say - dinosaurs) I have watched that word mean happy, then homosexual, and now - well - I guess in the incarnation stated above it sort of means stupid.

People get really excited about this - like - if someone calls something gay - when they mean that it's stupid - that they are implying that to be homosexual is to be stupid. I'll be honest. My hackles are raised when I hear people saying 'that's so gay'. I simply cannot hear myself using that particular word in that particular way.

But am I being a bleeding-heart liberal reactionist? (It's ok if you say yes. It wouldn't be the first time and I've certainly been called worse.) I've started to wonder that myself. The word is changing - evolving. It doesn't mean what it once did. On the Simpsons episode Lisa's Date With Density (original air date 12/15/96) Jimbo says to Nelson (he says) "You kissed a girl? That's so gay." Hmmmm. Definitely not implying homosexuality there... of course that was intended as a joke, but it wasn't very far-fetched.

Maybe you think my line of reasoning is retarded.

Hey! There's another one! Another example of an evolving word as well as another example of something that raises my hackles. I would never use the term retarded when I meant to say stupid. But again - this is a word that has changed in my lifetime. In my day, mentally retarded was a diagnosis. It was nothing to giggle about, and it was not a put down. Retarded means slow and someone who was mentally retarded was simply someone who took a little bit longer to think about/learn things. It wasn't a negative term, it was a neutral, descriptive term. I used it clinically all the time. Then I learned to put the person before the disability - merely a semantic difference, to be sure, but we all know, if we think about it, that semantics matter. So I would no longer say I was working with a mentally retarded child, I would say I was working with a child with mental retardation. That was not a mean thing to say.

And then suddenly it was.

I read a blog a while ago (I have LONG forgotten where, or I would link it) where a woman who had a child with Downs Syndrome was having a tirade because someone had referred to her daughter as retarded. She said, "sure, it takes her longer to learn things, but that's no reason to call her retarded." Um - I'm pretty sure that's precisely the reason to call her retarded - or , more accurately- to say that she has retardation. Someone mentioned that in her comments and people ripped him a new one - how could he be so ignorant? This was a beautiful, loving child. How could he say something so awful about her?

Wow.

I guess that word had transformed more completely than I'd thought.

At least gay still DOES mean homosexual in most circles - even if people may not specifically be using that definition of it when they say 'that's so gay'. (It NEVER means 'happy' or 'bright' anymore. That meaning has been completely obliterated) Retarded apparently has nothing to do with the clinical condition of being a slow learner anymore. It is just a pure and simple cut.

I was teaching a class once and we were talking about a particular birth defect. One of the symptoms of this was mild to moderate retardation. I remember stumbling over the word when I had to say it in class the way my children tell me their teachers stumble over the word 'nigger' when it appears in literature they're reading. (I can only imagine. Thank goodness I never had to teach a course where THAT was necessary! I stumbled just typing it...) Even when it (retardation - not that other one - which I'm not going to type again) is not being used in a derogatory sense, it has apparently evolved so much that the original meaning has been lost and what is left is ugly.

I do make a more than tiny effort to be politically correct - so these words - when they are used negatively - still do have an effect on me.

I don't like them. They make me uncomfortable.

I'm not alone.

There are multi-media campaigns out there to get us to stop saying 'that's so gay' or 'that's so retarded'. People care about this. People care about words. Words are powerful.

But I wonder...

Should we just back off a little bit and let the words naturally evolve?

I just finished reading The Lexicographer's Dilemma by Jack Lynch. If you dig words, you might enjoy it. (See what I did there? Dig? I'm relatively certain no one pictured anything involving a shovel or a backhoe when I used that term. It's outdated slang, sure, but the meaning was clear - even though it has nothing to do with the original meaning of the word.) He does not cite any examples of 'gay' or 'retarded', but I found myself thinking about those two words a lot as I read this book. They're changing. My outrage may boil down to much ado about nothing (as righteous outrage so often does, in the grand scheme of things).

An example, taken from the above mentioned book, p. 193:

The word nice shows just how far a common word can drift from its etymon. The root is the Latin nescire 'to be ignorant'..........When nice made its first appearance in English, around the year 1300, it meant "foolish, silly, simple." These senses died out in the seventeenth century, but along the way nice had picked up a new group of meanings, including "wanton, dissolute, lascivious" and "Precise or particular in matters of reputation or conduct; scrupulous, punctilious."

Starting late in the sixteenth century, the "scrupulous" meaning evolved into "refined, cultured; associated with polite society," then into "respectable, virtuous, decent," a sense first cited from one of Jane Austen's letters from 1799: "The Biggs would call her a nice woman." Shortly before Austen was born, nice also came to mean "That one derives pleasure or satisfaction from; pleasant, agreeable, satisfactory"; from there it was only a short jump to "pleasant in manner, agreeable, good-natured," first attested in 1797, and the meaning that most people assume nice has always had.

So.

Once upon a time, if I referred to you as nice, it would mean that I was essentially calling you out as a whore.

Nice.

I have a prediction. I think the next word to make the shift will be special.

You heard it here first.

I could be wrong (it happens), but I'm probably not.

Special. Different, unique, unexpected. Sort of like queer.

Wait...

Words are like us - they grow, they evolve, they shift.

For some reason, my earworm, as I write this, is: History shows again and again how nature points out the folly of men ~Blue Oyster Cult, Godzilla.

Just me?

Ok.

(And because I like you, here is an incredibly groovy version of said song. Shout out to my college peeps......)

(And because I know a bass player or two are reading - a more recent version. No 3:00 am bowls or paper mache monster drummers, but a Rudy Sarzo solo that is too fun to miss.)

And that's why you have to like me. Because I can start out talking about currently controversial words, quote a lengthy etymological reference as well as the Simpsons and wrap it up with not one but two Blue Oyster Cult videos and somehow make it all fit.

Well, it all fits in my mind, anyway...

Wedding Schmedding

2011-04-29T08:51:00.000-07:00

So.

One of the effects of Dad's stroke has been the inability to speak.

Much.

He can get out the rare "Yup" or "Nope" - not much else.

Don't worry - this isn't going to be a whiny "strokes suck" post. (Although they do. Hard.)

This is going to be an "even under the duress of a massive stroke, Tut rocks" post.

Last night, as I was getting ready to leave the hospital, I said, "I'll be back early tomorrow morning, Dad." He smiled at me with the look of love to which I have become addicted. He seemed to be in good spirits, so I decided to play.

"We can watch the royal wedding."

His smile faded a little bit.

"We can talk about the dresses and the flowers..."

Now he was almost`grimacing...

"...and the hats."

He gripped my hand and said, clear as a bell, "Uh uh!"

So happy to hear his voice, I kissed his face.

"Don't worry. We'll watch the golf channel."

He released his grip, smiled, and closed his eyes, confident that the next day would be more about putters and less about princesses.

Run and Tell That

2011-04-26T05:16:00.000-07:00

My mother - like many good church-going folks - relies heavily on prayer chains when faced with a crisis situation. I always looked at them more as gossip chains - a way to get the word passed around under the guise of concern rather than the titillation we associate with the back fence. The end result is the same - one is told; many are informed.

Social media is sort of like that, too.

Blogging, Facebook, Twitter - for someone like me who does not use any of those outlets to promote myself professionally, they can become gossipy as well. And just like the prayer chains - we tend to report 'acceptable' concerns. Cancer? Out of work? High risk pregnancy? Chat away publicly - there will be lots of support. Mentally ill? STD? Unwanted pregnancy? Better confine that to people you know and trust - you don't want that shiz getting out on anyone's chain, prayer or otherwise.

So it's somewhat controlled gossip.

My father had a stroke last week.

I didn't want to post too much about it - though it consumed me, so it leaked out little by little anyway - because I didn't want to present it as fodder for gossip. I also didn't want to use my family's crisis in a manner that might be considered to be exploitative.

But it made it to the prayer chains.

And I can't tell you how happy my mom was when people she hadn't informed came out of the woodwork to offer their support. Had they been informed via gossip? I guess. Sort of. It fits with Webster's definition. But it wasn't malicious, as we tend to believe gossip is. It was well-intended and well-received.

So.

With no intent towards being traditionally gossipy, I will share:

My father had a stroke, and I am afraid.

Since it happened, almost a week ago now, I have wanted to say more words at times - but they've all boiled down to that.

I'm sure I will have more words in the future.

I'm not exactly the type to suffer in silence.

I don't want to be a gossip.

But neither do I want to be afraid alone.

So many people have offered their thoughts and their prayers that I can almost literally feel the support. If you had told me that that would be possible a week ago, I would've accused you of smoking crack. You can't feel good thoughts - 'sending good thoughts' is just something people say when they don't know what else to do, right? I don't know. Maybe. But I swear I can feel the collective good thoughts of relatives and friends and friends of friends...

And it really does help.

So I'm not going to try to be quiet anymore. I'm not going to try to fend off gossip. Because gossip isn't always and necessarily bad.

My father had a stroke, and I am afraid.

Pass it on.

Nobody is in the Parking Lot During Halftime

2011-04-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

I have a vague recollection of an article in my college newspaper. It spoke to our ability to make a controversy out of anything. It said something to the effect of:

Consider the following sentence, presented in an editorial: The sun was shining brightly through the beautifully colored leaves while two of my frat brothers tossed the Frisbee back and forth in the parking lot during halftime of the football game on Saturday.

That single sentence could - and probably would - elicit at least a few of the following responses:

Frisbee is a registered trademark. You should refer to it as a flying disc or include the trademark symbol. ~ a first year law student

Sun? Where were you? It was cloudy for the whole game. ~Debbie Downer

Don't call your fraternity a frat, bro. Would you call your country a (deleted)? ~ a concerned member of the interfraternity council

There are no trees in the parking lot, dufus. ~ your roommate

This sentence is veering dangerously close to run-on territory. ~ ed.

Nobody is in the parking lot during halftime. ~ a representative of the marching band

They probably did a better job with that than I did, but the gist is right on. Surely you'll forgive me if my feeble brain couldn't come up with a verbatim quote 'leventy 'leven years after graduation.

Or maybe you won't. Or maybe you just don't like my use of the word 'feeble'. Or maybe it offends you that I started the last three sentences with coordinating conjunctions that failed to coordinate anything.

The point is, even the most seemingly benign statements can become controversial. I've been on both sides of that, heaven knows.

My blog post stirred up some respectful controversy yesterday. It caught me off guard, but in a pleasant way, because it encouraged thought towards a dissenting opinion and never became heated and ugly.

The first protest came from the unexpected source of my handsome husband. His issue was semantic - he objected to my use of the term 'lifestyle choice'. Perhaps, in retrospect, the word choice could've been eliminated, however it gave me pause. Why did I use the term 'choice' when I do believe that one's sexual preferences are pre-wired. Born This Way, right Gaga? I used the term quickly and easily and without a moments thought. When I applied retrospection to it, however, I decided to let it stand. I don't believe that we really have a choice as to our sexual preference, but engaging in the lifestyle IS a choice. Please do not misinterpret. I just know more than one person who tried to live a straight lifestyle when that was indeed not their orientation. In every case, they were miserable and in most cases they made the people around them miserable, too. The lifestyle they were born to, in my opinion, is the RIGHT choice, but it is indeed a choice.

I stand uncorrected, but thankful for the opportunity to put the extra thought into it.

The second protest came from a person who thought that I was implying that students who chose not to participate did not believe in the cause. I read and re-read the post trying to find what might have caused that perception, but I came up blank. Everyone expresses themselves in a different way and I am super-cool with that.

I stand uncorrected and a little confused.

The third protest was that when the majority participate in an activity like this, those who do not participate - even if their dissension is expressed by non-compliance rather than outright contrariness - are made to feel uncomfortable and may be pulled along into making a statement that they perhaps had not intended to make. This protest rang true to me. This is concerning. You can't combat bullying with bullying. My husband provided the example of prayer in schools. If the majority hold public prayers in schools, the students who do not participate in these prayers are automatically ostracized - even if they are not protesting, merely not participating. My answer to that was that nobody ever asks for one day of non-school sanctioned prayer - the request is usually for school sanctioned daily prayer. IF we were talking about one non-sanctioned day, there might be a good point here - but as it is, I think we're comparing apples to oranges.

Still...

I stand somewhat corrected. While I don't see what these kids did - this silent protest - as bullying as I tend to picture it, there is that inherent issue with being non-compliant and potentially ostracized. From talking to both of my girls, I do not believe that that is how it played out on any level, but it is a very valid concern.

Man oh man, do I love it when a silly little thing I tap out on my keyboard forces others to force me to think things through more clearly. Hopefully I, in return, offer them things to think about as well.

Yay interwebs.

The Sound of Silence

2011-04-15T04:33:00.000-07:00

My teens are participating in the National Day of Silence today. They have chosen to not speak in an effort to bring attention to anti-LGBT name calling, bullying and harassment in their school. I am proud of them for having made this choice.

My eldest told me that there were a lot of students discussing it earlier in the week to determine whether or not they would participate and if so, what level of participation they planned to engage in. She said that while the vast majority of students - even those who had opted out of participation - were treating it respectfully, there was a handful who announced their intention to "talk extra loud".

Now I get choosing not to participate.

And I get not agreeing with the cause. (Ok, I don't really get that. But I'm trying to be respectful.)

But I do NOT get standing up in support of bullying.

The idea behind this day is not acceptance of LGBT lifestyles (although that would be nice, too...). The idea is to protest the active bullying of people based upon the lifestyle choices that they have made or are perceived as having made. By making a conscious decision to "talk extra loud" on this day, they are making clear their support of bullying - not their objections to a lifestyle choice.

It saddens me - and frightens me - that anyone would stand up for this cause. I try to be tolerant - because it's hard to preach tolerance with intolerance - but sometimes it's difficult. Westboro Baptist makes it difficult. People who actively support bullying make it difficult. How does one find it in one's heart to tolerate that?

I hope my girls, their classmates, and the many students across the nation who are participating in this have a very successful day. I hope they make their point, because what a lovely way to make it - not with hate speech, but with silence.

Peace.

I'm OK, You're OK

2011-04-13T09:38:00.000-07:00

Think, for a moment, about the happiest, most content person you know. Now, I don't know who you're thinking about, but I bet I can tell you one thing about them: They have accepted the life they were given. I bet this person you're thinking of is not a liar or a social climber. I'd also be willing to bet that they're not the richest, most successful, most beautiful person you know, either. (They MIGHT be one or even two of those things, but I have very strong doubts that they are all three.)

Nope.

I bet this person isn't perfect.

You might not even envy their life.

But their attitude...

I know quite a few happy, content people. I don't count myself fully among them - yet - but I am working very diligently on it. Because I have noticed that common thread - that secret - and it is not out of the reach of anyone. Not even me. Not even you.

I will confess that in the past, I have looked on people who have less than me - whether that be less money, less status, less - whatever - who are perfectly happy - I mean really perfectly happy - and thought - well, that's just because they don't know how much more is out there.

I inwardly accused them of ignorance.

I have looked on people who have more than me - whether that be more money, more status, more - whatever - who are perfectly unhappy - I mean really perfectly unhappy - and thought - well, they have no idea how much they have.

I inwardly accused them of arrogance.

I was WAY off base on both counts. Off base, unfair, and pretty ridiculously naive.

Because - come on, your momma told you this - happy doesn't come from money or status or success. What your momma may have failed to add - I know mine did - was where it DOES come from. I was told - and believed, on some level - that money doesn't buy happiness. and we've all seen very prominent examples of this. Status and success just fuel the drive for more status and success - and there is ALWAYS more - always further to go - the summit is never reached.

Happy people - content people - know who they are. It's no big secret that I struggle with this - I have been very open about that. I'm figuring it out, slowly but surely. I may be a late bloomer, but bloom I shall, and it will be glorious. So that's step one. Know who you are. Step two appears to be LIKE who you are. More advice from Momma popping up - didn't your momma tell you that no one would love you until you could love yourself? Well, what do you know? She was right. Again.

And when you manage it, you will be happy.

So that sounds pretty easy, right? A two step process. Know yourself. Like yourself.

Ok, it's not all that easy.

But it's doable.

When you get there - really get there - then I don't believe the size of your house or your bank account or even your jeans will matter quite so much. People who have achieved this - knowing themselves and liking themselves - seem to be better equipped to handle whatever life throws at them - to accept their circumstances without letting it effect their course too much. "Oh! This is my new reality? All righty, then!" They don't blame their situation on divine retribution or an unkind twist of fate. They don't wonder how others will view and judge them, they just do what they know in their hearts is the right thing for them to do. They make no apologies for it. That's just the way it is. And the way it is for them may not be the way it is for me or for you, but that's cool. That's ok.

I have not, by the way, come anywhere close to achieving this particular level of Zen-like self acceptance. I'm still working on figuring out who I am, remember? But it's nice to notice it and believe it and articulate it. Putting it into words - for me - makes it more real.

Now for putting it into action...

I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. ~ Stuart Smalley

Bite Me

2011-04-07T07:39:00.000-07:00

I have mentioned, from time to time, my implant process. Tooth implant, that is. I don't want to misrepresent and titillate unnecessarily. So to speak.

It began in early September and a few weeks ago I mentioned light at the end of the tunnel. Which has since been squelched. Because in the months since the extraction I've been wearing a silly and uniquely annoying little device to fill the space left open. It serves no real function beyond aesthetics. Apparently, one of the jobs that it didn't do that a real tooth would have is keep the tooth next to it in place.

So.

A lot of money we didn't really have has been invested in this implant process. This was not aesthetic - this was necessary. Beyond the investment of money, there has been the investment of time and pain and social awkwardness. I've put a lot into this stupid tooth.

And now the tooth next to it is twisted.

So.

To make all of this pain and time and money worthwhile, I will need to invest a little pain and time and money into orthodontia.

I am 48 years old.

I do not have the whitest teeth in the world - but they have always been straight. When I first broke the tooth that caused all of this trouble - some 40 odd years ago - I remember the dentist shaking his head and telling my mother with great sadness in his voice, "It's a shame. I've rarely seen such a perfect bite."

And now I'm getting braces.

I went to the orthodontist yesterday for a consultation.

Orthodontist's offices are very - kid friendly.

As I was touring the bright, kid-friendly facility, I had a hot flash. Are you effing kidding me with this? Just keep heaping on those humiliations. I've survived old, fat and toothless - I can take anything. Bring it on.

I don't know what I was hoping he'd say, but I know I WASN'T hoping that he'd add another 3 months (or so - whatever that means...) to the time I'll have to wait for my crown and my smile.

But that's what he did.

That is just what he did.

Rule Breaker

2011-03-31T05:35:00.000-07:00

I am, in general, a rule follower. I respect authority and fear retribution. I have probably mentioned these attributes of my personality before, but they bear repeating.

Once - when Lea was much younger - I didn't feed her exactly what she wanted for dinner and she refused to eat what I'd prepared. She stomped off to her room screaming, "You DO know it's against the law to starve your children, right?" I reminded her that not serving her whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it did not constitute starvation. Her retort? A very loud, "How does it feel to be a LAW BREAKER"?

A few months ago, I was given an iPad for work. I signed a waiver saying that I would only use it for work purposes. I didn't find many reasons to use it in that capacity and it sat dormant in my tote bag.

A few days ago, Tom and I started flirting with the idea of an e-reader of some sort. I've been a hold out for all of the reasons you hear from anyone who is a hold out - which basically boil down to: I like books. I like albums, too, but that doesn't mean I don't have an mp3 player, y'know? The future - no - the present - is there. I need to catch up. Tut has a Kindle, for Pete's sake! The man isn't allowed to have a cell phone, but he has a Kindle! My father is more technologically advanced than I am! I should be ashamed of myself.

So we decided - I have the iPad in my possession for two more months - I should give it a test run. A few months ago someone in the organization in a position of some authority over me told me to go ahead and use the iPad - download some apps, read some books - we all do - that waiver is just a CYA sort of thing.

Well, fear-er of retribution that I am, covering my ass is a process I am fond of and have great respect for.

But I also thought it would be silly to not see what the whole fuss was about while I had an opportunity to do so at no expense to myself.

So I set off to find a book to download.

I was feeling quite the rebel.

I didn't want to invest in my experiment, so I looked through the pages and pages and pages of free downloads that are available. I settled on one about serial killers. I sure do like that Dexter.

I started reading and was surprised (as every book lover seems to be when they make the switch) at how easy and pleasant it was to read this way. I still like books - and will continue to buy them, I'm sure - but I do see an e-reader of some sort in my future.

But you don't want to hear about that.

The first chapter of my first e-book on my work iPad - work which, by the way, involves working with young children - contained one of the most graphic rape-murder-rape (oh yeah, it went there...) scenes I've ever read. Maybe not, I don't know - but certainly the most graphic rape-murder-rape scene I've ever read on a device I was going to have to turn over to my supervisors in 2 months. I couldn't help seeing it through their eyes. Seeing ME through their eyes. And I looked like QUITE the sicko.

Fuck.

I couldn't have just downloaded an innocent romance. Something historical. Something educational, maybe. Something normal. Nope. I had to go straight for the sick shit. Brilliant.

Tom assures me we'll be able to erase every trace of it before I have to turn it in. He better be right.

This is what happens when habitual rule-followers attempt to break the rules. We break them GOOD.

Euphoria

2011-03-27T06:17:00.000-07:00

We went to a young musician's showcase yesterday and were really impressed by a local band called Chasing Euphoria. This isn't really going to be a squealy fangirl post, though. (Although with a little more exposure, it probably could turn into one. I have a major soft spot for KICK ASS female bassists. And ass she did kick. Another day, perhaps...)

No, not a squealy fangirl post, per se, although extreme fandom can lead to a state of euphoria. Beatlemania, anyone? Such intense fangirl love that it can't be contained and your body just doesn't know what to do with it - that sounds a bit euphoric to me. A rather manic side of euphoria, sure, but euphoria just the same.

Isn't that a great word? I tried to edit the last paragraph - 'euphoria' or forms of it were used too many times - 4 times in 4 sentences. Too much, by any reasonable editors standards. Yet - I didn't want to change it. Such a lovely word. Euphoria. There, I gave it a sentence all it's own. It's one of those words that could become a mantra - I could just repeat it over and over and never tire of hearing it. It's a soft, round, lovely, peaceful, enveloping word.

Euphoria.

Most of us only get fleeting glimpses of it. Once experienced, many lives have been wasted in pursuit of just one more glimpse. I saw it - felt it - once. I was under the influence of drugs, of course. Doctor drugs - hospital drugs - don't get excited. I felt completely pure and unencumbered by pain or worry or fear - I felt light and free and peaceful. It was a time (a moment? an hour? a day? I don't know - time lost meaning) of complete and utter clarity. I understood it all. My only desire was to be able to share this. I remember thinking - I must find a way to bring everyone to this place. Not everyone I love; EVERYone. Or maybe - in that time - I DID love everyone. Who knows? Drugs can be fun (when they're administered by trained professionals, of course. Don't try this at home. Un-prescribed drugs are bad, m'kay?).

The drugs, as they do, wore off.

Pain and worry and fear crept back in and set up camp. But it was different. Because I'd seen - felt - experienced - something different - something light and whole and true. I couldn't find it again, but I knew it was there. I believe it is there.

Billy Joel gorgeously speaks of sadness or euphoria in Summer, Highland Falls.

That audience is very subdued - the squealy fangirls and boys - like Mr. Joel himself - are all grown-up and respectable. But let me tell you - the first time I saw him - around 1977, I think - I was a veritable puddle of squealy fangirl goo. But that's beside the point. Although I think this may just be one of the loveliest songs ever written, I must respectfully disagree with the premise that it's either sadness or euphoria. Most of the time it's just somewhere in the mundane middle. Another singer/songwriter from the 70's, Barry Manilow, says, "my life goes along as it should. It's all very nice, but not very good." I like the Billy Joel song more, but think Barry Manilow nailed the sentiment better. Usually it's neither sadness nor euphoria. It just is.

Doesn't mean we can't, like the band whose name inspired this post, chase euphoria from time to time, though. It's a worthwhile pursuit.

Love Songs

2011-03-23T02:00:00.000-07:00

"Why are there so many love songs?"

Thus queried my eldest. Her parental units responded, as I am sure you can guess, by singing a few spontaneous verses of "Silly Love Songs" - off key, sure, but at least we were loud. We even harmonized a little. "Your father shall be henceforth known as Sir Paul Daddy!" I proclaimed. "I don't want to be Linda in her current state, though", I added, much less ceremoniously and perhaps a bit unnecessarily.

There are so many love songs, of course, because artists are inspired by love. Looking for love, finding love, making love, losing love, mourning love - I don't have any facts in front of me to back it up, but I imagine that those topics comprise a pretty darn disproportionate number of all of the songs ever written. Throw in love of friends/family/pets, love of God, love of country, love of cheeseburgers/alcohol/drugs and love of motor vehicles and - well - I think you would be hard pressed to come up with a song that ISN'T about love in one way or another under those parameters.

Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs. And what's wrong with that?

Now I couldn't write a song to save my life (although I make a damn fine collaborator, if I say so m'self). My attempts at poetry would best be compared to the attempts of an average fourth grader (no offense intended towards any fourth graders who may be reading).

Sometimes I wish I could, though.

Wouldn't if be wonderful to have a song written just about you? (I have. It is.)

A couple years ago I wrote a blog post for my eldest, my Lea, on her birthday. When she told her friends this, some of them didn't know what a blog post was and her response was, "It's kind of like when normal people write you a song." Ok, I don't know what 'normal people' she'd been hanging out with (Sir Paul Daddy and I generally discourage too much association with the 'norms')- writing each other songs all willy nilly - but there you go.

If I COULD write her a song, though - oh, Lordy - it couldn't be confined to a song - it would have to be a rock opera in three acts. The first act would open with a gentle song about the sweet mother-love I felt for her before she was even born. This would lead into a rather interesting medley of silly play songs and sweet lullabies interspersed with regular segments of discordant collicky cries. There would be songs about pride and songs about disappointment. Mostly pride, though. Very heavy on the pride. There would be an emotionally heavy song about how fast she is growing up right before the end of the first act. The second act would open with a punk-rebellion anthem. The second act, come to think of it, would contain a lot of punk. And a little emo. But mostly punk. There will be dueling banshees. More pride. More disappointment. Mostly pride, though. Very heavy on the pride. Act three? The curtain hasn't risen on that act yet. Who knows what it will hold? I'd be willing to bet, though, that there will be a silly love song or two. There almost always is.

Sorry it's not really a song, Sweet Child O' Mine, but it's what I've got.

Happy birthday, Lea. I love you like music.

(Back to back birthday posts! I think I have that out of my system for a couple months... Oh! And I hope you click through on the links - and on some of the links within them - and let me know what you think. Lea's 13 y/o birthday post was much more poignant... and the 'damn fine collaboration' deserves a listen...)

Worth It

2011-03-20T03:47:00.000-07:00

I have mentioned more than once in this space that I don't particularly love living in a.) the suburbs and b.) Ohio. This is the story of how we got here:

In late 1998, we were living in the southern part of New Jersey. The commute to the beach was as far as my current commute to Columbus - that is to say - it was a darn easy commute. I was an hour from Philadelphia (my favorite city in the world) and about 2 hours from New York in one direction and the Poconos in the other. Yep, the location was pretty ideal for me. Lea was an adorable toddler at two and Liv was still my sweet baby - just short of her first birthday. We had both friends and acquaintances nearby - although the age of our children precluded us from having much of a social life.

Hmmmm, you might be saying, that particular situation doesn't appear to be broken. Why did you feel the need to fix it?

Well, I'll tell you. Be patient. Sheesh.

That summer my sister announced her first (and only, as it played out) pregnancy. She is my only sister and, as such, my only shot at the coveted title of Aunt. I could not wait to be an aunt. Also - as I said, Liv was approaching her first birthday and we knew she was to be our last child. That was a good decision, and the right one, but I wasn't quite through with my need to be around babies. My sister was bringing me a new baby to adore, and I couldn't have been happier.

Except...

Except this new baby would be in Ohio and I would be in New Jersey. There wasn't money for me to fly out to see her with any degree of regularity and the mere thought of a 10+ hour drive with two toddlers in tow was enough to send me into a tizzy. THAT wasn't going to happen with any degree of regularity. I would - realistically - only see that baby when my sister and I both visited our parents - conveniently located at the halfway point between Ohio and New Jersey. So that would only be likely to happen a couple times a year, and then I'd have to share the baby with my parents. It's pretty common knowledge that grandmas trump aunts!

I needed to know that baby.

The more I thought about it, the sadder I became.

Now Tom, if I haven't mentioned it before, is a helluva guy. He wanted to fix this for me. "We will move", he said. "We will put you where you need to be." He asked if I wanted to move closer to my parents or closer to my sister. That was a no-brainer. That powerful high that one gets from deeply sniffing babies heads was in Ohio. That was where I needed to be. My sister's baby wasn't born yet - and mine weren't yet out of diapers - but I was jonesing hard for that next fix.

Because it was late 1998 and Tom was a computer programmer, relocating was as easy as falling off of a log. Everyone was afraid of the Y2K bug and a good programmer could pretty much name his price. As a teacher, I had always worked hard to find jobs. As a programmer, employers seemed to work hard to find him. Within a couple weeks of making our decision, Tom had a couple solid offers on the table. Selling the house was a little harder, but that's another story for another day.

We moved into our house here in Ohio in February of 1999 and my niece made her grand entrance shortly thereafter. I was hosting a baby shower for her mom - my sister - which was no small feat since I didn't know anybody here yet and I didn't really know my way around town, but - it wasn't to be a surprise, so my sister helped. Invitations were sent, food was prepared/ordered, favors were in place - we were good to go.

Except...

A couple days before the shower was scheduled, we got the call that Tom's uncle had passed away. The funeral was to be the same day as the shower. We had to be there. So - plans shifted - as they do. My parents, who were supposed to be guests at the shower ended up taking on weekend long babysitting for my little ones as well as all of my hostess duties. I left a note - where to pick up what and when. The party was well-planned, it should run itself. No worries. Off to the funeral - about 8 hours away - Tom and I went.

Meanwhile, back in Ohio, my sister was not having any fun at her shower. She felt crummy and went upstairs to ride it out. Must've been something she ate. Party food, don'tcha know? Except it kept getting worse and worse and - somehow between caring for my munchkins and monitoring the flow of the party, my mom realized that my sister was missing. She found her in her bedroom and in a lot of pain. "We need to get you to the hospital", my RN mom determined after talking to her for only a few moments.

Long story short, we always say that party must have been so fun that my niece didn't want to miss it. Gotta love a baby shower where the hostess is a no show, the guest of honor leaves in an ambulance and the party guests clean up the house.

Tom and I rushed home the next morning, anxious to meet my niece.

She had come early - she was so tiny - she was hooked up to so many machines - "may I hold her?" I asked - tentatively - almost afraid of her - so frail and small. "Of course", was my sister's quick answer. I picked her up - so carefully - and I brought her little head to my face. I breathed her air and all was well. I was madly in love. She owned me.

She still does.

Happy birthday, sweetness. I might not love Ohio, but I sure do love you.

Anatomy of an Update

2011-03-17T05:20:00.000-07:00

So Tom and I just watched Fat Head - an answer to (and parody of) Super-Size Me - which attempted to put a little perspective on the whole issue of fast food. After watching Super-Size Me, we gave up fast food completely (completely!) for a year (a WHOLE year!). We felt very good about this and may or may not have engaged in a little 'superior dance' once or twice over the course of that year. The point is - Super-Size Me worked. It threw a serious scare into us. I clearly remember the day we found ourselves in a position where there just really didn't seem to be any other choice - too many back to back errands/traffic/appointments - I don't remember the particulars, but what I do remember is that first bite into a McDonald's double cheeseburger after a year of deprivation. I have no words in my meager arsenal to begin to describe the sinful lusciousness that that first bite imparted.

Picture the traditional depiction of Eve in the garden of Eden with the apple - except instead of Eve, it's me and instead of the garden of Eden, it's the drive-thru and instead of an apple, it's a double cheeseburger.

Anyway, we all agreed that the few opportunities we'd had to do the 'superior dance' didn't in any way make up for the convenience and deliciousness of fast food. We didn't go nuts. We used it as an occasional thing - once or twice a month on the average. Sure, every now and then I'd look at a french fry dropped by one of the kids in the back seat and think (with no small pang of guilt) "that is never going to decompose". But then I'd remind myself that it's not like I'm feeding them this stuff 3 times a day, or every day, or even every week. It's fine.

Fat Head confirmed this, and I tend to like things that confirm what I already believe.

It also reminded us that carbs are evil.

Not all carbs and everything in moderation and all of that, but, you know.

So we decided it might be time to try to watch. (We don't say diet around here. Diets don't work. And also they suck and I hate their ugly faces. But, you know, how bad can it be to 'watch'?) We agreed to start tracking our food intake. There's an app for that! It'll be fun!

After about 2 days of 'watching' our carb intake (as well as calories and fat and - hey! Is this starting to sound like a die-die-diet to anyone?) Tom said "screw this action", bought some new pants, and ate a sandwich. I am still recording every morsel that passes my lips because I need to have something with which to be obsessed - besides - I was starting to feel a little less miserable and we can't have that. Nothing like a little obsessive deprivation to return things to the status quo.

So last night I was feeling so carb-deprived I couldn't think of anything else. I wanted pancakes and cupcakes and birthday cakes and wedding cakes and snack cakes and cake wrecks and cakecakecakecakecake. I did not, for any inquiring minds that may want to know, indulge in any. The desire for it did not override the fear of what it would look like in my food diary. Being the sort of person who has no trouble changing from one obsession to another, I decided to unwind and get my mind off things (things like buttercream frosting and rich devil's food and raspberry filling and.......) by spending a little time on Facebook.

I typed in my status update:

God did not design us to exist on this few carbohydrates.

Wait.

If I hit enter on this one, I'll bring on a rash of shit from my friends who don't believe that any god designed us one way or another. The "G" word tends to send them into conniptions. I don't want to deal with that. Let's try:

We have evolved into a species that should not be expected to exist on this few carbohydrates.

Wait.

If I hit enter on this one, I'll bring on a rash of shit from my friends who believe that people rode dinosaurs. The "E" word tends to send them into conniptions. I don't want to deal with that. Let's try:

I want cake.

Wait.

If I hit enter on this one, no one will say anything right to me (although they might - there are a lot of assholes at this punchbowl known as the internet) but I could just hear, "Fat chicks. Always with the cake."

I ended up avoiding the issue and shutting the laptop for the night.

Screw this action, I'm gonna have a sandwich. (No, not an ice cream sandwich. But a girl can dream.)

Leave a Message at the Tone

2011-03-10T04:17:00.000-08:00

Remember answering machines?

I loved them.

Sure, they came into my life at a time when I was living by myself and working and dating and - well - let's just say it was easier to run out for milk or pop in on the neighbors or - you know - bathe - when I knew that none of those things would actually cause me to miss a call. But it was more than that. There was an art to filling that time between "You have reached...." and "beeeeeeep". It was a very specific amount of seconds and the timing needed to be just right.

Some people got it right once and left it that way forever. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

I was not one of those people.

sidenote: My parents were - and for the longest time, their message ended with my dad making a looooooong snorting sound. It sounded like he was doing a huge line of blow, which - in case you do not know my dad - he most assuredly was not. I didn't tell him for a long time, though, because I'm simple and it amused the hell out of me. When I did tell him, I refrained from eluding to illicit drug use and just told them there was a long snort. "Oh, Tut! How could you do that? You sound ridiculous! Here! Let me..."

Anyway.

I wasn't one to come up with clever things to actually say - although I was acquainted with a few people who did and I loved listening to their messages. No, to the surprise of - I'm sure - no one, mine all used music. I had a girlfriend who said she'd decide if she'd leave a message for me or not based on the music on my answering machine. J. Geils Band, Love Stinks? No message. Katrina and the Waves, Walking on Sunshine? Message and a callback number if she wasn't home. I changed my messages as my moods changed (which was - if you haven't caught on yet, or if you're new here - a lot).

I lived in an attic efficiency apartment at the time. (Go ahead and process that. Attic. Efficiency. I remember swearing that if one more person told me my place was 'cute'.....) In the summer, it was hot. Like - ridiculously hot. I had a room air conditioner in my only window, but - although it was very small as far as apartments go, it was pretty large as far as rooms go. Plus, I believe I may have mentioned that it was in the attic. I tried really hard not to be home much that summer. Folks who left messages on my answering machine were treated to Spinal Tap, Living in a Hell Hole. Every message my mom left for me that summer - without fail - began with, "Tammy, I don't like that." Surprisingly, this was not a huge deterrent.

Once - same apartment, different season - I spent more time than I want to admit getting the timing just right so that Aerosmith's F.I.N.E. would end exactly with "Joe Perry says I'm alright..." just before the tone.

Yes, I led a full, rich life.

The first time I called Tom and he wasn't home, I heard, "I can't answer the phone right now, because I'm busy watching G.I. Joe" followed by a perfectly timed, "GO JOE!" from the TV right before the beep. Was there a chance in hell I wasn't going to marry this man? Conversely, the potential beau whose answering machine message was backed by the smooth stylings of a Kenny G. soundtrack never stood a chance. And the one whose answering machine message had the music from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure - you know - when they briefly went into the future? - I was all ready to like him until I found out that his sister had actually made the message for him and then I felt sort of deceived and like I could never really trust him.

I was thinking (no! come back!) - the Facebook profile picture has become a lot like the answering machine message. Some people hide their faces with logos or cartoons or - whatever. I liken them to the folks who would buy canned answering machine messages. Then there are the folks who haven't changed their profile picture in three years. They're the, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" lot. There are the people who use pictures of their kids or their pets. Oh boy, the answering machine world had that, too. People thought it would be cute to have their toddlers voices on their answering machines, but usually it was just unintelligible and frustrating (speaking as someone who did not yet have kids in the hey days of the answering machine).

side note: I've never written out 'hey day' before and was unsure as to whether it was actually hey day or hay day. A quick (and in no way inclusive) Google search informs me that either is acceptable and that there is etymology to support both. Now you've learned something new today. Go back to bed.

And then there are the people like me - who change their pictures often - usually in direct correlation with a mood shift.

My current picture is smiling - no, laughing. That is not exactly an accurate depiction of my current state. But I think I'm gonna keep it up. Fake it till you make it. I'm walking on sunshine - hey-yeah - and don't it feel good?

You Didn't Count on Me When You Were Counting on Your Rosary

2011-03-08T04:40:00.000-08:00

I became aware of Lent when I was in elementary school. My friends were loudly lamenting the things they had given up and I wanted in on it. Not a lot I like better than a good lament.

That evening, my mother served chocolate custard for dessert. Now pudding in general and custard in particular are my very favorite go-to comfort foods. It was true then, and it's true now. She put a bowl of chocolaty goodness in front of me and I pushed it away. I purposefully turned my head away from the treat while holding it at bay with my hand and trying to muster up a few tears of piety.

"Is something wrong with the pudding?"

"I'm sure it's fine. Delicious even. But, you see", I paused to emphasize the gravity of what I was about to disclose, "I've given up chocolate for Lent."

"We are not Catholic, Tammy Lu."

The issues I had over not being Catholic had been ongoing. I was very jealous of my Catholic classmates who were going to catechism classes to prepare for their first holy communions and getting dresses that made them look like brides, for Pete's sake. I would've broken quite a few rules for the opportunity to wear one of those beautiful dresses with the sweet little white patent leather shoes and the to-die-for headpieces.

"I'm not doing it for Catholic. I'm doing it for Jesus." Jesus was successfully pronounced in two syllables, but they were really long syllables. Mom rolled her eyes and offered my share of dessert to my father and my sister. I felt very righteous. Hungry. Deprived. Righteous.

I may or may not have maintained my resolve through Easter.

In high school and college I continued to engage in Lenten sacrifice, even though it was not required in the faith of my family. But I didn't want to go the childish, cliche route of candy or treats anymore. I wanted to think of things that would truly be a sacrifice. I'm sure my college roommates remember the six weeks I gave up (the award winning) Guiding Light. Hey, this was before the days of VCRs, much less DVRs. Even though they faithfully relayed all of the storylines to me daily, it wasn't the same. That was a sacrifice.

So I knew about Lent. I knew about the giving up part. I knew about Palm Sunday and Ash Wednesday and the last supper and all of that. All of those things were acknowledged by my family's faith (or, in the case of Ash Wednesday, once again illustrated by those lucky, lucky Catholic kids who came to school with smudges on their foreheads. I really really wanted one of those smudges.) But it wasn't until years later that I learned about Fat Tuesday.

I had actually gotten over my obsession with Catholicism by that point, after having taken some classes with the purpose of conversion in mind. When the practice of the faith was presented to me instead of the accoutrements associated with it, my (at that point) lifelong fervor disseminated. It was not for me.

Enter Mardi Gras.

Really? All those years I engaged in the sacrificing part of this season without ever knowing about the day of the most justifiably decadent celebration of debauchery and hedonism of the whole year? I am a fan of decadence, debauchery and hedonism, for Pete's sake. Big fan, actually. My Catholic friends knew this. How could they have been so - withholding?

Once discovered, I celebrated more in theory than in practice. Tuesday is a school/work/school night, after all. And when one is not actually following through with Lenten sacrifice it sort of loses some of its steam.

But it's a good theory. Mardi Gras beads followed by repentant sessions with the rosary beads.

Sigh.

I DID have a chocolate chip cookie for breakfast this morning, mad hedonist that I am. I'll repent under the oral surgeon's scalpel this afternoon.

Somehow Mardi Gras, just like communion dresses and ash smudges, looks like a lot more fun when other people are doing it.

Nobody was throwing beads in the carpool lane this morning.

Clouds in My Coffee

2011-03-06T04:08:00.000-08:00

I had some dreams...

I was never a big dreamer - and yet I dream all the time. It isn't the quantity of my dreams that is modest, it is the dreams themselves. I have always longed for very average things. I never wanted to be rich or famous - and am often actually quite glad I'm not! - but I did fantasize about what it would be like to have more money and recognition than I have. Not a lot. Not the most. Not the 'est', though a little 'er' would be nice.

But that's how it starts, isn't it?

I never wanted to be the head-turner who breaks hearts just by walking into a room - what a great lot of pressure that must be! - but I did fantasize a lot about being thinner. Prettier. Not the thinnest. Not the prettiest. Not the 'est', though a little 'er' would be nice.

But that's how it starts, isn't it?

... that would be all that I needed... ~ Take, Take, Take, The White Stripes

My most prominent dream, in my twenties and thirties, was to find someone to love, who would love me in return, and to build a family with them. This dream did not exactly make me unique. As it goes with dreams, when one comes true, we develop more.

Can anybody find me somebody to love? ~ Somebody to Love, Queen

I fell in love. We started a family. We were, if you'll pardon the cliche, living the dream. We bought our first home and became - typical. If you read that with a tone of disdain, go back and read it again. Typical was not intended as a slur. Typical had been my goal. I was a very happy typical stay at home mom. I adored my husband and my children were my world. Weekends were devoted to home improvement projects which we approached with the confidence reserved for people who haven't experienced failure yet. Allow me to elaborate. We had both experienced failure by that point in our lives, but never in this particular arena. We changed things - made that house our own - worked towards making it something in which we could place our pride.

A constantly improving house. A beautiful, loving family. The dreams of my twenties and thirties had come true.

Of course, it's human nature to dream, and having one dream come to fruition didn't mean it was over - it just meant it was time for a new dream.

Dream on, dream on, dream on, dream until your dreams come true. ~ Dream On, Aerosmith

Again, in a move that didn't make me particularly unique, I built those new dreams around my children. And again, in a move that was very much in character for me, those dreams were modest. I didn't want the pressure of 'est' for them, but I sincerely hoped they'd be 'er'.

Mostly, I told myself, I wanted them to be happy and healthy.

As they grew, so did my dreams for them. We provided them with every opportunity that we could afford to provide. As their personalities and interests began emerging, we nurtured them accordingly. Again - I realize that this makes us in no way unique. It's what parents do. It's typical.

Mostly, I told myself, I wanted them to be happy and healthy and successful in their chosen endeavors.

My dreams for them were simple and typical. Go to school, get a job that doesn't make you dread Monday morning too much, find a mate, be happy, and maybe, maybe, someday in the distant distant future, bring me a grandbaby or two to play with.

Sweet dreams are made of this. Who am I to disagree? ~ Sweet Dreams, The Eurythmics

This is pretty standard issue stuff.

It was the very typicality and simplicity of it that allowed me to assume that my dreams would mesh nicely with their goals.

I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee. ~ You're so Vain, Carly Simon

Recent events in the world, the nation, my state and my home have forced me to reevaluate my dreams. I've had to abandon a few. That's a lie. I've had to abandon almost all of them.

Is a dream a lie if it don't come true, or is it something worse? ~ The River, Bruce Springsteen

It's sad when dreams die. I think it's appropriate to mourn them. So many people in the past month have told me, essentially, to crawl out of myself. Some of them have expressed that sentiment with more eloquence and some with less, but the message is the same. Dreams die. Life goes on. Get with the program.

Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true. ~ Vienna, Billy Joel

That is exactly what I am trying to do. But to get with the new program, I first need to formulate some new dreams that are in keeping with the 'new normal'. I am fueled by dreams - again - I strongly doubt that this makes me in any way unique. And right now, I just don't know what the new dreams need to be. Bear with me. I'll figure it out. But until I do, I am in a transitional time - a time without dreams. For a dreamer like me, that is indeed a very uncomfortable - even unnerving - place to be.

Who said that every wish would be heard, and answered when wished on the morning star?... Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers and me. ~ The Rainbow Connection, Kermit the Frog

Women of a Certain Age

2011-02-23T08:47:00.000-08:00

I listened to a story this morning about women in the military. Now I was listening to the radio while driving on roads that were plagued with patchy ice, so my attention was certainly divided. I became alert, however, when the woman being interviewed - a woman credited with breaking through a glass ceiling or two in the 1960's and 1970's - talked about why women, while allowed to enlist, were not permitted to go very high on the leadership ladder. Ready? It was that by the time a woman would have served enough time to be eligible for such a promotion she would be at the age where she was entering or nearing menopause and would therefore be unable to be trusted to make rational decisions.

As a woman I was offended.

As a wannabe feminist I was outraged.

As a woman at that stage of my own life, if I cocked my head at a certain angle,I could sort of see their point.

Oh, and just in case it doesn't go without saying: This is stuff for the history books. I don't know much about the military and won't pretend to, but I do know that we've come a long way, baby.

Anyway.

Since the hormones have - to elaborate on the military theme - staged their final attack, they have won every battle and seem poised to win the war. Some days I can't be trusted to make a decision about what to make for dinner without crying - I certainly wouldn't want to be responsible for making decisions that involved people's lives.

Ah - but here's the thing.

Contrary to what Chaka and Whitney and Oprah would like me to believe, I am NOT every woman. When I have felt that I was unable to complete the requirements of a job in a manner of which I could be proud, I would quit that job. (Usually by giving notice. Once by walking out. Oops.) Some women don't have that luxury and I ache for them. Some women don't respond to those cues and I ache for the people they have to work with, for and around.

But that's me.

My experience has been rough.

I knew it would be - everything hormonally related has been rough for me.

Some people are like that.

Some people aren't. The girls who always got their period on time and never got cramps (well, maybe a little twinge right at the beginning - more a reminder, really, than anything else) and never got zits and CERTAINLY never got migraines. I imagine those to be the girls who end up saying, "I just had my period one month and didn't the next and haven't since" type of people when they hit menopause. I try not to hate those people, because it isn't their fault they hit the hormone jackpot. But sometimes it's hard, my friend. Sometimes it's hard.

Those women make it rough on the rest of us, too. They never have mood swings and are as clueless as to how to handle ours as men are. They never have hot flashes and always sleep straight through the night and are less than sympathetic when we're bitchy.

I haven't slept longer than 2 hours in a row since somewhere around 2003.

Just think about that next time you want to call me a bitch. It's not that you wouldn't be right, or justified. It's just that - well - I haven't slept longer than 2 hours in a row since somewhere around 2003.

So maybe one of the mucketies in the military in the 60's had a wife or a mother or a sister or a mistress (hey, who am I to judge?) who was going through it my way. If that was his model for all women, well - you can sort of see why he might not want us commanding troops.

I know not every woman has it this bad.

You know not every woman has it this bad.

But he didn't. That subject was so taboo back then, I'm surprised he even knew what it was.

Who can forget the 1972 episode of All in the Family when Edith Bunker was going through 'the change' and Archie gave her 30 seconds to hurry up and change already? (ok, who who is going through or has gone through menopause, or is a male in the age group of the preceding women can forget...) Which was silly. Because it took her the whole 30 minute episode. Minus commercial breaks.

Kitty took almost a whole season to navigate her way through it on That 70's Show.

So we were getting closer. But nobody prepared me for the better part of a decade...

Of not sleeping longer than 2 hours in a row.

And that's only one of the symptoms. That's the one I'm willing to lay out here, but along the road there have been many many dignity defying symptoms. I am having enough respect for you to keep them a mystery. You're welcome. (But they're bad. So, so bad. *shudder*)

Oh, and by the way - I know about all the hormone treatments and herbs and exercise and dietary changes and so on and so on scooby dooby dooby that are supposed to make this time more tolerable for me and everyone in my path, I've even briefly tried a couple. I can't really articulate why, but they're not for me. Besides, natural relief - in the form of making it to the other side - changing already - is right around the corner, right?

RIGHT?

RIGHT??

RIGHT???

Oh, please, for the love of all that's holy, RIGHT???

PS - less than 5 days left in February! Yay!

Heroes and Sheroes and Friends

2011-02-17T06:21:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about heroes, and not just because I think more people should wear capes more often.

Although I totally do.

Think that, that is.

Ahem.

Anyway.

When I was still teaching, we talked about heroes and sheroes - because little boys have sort of always been brought up with hero role models, but little girls sometimes needed a little reminder that they could be heroes, too. I didn't want them sitting in a tower waiting for the kiss of a handsome prince to save the day. I wanted to encourage girl power without taking anything away from the boys. You want to play princess? Groovy. Wear the tiara. Dance at the ball in a twirly gown. But slay the dragon on your own, baby.

It went - ok.

I've been known to work up a good lather talking about Disney princess culture.

Someday your prince may come. Or he may not. Or he may come and go. Or there may be a stream of princes. Or maybe other princesses are your gig. It's all good. But NONE of it results in happily ever after. Happily ever after is a myth. Why do we insist upon teaching generation after generation of little girls otherwise? Happy enough most of the time would be a SUPER great goal to strive for. And it doesn't really take anything away from the story. We could still see them leaving their wedding in their carriage waving good-bye while reading, in some fancy pants royal font, and they continued to live happily enough, most of the time. The End.

I thought Shrek and Fiona took us giant ogre steps in the right direction.

I believe everything I am telling you.

So why did I tell you just a few days ago that I was disappointed that there had been no knight in shining armor? No hero?

I just don't know.

I guess it was so deeply ingrained in me to hold out for a hero that - even though I covered it up with decades of 'you go, girl' - when faced with a crisis, I still felt like a damsel in distress. I wanted to be rescued from the tower, I wanted love's true kiss, I wanted someone to say, "a s you wish", I wanted to be swept away on the back of a stolen police motorcycle, I wanted someone to lift me up where I belonged.

Way to go, Paula!

Holy cow, that's romantic stuff! At least one of those references made you gasp a tiny little bit, I bet.

Me, too.

Sigh.

Where was I? Oh yeah - heroes. More specifically, being your own hero. Slaying your own dragons.

Well, here's the thing.

Dragon slaying is hard.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if we asked for a little help. Again - Shrek and Fiona setting a great example. Except they would never try to slay Dragon. But you know what I mean. It doesn't make you less of a hero if you ask for a little help. It makes you a TOTAL hero if you extend your hand and offer help when someone asks. But it doesn't make the one who asked in any way weak or frail or helpless. It just means they were smart enough to know when they were too tired to fight alone any more and they needed to call for reinforcements.

So.

Be your own hero, but know your limits.

I've heard from a pretty good source that we all can get by with a little help from our friends.

Thanks, friends.

Tammy and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Month

2011-02-14T07:10:00.000-08:00

I went to sleep with wild thoughts in my head and now there's an uncomfortable wildness to my mood and I could tell - it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad month.

That's what it was, because the month came in on a huge storm that turned everything to cold and ice and gray and my heart feared that it would never see the sun again. But the storm subsided and the kids were going back to school and maybe there was light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how hypothetical or fabricated that light might be. Except the night that should've been filled with choosing outfits for that first day back to school and remembering to set alarm clocks was filled instead with ambulances and hospitals and I could tell - it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad month.

I wanted to run away to Australia.

That's what it was, all right, because the officer standing in my living room told me that all of my sweet child's problems were brought on by me. I told him I was being responsible. I told him I knew a little something about child development. I think I told him those things - it's hard to remember. I know he dismissed me and blamed me. In my own house. I told him she was in the grips of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad monster. He laughed and called it the teenage trifecta.

I knew he was wrong while I wondered if he was right.

What if he was right?

Are officers that mean and disrespectful in Australia?

It was the beginning of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad month.

That's what it was, because after the ride in the ambulance and the night in the hospital, they said, "we have bad news". I wondered if they couldn't wait to tell me the bad news when the sun was shining enough to help me hear it, but that's not the way hospitals like to operate. Maybe in Australia, but not here.

More visits to doctors and therapists and specialists - it seems like there is a visit every day! I drive and I write checks and I hear bad news. I said, "I feel like a wallet with wheels!" Nobody responded. I yelled, "I am taking my wallet and my wheels and heading for Australia!" Nobody knew what to do with that. I screamed, "I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad month!" Nobody seemed to listen.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad month, all right, because in the middle of the appointments and the accusations and the guilt, the guilt, the guilt, I got myself involved in an online argument with someone I didn't even know. He said horrible things and I didn't respond to them, but I carried them in my heart. I waited for a knight in shining armor to come to my emotional rescue, somebody who knew right from wrong and could sort it all out, but nobody did. Knights show up for beautiful princesses, not for useless middle-aged mothers in crisis and ESPECIALLY not if those useless middle-aged mothers are fat, because everyone knows that's the most useless kind of all. Besides, the good potential knights gently informed me, you can't fight with an asshole and you never win with an asshole and he's an asshole, what are you gonna do? (Castles don't even have phones, asshole.) The good knights wisely rose above it. I knew it was the wise thing to do, but I couldn't do it, even though I tried very hard. I struggled and strangled alone.

I knew he was wrong while I wondered if he was right.

What if he was right?

Are assholes that mean and disrespectful in Australia?

What a terrible, horrible, no good, very fucking bad month!

That's what it was, because I took an additional part time job. Very menial. Very humbling. But I took it because ambulance rides aren't free and all the doctors and therapists and specialists say we probably haven't taken our last. But when I went to do the job today, it was like the instructions were written in Swahili, which I don't think they even know how to read in Australia. I couldn't make anything make any sense. I started to sweat. I started to shake. I couldn't think and I couldn't work and I wasn't even sure I remembered how to breathe.

So I left.

I sent a conscious message for each step to my brain and I walked right out to my car and drove myself home.

It was irresponsible.

It was unreliable.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad thing to do, and I did it.

Because I couldn't remember how to do anything else.

I let people down.

I simply - couldn't.

Do people have panic attacks in Australia?

I have had enough of this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad month.

And it's only half way over.

I guess some months are like that. Even in Australia.

lol your fat

2011-02-11T05:27:00.000-08:00

That's the sort of retort big gals who try to take a stand for themselves get a lot of. No capitalization or punctuation and the wrong form of you're - the people who make these retorts aren't usually guilty of having a place reserved for them in the brain trust. Somehow, poking fun at their lack of skills with punctuation and grammar doesn't provide much consolation.

The damage is done.

Who's likely to find wider acceptance in the world - someone with a healthy respect for the proper usage of language or someone who dots their (they're? there? giggle, giggle, I never know...) i's with hearts, but rocks a bikini?

Don't bother to answer that, it was rhetorical.

Now I don't mean to imply that brains and (traditionally accepted) beauty are necessarily exclusive of one another. Of course they are not, to imply otherwise would be grossly unfair. I simply meant to illustrate that if it were an either/or situation, beauty would be the route to take for wider acceptance.

It's not a road that's open to all of us.

Does that make us less worthy of respect?

Does that make us simply less?

It shouldn't.

But I wonder.

Because some casual, careless comment forces me to wonder every single day.

Does it?

I have been trying to be nicer lately. I have been trying to stay away from the mean, sarcastic form of humor that I was once so drawn to. I have been trying to surround myself with nice - I have been trying to be a nicer person. I sometimes fail - but I am trying. There's something to be said for that.

I have a great deal of respect for nice.

There is nothing respectable in mean.

Sure, it'll get you the fast, cheap laugh.

But knowing I made someone laugh with a casual one-liner would never pass as an excuse or a consolation for knowing that I made someone cry.

So.

Obviously, someone said something mean to me today when I was not expecting it - they caught me off guard and threw me into a tizzy - which, admittedly, is not a difficult thing to do these days. So here's how I'd like to retaliate: I'd like to catch someone off guard and say something sweet to them that they're not expecting. I bet that could cause a reaction that could have a lasting effect, too. Will you try it with me? Something nice - something kind - something affirming - to someone who will never see it coming - we'll combat senseless meanness with sweetness.

Do it for me.

Let me know how it goes.

Reverse bullying. Let's make it a trend.

lol your nice

Let's Get Lit

2011-01-27T04:12:00.002-08:00

Yep, it's been a week of enlightenment for yours truly.

It all started with my quest to comfortably furnish the music room. After the disaster with the ginormous chairs, I was ready to give up. Once bitten twice shy, baby. When furniture stores started advertising great New Years sales, however, the need to have somewhere to rest my ample ass while other family members watched shows in which I had no interest resurfaced. After much deliberation, hand-wringing and anticipated regret, I purchased a new sofa. And unlike the chairs of comfortably overstuffed monstrosity, not only did I love it, but it fit the room as well. Yay.

Now the main reason I wanted a sofa in the other room was so that I could read. The music room is the one room in the house that does not have a ceiling light fixture. We had an old (Tom had it when I met him, and I think it was old then) floor lamp that we used. It did not suit the room - or me - but it served its purpose. Tom and the girls were the only ones who used that room, and they thought it was fine. When the sofa entered the picture and I became more of a fixture, though, it had to go.

My new floor lamp arrived from CSN stores yesterday. I had a little trouble putting it together and had to enlist Tom to help. He proceeded to laugh at me, because it was pretty simple. (I'll go ahead and say it for you - but so am I.) We're really pleased with the ability to direct light in several directions and I just like how the lamp looks in the room. If I hadn't made such a big deal of it, you wouldn't even know it was there - and that's just what I wanted. Something that looked like it belonged so naturally that you don't even stop to notice it.

So what to do with the old floor lamp?

Well, we moved it to the family room. I thought it would look awful. I've mentioned how awful I always thought it looked in the music room. But it didn't. It looked - good. I couldn't believe the difference a lamp made in a room -a much different feel from the overhead light - much homier. I said to Tom, I said, "How did we not know this before? It's like we're not even grown ups." I've just never paid attention to lighting. Is it light enough to see? Light enough to knit? Light enough to read? Then it's light enough.

I stand corrected. Firmly, firmly corrected.

I need more lamps. Lots more lamps. Lamps for every room. Lamps, lamps, lamps. How many lamps do I need, you ask? ALL of them.

I've got my sights set on this to replace the new old family room lamp, eventually. I had originally wanted this one for the music room, but it wouldn't have worked behind my sofa. The lowest fixture would've been obscured. Or maybe this would be a better fit for the room? I don't know. I definitely like the first one better, but then, I liked those big ass chairs, too. There's got to be a goodness of fit. Not a pressing thing. I have some time to mull it over.

But that's future dream light stuff at this point, and there is more actual new light in my life as I write this. When my SAD took a turn for the bitchy last week, Tom was forced into the realization that the lack of sunlight wasn't only going to affect me. He talked to a few folks, read a few articles, and scored a light box for me to try. A co-worker of his had used it to no avail, but different things work for different people. I'm going to give it a shot for a couple weeks - basking in its holy-mother-of-God-bright glow as I do my daily ~~socializing~~ important work and household related stuff on the computer. We shall see. I am optimistic, and that's something I haven't been much of for the past couple years - months - I don't know - how long has it been winter again?

I wish there were pictures accompanying this post. I took them. I downloaded them. My computer will not allow me to upload them to Blogger. I need a new computer. Yesterday. Contributions to the cause happily accepted. (I keed.)

Full disclosure: I was provided with a gift code from CSN which I used to purchase the floor lamp in exchange for the review, but this did not in any way influence the opinion I expressed.

Consider Joxer

2011-01-22T04:34:00.000-08:00

Since breaking our ties with the cable company, Liv has developed a full-on obsession with Xena: Warrior Princess on Netflix streaming. This delights Tom and I, as Xena and it's companion show (from which Xena actually sprang as an unplanned spin-off), Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, were must-see TV during our courtship and newlywed years. These masterpieces of modern television, with their sharp dialogue and cutting edge special effects, had crossover episodes and shared some recurring characters. (Part of the previous sentence should have been presented in the thus far elusive sarcasm font. I'll let you figure out which part.)

One of those recurring characters was a wannabe warrior named Joxer. The character page for Joxer on IMDb describes him as a Barney Fife type character, and I suppose that fits. I always thought of him as more of a Don Quixote. Perhaps I was influenced by his helmet.

Anyway.

He was not an unpopular character. Fans of the show, Tom and I included, were always happy when we realized that an episode would be featuring Joxer. He provided comic relief with his foolishness and inflated sense of self, but he was not entirely one-dimensional. He was fun.

In small doses.

Which was precisely how he was delivered.

Sometimes I feel like that's the role I play.

Not disliked by too many, actively liked by some - but only in small doses - and never to be taken too seriously. Posing and posturing and trying to make myself seem more important than I actually am.

A joke, or perhaps just a punchline.

A secondary character in the story of my own life.

On a not unrelated note? Winter sucks.

Reduce. Reuse. Redecorate.

2011-01-18T14:28:00.000-08:00

Those of you who follow me on facebook know that I just spent a long weekend at the beach. It was most rejuvenating and not nearly long enough. I won't bore you with details, but let's just say the weekend involved a lot of sunrises, seafood and spirits. I had all too rare one on one time with each of my daughters, each of my parents, and my husband. It was almost perfect.

But all good things must end, and by end, I mean come to a screeching halt.

But that's ok, I guess. I wouldn't have had the profound appreciation I did for the beautiful blue skies if I never had gray skies with which to compare them. The peaceful, almost zen-like feeling of calm that I had while waiting for the sun to rise wouldn't have been as intense if I didn't have the everyone is late for the bus and I need number 2 pencils for today and we're out of milk and oh by the way you need to sign this mornings with which to compare them.

It's all good.

So during one of those aforementioned one on one times with the husband - just him and me and raw oysters and steamed clams and shrimp and a pitcher of Long Islands and a few beers - I noticed a wreath on the wall of the establishment that was actually a lifesaver completely covered with bottle caps. It looked excellent, especially from across the room with a pitcher of Long Islands in me. Tom blanched a little bit when I expressed interest. We already save the corks from wine bottles (Which are becoming increasingly rare. Or maybe we're just buying cheaper wines...) to make these:

And the tabs from soda and beer cans to make these:

and these:

(credit where credit is due - my friend Sara was wearing a belt like this at the pre-party for our HS reunion this summer and I loved it. She/it was a total inspiration)

Currently I'm working on making a clutch bag from the soda/beer tabs. I don't have all of the logistics figured out, but it's going to be awesome.

And now I must have a bottle cap/lifesaver wreath.

"Where will you put such a thing?" inquired my handsome husband, no doubt wondering as well where we were going to put another receptacle for beverage related refuse.

"Above the bar!" I answered confidently.

"We don't HAVE a bar", he pointed out, and not erroneously.

I leaned across the table, my cheeks pink with vodka, tequila, rum and gin (and, by the way, whoever came up with the idea of combining all of that with a little triple sec, Coke and sweet and sour should have a monument built in their honor. Just sayin'.) and my eyes bright with enthusiasm. I got very close to his face, grabbed him by the collar and stage whispered, "We're gonna BUILD one!"

"We don't have any space to build a bar."

"We could make the girls share a room and use the other one as a bar."

He contemplated that idea for less than half a second before shutting it down. I guess beer doesn't lead to the same degree of creative thinking that liquor does.

"Well, we could build one in the basement." I had sunk back into my seat at this point and was approaching a pout with dangerous speed. And when momma(kin) ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. Multiplied by liquor. Ahem. So instead of reminding me that we don't have an outside door to our basement, thus rendering it unsafe as actual living space, he cautiously agreed that this was within the realm of possibility.

So.

As the fantasy bar in my basement unfolds, (he thought I'd forget I wanted a bar when I was sober! Silly man!) I need to think about furnishings. The folks at CSN are very very good to bloggers - and other folks as well! - so that was the first place I thought of for adjustable bar stools. They did not disappoint, with their excellent selection in a wide price range. I ruled out a few right away - because they might clash with my future potential wreath - but I am narrowing down my fantasy choices.

Now I just need someone to clean out my basement.

And build me a bar.

And possibly install a basement door.

Not me, though. I'll be too busy making the wreath.

I'm (sort of) Snowed In! Play With Me!

2011-01-11T09:25:00.000-08:00

Anyone who has spent a reasonable amount of time with my family knows that we play an ongoing and spontaneous game. It is never planned, but it frequently occurs. Our game is that someone will say something that reminds someone else of a lyric. Once that lyric has been sung, the rest of the family must join in, adding as many lyrics containing that word or phrase as they can. We're all good at it, but, at the risk of being immodest, I'm the best. You might even say I am the champion. I am IronMan, I am a rock, I am the egg man, I am woman hear me roar.....

Now anyone in my family will be happy to tell you that I am also the only one with no musical talent. The girls will tell you so very enthusiastically. Tom will tell you, too, but you'd have to ask and he'd answer with less zeal. He knows which side his bread is buttered on. He also knows the way to San Jose, what time it is and the muffin man.

If you're ever hanging out with us and we start something like this, nothing would delight us more than to have you join in. We're not exclusive or anything. I've mentioned our game here before, I believe. We've found that the easiest words to play are money, love and rain. The least musically inclined among us could have a nice solid run with any of those words.

So - why (do fools fall in love?, why Judy why?, why? because we like you) am I, the least musically inclined among us, the best at our musical little game? That's easy. Easy like Sunday morning, take it easy, ease on down the road. While their expertise is unquestioned regarding the music, I take more time to listen to the words. I can often spout off obscure, mostly forgotten lyrics, but I can't tell you the names of everyone in the band and who played what on which album. Tom is by far the family expert on that. Liv doesn't care. Lea and I are neck and neck, but she is poised to sprint ahead.

A good lyric will stay with me forever.

This all came about because, after my last post I had a lyric running all around in my brain (most of that was ALSO a lyric! Did you catch it???) and that lyric was:

Slow down, you crazy child, take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile. It's alright - you can afford to lose a day or two. ~Billy Joel, Vienna

It's irrelevant, now, which makes me almost profoundly sad - because that need to - well - take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile - still exists, even though technological advancements have made it a near impossibility.

Sigh.

Which led me to thinking about a bunch of other phone lyrics, many of which have been made irrelevant. Yep - phone is an easy word to play, but I'm gonna let you play it (or at least get it started - I can't always resist...)

Oh! And since I won't be able to hear you singing your lyric, if it's not super-obvious, maybe you could help me out by including the artist and or song title...

GO!

Call Me

2011-01-06T03:33:00.000-08:00

The plan is that we will be giving up our land line next month. I realize that this is not a huge thing - that it's what's done now. Tom wanted to do it months ago - years ago, really, but I balked. I didn't like my cell phone and sure didn't want to have to rely on it. There's some residual hearing loss from the height of the squealy fangirl days that has left me not thrilled with phones in general and cell phones in particular. They're hard for me. I like it when the phone rings and I can say, "Is someone gonna get that?" Unless it is very specifically for me, I can dodge it that way.

Ask my real life friends how often I call them.

My mother says that's why I don't have very many friends. "No one wants to be involved in a one-sided friendship, Tammy."

I try to explain that the friendships are reciprocal, it's just the phone calls that are not.

I wasn't always this way.

Ah, that's me on my corded phone in college circa February, 1981. IUP Turnbull Hall, holla! Pledge pin, size 5 jeans... sigh... I don't know who I was talking to (though I have a strong suspicion) but the look on my face certainly implies that he was dreamy...

I am old enough to have grown up with a party line. That's right. In my early adolescence, when I was giggling with my girlfriends on the corded, rotary dial phone, there was every possibility that either of my parents, my sister, or any member of another family that shared our line might pick up an extension at any time. I would go to my parents room to use their extension - for privacy - but privacy was obviously an illusion. There were two phones in my parents' house - the aforementioned one in their bedroom, and another in the kitchen. They still have a corded phone in their kitchen. I swear to God.

I will never forget the day - in my mid (ok, late-mid) twenties - when I went on a date with a boy who had a car phone. He also had a Corvette with personalized plates that alluded to his ability to elude the cops with the mad speeds his car could reach. Jealous yet? I thought you might be. The car phone was this huge console that sat between the two seats. This dude had his phaser set to 'impress the ladies'. (bonus points if you read that in the voice of The Ladies' Man. Yeah.)

photo borrowed from Johnny Goodtimes

And then - when I glanced at it - he asked if I wanted to use it. The phone, that is. I most certainly did. Do you know what I said to the girlfriend I called? Of course you do. "You're not going to believe where I'm calling you from!" Followed by, "Yeah, I think so." - this in response to her query as to whether or not he liked the top I'd settled on for the date. I'd called her earlier - from my GIANT cordless - because I was a little unsure about the propriety of said top for a first date. "Half my boobs are showing..."

"Top half or bottom half?"

"Top."

"You're probably ok, then."

Anyway, fast forward a couple few years (oh yes, we can't forward from that particular story fast enough...) to my own first cell phone. Part of my job was making home visits and it was viewed as a valuable tool. You know - for emergencies. I could call if I was running late, I could call if the directions I was given were unclear, and - most importantly - I would have it if my car broke down. That was the big one, right? "It's a good thing to have, if your car breaks down." I really did stick to the 'emergencies only' policy, too. Minutes were expensive. If I was conservative with them, I could be liberal in other areas of my life.

Going back to that corded phone at my parents' house - it goes without saying that if you called that line and no-one was home, it just rang and rang. If you called that line and one of us was on it, you got a busy signal.

I know this clip doesn't relate to phones, but it relates to grumpy old men and I like it! I love it!

I don't want to be the grumpy old woman - "And that's the way it was and we liked it! we loved it!" - but I swear - sometimes it would be nice to take the phone of the hook and be unreachable. We really don't have that option, now. Oh sure, we can 'go off the grid' for a day or two (or an hour or two) - but everything we missed is right there waiting for us when we get back - and most of us cannot resist the impulse to catch up. So - we are - essentially - always available to everyone.

I'd rather tell you that that's why I balked at losing the land line - it's a much nobler reason - but I can never lie to you for long. It all comes back to the hearing thing.

My grandmother had a wringer washer and a clothesline until the day they moved her into a nursing home, shortly before she died. In inclement weather, the clothesline moved from the back yard to the basement. She HAD an electric washer and dryer, but only because my mother and my aunt had insisted upon it. She continued to do it her way as long as it was physically feasible for her to do so.

There is something sweet and sentimental about that story, certainly.

I loved my grandma.

But I don't want to be her.

So, if you need to call me - better make sure you have the number for my cell. Y'know what? better yet - just text me. Or shoot me a message on Facebook. I'm much more likely to respond...

Requiem for a Squealy Fangirl

2011-01-03T06:12:00.000-08:00

Tom recently shared this article with me, analyzing the death of rock and roll. It was sad and, while I tried to find a point with which I could argue, I just couldn't. Time to move on or become antiquated.

I sort of knew it in the summer of 2001. Tom and I won general admission tickets to an 80's nostalgia show: Quiet Riot, Warrant and Poison. We found a spot on the lawn, bought an overpriced bucket of warmish beer, and settled in to enjoy the show. Quiet Riot was good. They were still very tight. Kevin Dubrow was surprisingly humble and the show was a lot of fun. The crowd was still rather thin, as it tends to be for the first of three acts. Warrant was up next and it was starting to get dark. More people were trickling in. When they broke into their rock anthem Heaven, Jani Lane held the mic out to the audience, encouraging us to sing the chorus:

Heaven isn't too far away
Closer to it every day
No matter what your friends might say
We'll find a way

We did, of course, swaying back and forth appropriately. Those with lighters held them high. A few drunk rock chicks may have wept a little. Jani stopped the band and sat on the edge of the stage, becoming a little verklempt himself. He put his head in his hands, unable to continue. "You guys remember us. You really remember us."

Rock and roll coughed softly. We couldn't see it at the time, but there was blood in the hanky.

By the time Poison came on, it was dark and the crowd was thick. And drunk. That wasn't weird. Younger kids started to show up and that wasn't weird, either. But they were wearing shredded T-shirts and fright wigs. It was a hot summer evening. Tom and I struggled - trying to figure out why these kids would be wearing what had to be hot, itchy wigs on such a warm night. Then we saw one with a thickly folded bandanna holding his wig in place. It was a clear homage to Bret Michaels. (Loooooooong before Rock of Love) I mean, surely it was an homage, right? I mean, imitation is the highest form of flattery, right? But it wasn't an homage, I realized, as Rock and Roll coughed again, a little more violently this time. He was - they were - making fun of us. Making sport of a whole generation. I wanted to spank them, and not just for fun. I wanted to cry like Jani Lane.

Fast forward to 2011. Steven Tyler. An icon. A rock god. The man who wrote Mama Kin - the song I loved so much I named my blog after it. Steven Tyler is really really doing this American Idol thing.

Rock and Roll clutched its heart and collapsed. Its hand fell open upon impact. The mic rolled slowly across the floor, silent, until it was picked up by P. Puffy Puff Diddy Daddy who turned it over in his hands once or twice in wonder, then hit the auto tune.

Resolved

2011-01-01T05:46:00.001-08:00

I don't make New Year's Resolutions. I haven't for years. It seems so pointless. Of course I want to lose weight, organize my life and my home, get my financial situation under control and quit smoking. Oh, wait. I don't smoke. I just got caught up in the excitement of public resolutions, fueled enthusiastically by the media. Still. If I DID smoke, I bet I'd feel really bad about it this time of year.

So.

No 1/1 resolutions for me.

As a matter of fact, as a protest to the resolution warriors, I believe I will actually QUIT my gym this week rather than buying new workout clothes and vowing to go more regularly (or, you know, at all). Bask in the rebellion.

I do, however, tend to make resolutions on my birthday. I don't talk about them publicly because they're nobody's business (and also because nobody tends to ask. The media doesn't launch a mass campaign to remind one of all the things one needs to change about oneself in early September and it is therefore not on the mind of the collective public.) I am taking advantage of the public resolution season this year by re-examining and making adjustments to the birthday resolutions. Surely it cannot come as a surprise to you that someone self-centered enough to consider the anniversary of their own birth to be the start of the meaningful year feels free to play fast and loose with the rules of resolution.

So.

Re-evaluating some resolutions, but forming none.

Last year, though, I did jump on the bandwagon wherein folks were choosing a single word or concept to be their guiding resolution for the year. I must not have blogged about it, because I can't find it anywhere in my archives, but I chose 'live in the present' as the concept I wanted to dedicate myself to in 2010. How did I do, you ask? Not bad. Not perfect. The smart phone was certainly a hindrance to that goal. (But would I give it up? Maybe when you pry it from my cold dead hand.) I did find this post, and I have certainly been true to the resolutions proclaimed therein.

I've noticed a trend this year where people are choosing a single word or concept to describe the past year. Mine would not be living in the present, although I did a reasonably good job with that. Mine would be strength. This year was a very dramatic one in the Casa Howard and my strength was called upon more than I would've liked. No-one was more surprised than me to find that it was there when I needed it - and when others needed it. Turns out, it was there all along, I just hadn't noticed it because it isn't a loud, flashy, 'look at me' sort of strength. It is quiet and steady and - at the risk of sounding arrogant - rather awesome. Around mid-year, I started feeling like Maria in The Sound of Music singing I Have Confidence. It's been there all along, sure, but I just discovered it - and it's exhilarating.

Someone ought to put my likeness on a collectible plate.

Just sayin'.

This year? The year that goes to 11?

I think I'm going to concentrate on independence. I think it will suit my newfound strength nicely. I talked about learned weakness here. I no longer feel weak. It's time to put action behind the feelings. I'll let you know how it goes. (You know. If it goes well...)

So - how about you? Resolutions? Words for 2010 (I'd say "keep it clean" here, but that would only be for effect. Clean is highly overrated. Keep it real.) Words for 2011? Inquiring minds want to know. (*I* want to know!)

Every Holiday Begins With Ho

2010-12-20T03:20:00.000-08:00

Classy, I know.

But the way advertisers try to disconnect men from their money around the holidays in the name of love and/or sex simply appalls me. Every jewelry ad boils down to, "If you want to get some, it'll cost you". Ahem. We have words for that, and they don't begin with K.

The holiday jewelry ads have annoyed me since forever. When Liv was still in grade school, she and her bestie worked up a very mockingly sarcastic "He went to Jared" bit that cracked my stuff up every time.

Yep, guys. We all want jewelry. It not only lets us know how much you love us (the bigger the diamond, the greater the love, of course), but it also provides us with the opportunity to make our girlfriends, in the words of that great role model, Scarlett O'Hara, "pea green with envy". Win/win. A man who wants us and women who want to be us. That right there is queen of the world stuff, baby. To quote another great role model, David Lee Roth, "you'll get some leg tonight, for sure!"

But lately I've been able to look past my white hot hatred of holiday jewelry commercials to take a look at - and give some thought to - holiday perfume commercials. The band Free famously said, "Love? Lord above. Now you're trying to trick me in love." The song was covered by another great role model, Rod Stewart. Just sayin'. If you want to skip all the pesky love stuff and get back, as those bad boys (and great role models) from Boston, Aerosmith, tell us, "to the real nitty gritty", well, look no further than perfume.

I clearly remember the first perfume ad that had an effect on me. The year was 1973, my age (for those of you keeping track) was 11, and the perfume was You're the Fire, by Yardley.

It was a drugstore perfume with a hot, hot, hot ad campaign. My fast changing, entering into adolescent territory body and mind looked at the women in that ad in open wonder. How, oh how, could my awkward little "not a girl not yet a woman" (another great role model quoted! Britney Spears!) self become a sizzling entity like THAT? Well, they gave me the answer right there in the ad. You're the Fire. I had to had to have some.

Well, I told my Aunt Gert this and - as she adored me and was very indulgent - she bought me a bottle for Christmas. I held this bottle of elixir like it was the answer to all of my many many (many many many) 11 year old questions.

Thank goodness my mother told me I wasn't allowed to spray any on right there at the Christmas party. Once home, though, I couldn't wait to pump that first spritz onto my wrist to begin my transformation from goofy girl to super-hottie. I closed my eyes and sprayed, then slowly lifted my wrist towards my nose to get a whiff of full-on womanhood. My wrist wasn't anywhere NEAR my nose before I was gagging. Apparently, full-on womanhood smells a lot like cat pee. But stronger. Now, of course, this in unfair to the fine folks at Yardley. I have since learned that no scent is universally pleasing - that wearing perfume is really more of a chemistry experiment. The experiment involving You're the Fire and me was an epic fail.

Since then, I've had two fragrance loyalties - two chemistry experiments that turned out well. Calvin Klein's Obsession in the 80's and Estee Lauder's Pleasures now. The Obsession ads were weird and avant garde and very very sexy. (You know. In a weird, avant garde sort of way...) Surely the woman who wore Obsession would be intelligent, mysterious and aloof. Not everyone would understand her, but she wouldn't care -because she would understand herself. Also, she would drive men to distraction and they would beg for a longer trip. Or - um - something. I don't know. I got a little confused. If living with obsession is a sin, let me be guilty.

Yep. I loved me some Obsession. I even decorated the bathroom in my sweet little townhouse in shades of brown that would match the bottles, so much of the product was housed there. Perfume, body lotion, hand lotion, shampoo, conditioner, hair spray - the list went on. If they made it, and it smelled like Obsession, I owned it. In retrospect my scent probably preceded me. At least it was a nice scent. Big. bold. 80's, baby.

Was I drawn to the ads or the scent? Oh, definitely the scent.

Also, the SNL spoof ad for Compulsion, by Calvin Kleen was classic. (not available online, but don't think for a minute that I didn't have a good time searching for it.....)

But the 80's passed and I no longer wanted to identify as an international woman of mystery and avant garde intrigue, plus, I was really tired of the brown bathroom, so I began the search for a new scent. As I mentioned, the eventual result of that search was Pleasures and, as I am still quite frequently complimented on it, I think I made the right decision. What? People only say "you smell great" when they can't think of anything nice to say about the way you look? Damn. You're mean.

The ads for Pleasures feature Gwyneth Paltrow and look a little something like this:

Now, anyone who knows me in real life knows that I DEFINITELY did not choose this scent based on the ad. Gwyneth is the anti-me. Between the voice overs and the puppies and the white dresses and the fields of wild flowers, I keep expecting to hear, "Now? You are a woman. Your body has gone through some changes recently....."

Yuck.

So.

The ads worked on me when I was an adolescent looking for my fire, they were a pleasant enough reinforcement when I was in my 20's pursuing my obsession, but now, if they have an effect on me at all, it's a negative one.

So who are these ads aimed at?

Why, men, of course.

Men who dig that visual of Gwynnie doing her weird hip thrust thing in the meadow, for example, might present their lady with a bottle of Pleasures.

A quick google search on perfume ads 2010 turned up such words as: topless, guilty, racy, banned, soft porn, sexy, too hot... WAIT! Come back! I wasn't done talking to you!!!

A few tips for guys thinking of going the perfume route:

1. A nice scent does NOT make our clothes fall off. Seriously.

2. It's not a good idea to choose a scent for a woman based on what it smells like in the bottle. You need to see - um - smell - how it reacts with her chemistry. There is often quite a bit of disparity between the two, and perfume ain't cheap. Buy her a scent you know she likes or go for something else. Jared might have some suggestions.

3. Women over the age of consent don't like AXE. We really really don't. So - if you go to a club doused in it, women will not pull each others hair to get to you, even though the commercials imply that they might. It does, however, seem to have an effect on young adolescent females. Stay out of jail, guys. Step away from the AXE.

Now if you'll excuse me - I have some bacon to fry (and I know a couple few men - AND women - who would find that scent to be far more alluring than any of those previously discussed...)

What's in a Name?

2010-12-18T04:04:00.000-08:00

Back when my kids used to watch Sesame Street, a clip of the amazing Maya Angelou singing The Name Song was in heavy rotation on the show. It went like this:

Maya's my name.

It's a fine name.
It's not your name, but it's fine just the same.
Stand right up and say it proudly.

Maya is my name.

Oh, yes, it's my name
and I'm not gonna change it.
It's my name and I like it just fine.
It's my name and no one can take it.
Maya's my name and I'm proud that it's mine.

(other verses like):

Your name's Lexine.

That's a fine name.
It's not my name, but it's fine just the same.
Stand right up and say it proudly.

Lexine is my name.

Oh, yes, it's my name and I'm not gonna change it.
It's my name and I like it just fine.
It's my name and no one can take it.
Lexine's my name and I'm proud that it's mine.

[ From: http://www.metrolyrics.com/the-name-song-lyrics-sesame-street.html

I sang that with my children all the time, with my name, of course, being replaced by "Mommy" and your name being replaced by, um, their names. You probably figured that part out, you're pretty bright like that. Sometimes we'd look through family photo albums and add the names (or titles - like Mommy) of loved ones to the song, too. I would be remiss if I didn't add at this point, Mommy and Daddy and all the rest of those familial titles are wonderful - and they're great - incomparable - roles. Just don't EVER forget that there's a name behind them.

Say my name.

It's a good song and a simple way to reinforce the notion that you are someone.

I couldn't help but be reminded of Kunta Kinte. He never became Toby. They beat him, they enslaved him, they cut off his foot, but, though they tried, he never let them take his name from him.

Sometimes I'd picture him with Maya and a lovely racially diverse group of Sesame Street kids singing: Kunta Kinte's my name. It's a fine name...

(I know - I should really limit the glimpses I give you into my mind. It's weird there. And not always entirely appropriate. Sorry.)

Last week my youngest daughter told me about a girl who was being bullied at school. She wasn't really a friend of my daughter, but my daughter was aware of her. I listened while she talked, then asked, "How could you help this girl feel better?" Her answer surprised me: "When I see her in the halls, I'm going to smile and say hi and always use her name."

"Always use her name?"

"Sure. It feels great when someone says hi to you and calls you by name - especially if they're not really one of your friends."

My eldest daughter jumped in at this point to offer her unqualified agreement.

Say my name.

My name is easy. Every little bit of it. Tammy Lu Hunter Howard. No one has EVER mispronounced my name. But some of you are not so lucky. My daughter Lea (pronounced Lee-ah) is called as Lea (pronounced Lee) in waiting rooms and classrooms all the time. That one's an easy fix. But many names are more difficult. When I taught ESOL I had a student who always said, "Call me Johnny." This concerned me. If he WANTED to be called Johnny because he was trying to Americanize his identity, I could respect that. But if he wanted me to call him Johnny because he was just tired of correcting people and wanted to make it easier on them - on me - well - I really didn't want to encourage that. It's your NAME, dude! We deserve to hear our names pronounced correctly. Often. We may even - at the risk of appearing melodramatic - need it.

Say my name.

A couple days ago a pink envelope arrived in the mail, addressed to me, not the family. "Why did Memaw send a Christmas card just to you?" asked my daughter, who had brought in the mail.

"And why is it pink?" asked the other. I smiled and told them it wasn't a Christmas card, it was a birthday card.

"Bit late, isn't she? Your birthday is in September. You'd think your mom would know..."

"It's not the anniversary of my birth", I reminded them, "it's the anniversary of my adoption. It's an anniversary that only really means something to Memaw and Pepaw and me."

They had run off by that point, bored with it already - but I considered: It's not the day I came into the world, but it's the day I got my name.

Now, I'll be honest with you - because I always am. I have not always been in love with that name. Tammy Lu? Really? What sort of future did they have in mind for me when they settled on Tammy Lu? (shudder) Tammy Lu was Dad's idea. Mom liked Anna Marie. I wonder if Anna Marie would have had a different life than I did.... It's possible, but entirely theoretical. Because I'm not Anna, I'm Tammy. Tammy's my name, it's a fine name...

And 48 years ago today - although I'd been born months before - it became so.

Say my name.

Just Kidding

2010-12-14T18:56:00.000-08:00

Growing up, we generally took our camping trips with a few other families. There was a core group and several others who made it when they could. One summer on our (almost) annual trip to Myrtle Beach our group was spread out over two campers, a van and two tents. The two Daves stayed in one tent (this is my friend Dave, and this is my other friend Dave) and four of us girls slept in the other. The four of us were the reason Dave was allowed to bring his friend Dave. I reckon it was sort of hard to be the only boy with four girls. It must have been hard to be the only Dave, too.

We never actually entered the boys' tent and they never actually entered ours, but one fine afternoon we were surprised by a frog on one of our pillows. Our tent had been zipped up pretty tightly, so it hardly seemed like a coincidence.

We didn't say a word.

The next night, after the boys were asleep, we thought we would be very cute. We took the boys' swim trunks down from the clothesline and hung them, liner side out, above the entrance to their tent. We made a big sign and posted it between the trunks: Two Jocks Live Here.

We thought it was harmless and funny.

The next morning we woke to a sign on OUR temporary abode. It was flanked by two bikini tops and read: Four Boobs Live Here.

Damn.

Bested by boys.

That would never do.

So we upped the ante.

One of us had an old wind-up alarm clock. We set the alarm for 3:00 am then reached into their tent and tucked it under a sleeping bag. Probably Dave's. The next morning the boys looked a little rough, but they didn't say a word.

This made us a little nervous.

As it was intended to.

When we turned in that night the four of us looked everywhere for that alarm clock, but to no avail. We changed our sleeping arrangements so that there was no way they could sneak anything in without disturbing one of us. We all fell asleep, but it was an uneasy sleep. Those boys weren't going to let that go. Payback was coming.

At 3:00 am the alarm went off.

We all woke up and looked at each other in a panic. We knew it wasn't in our tent, but it was so loud! We followed the sound and eventually realized that they'd placed it just outside our tent. By the time we figured this out and got it turned off we were so agitated there would be no getting back to sleep.

We laid on top of our sleeping bags, seething and plotting our next move. We were tired and angry and a lot of our plans included fire. Even in our sleepless state we realized that THAT wasn't a good idea.

The pranking had to end.

The next day, out of parental earshot, we approached the Daves about it. It was easy to get them to agree to a truce, because they'd had the last laugh. All six of us shook on it - there would be no more pranking.

Let me amend that.

There would be no more pranking each other.

While we were drawing up our truce it became apparent that all six of us had really enjoyed the evil creativity that went into a good prank. So we did the only logical thing. We joined forces. The game was no longer boys against girls, it was kids against adults.

It was ON, and the poor, unsuspecting grown-ups didn't even know it.

We decided our first target would be the only couple who did not have children. Well, that's not technically true. They DID have children, but they were grown with children of their own. That hardly counted. Miss Lucy and Mr. Cliff were, for our intents and purposes, childless.

We returned to our trusty alarm clock.

It had served us well.

We set it for 5:00 am. We thought maybe an alarm at 3:00 am might give them a heart attack. After all, they were older than our parents, and our parents were OLD!

The next problem became where to put it. We were all pretty much welcome in everyone's camper, so getting in would be easy. But it was a small space. Distracting them enough to actually be able to secure a hiding place was just too risky.

And then it hit us.

We'd use the boys' frustratingly crafty technique of putting it OUTSIDE their actual van. After they'd turned in, we secured it to their rear bumper, just below their bed. We tied it down with a bit of clothesline so that it wouldn't get bumped or blown off.

What we failed to anticipate was this: An alarm clock on a soft sleeping bag will wake the inhabitants of a tent. An alarm clock on soft dirt and pine needles will wake the inhabitants of a tent. An alarm clock tied loosely to the bumper of a van - vibrating - banging - metal on metal - will wake everyone in a fifty mile radius.

Well, maybe not a fifty mile radius.

But you can bet for sure that it will wake your parents, sleeping in campers on either side of that van.

And you can bet for sure that they won't think is was anywhere NEAR as funny as you thought it was going to be.

And you can bet for sure that the six of us didn't sleep very well the next couple nights, because our parents had quite publicly given Miss Lucy and Mr. Cliff carte blanche with our sorry butts.

Which they never took advantage of.

Even though we were always sort of waiting for it.

Which might have been the most wicked prank of them all.

R.I.P. Mr. Cliff. July 22, 1922 - December 12, 2010

The Blue Hat

2010-12-12T15:28:00.000-08:00

The Christmas Lea was three, all she wanted was a blue hat. This is what she told Santa, this is what she told me, and this is what she told every relative who asked. Lea was the first grandchild to three sets of grandparents, three great-grandparents, and the first baby in years on both sides of the family. She was kind of adored. I'm sure it goes without saying that she got some very lovely blue hats that year. I remember asking my mom to buy her a blue coat so she'd have something to wear them all with. She did. But she bought her a hat, too. For Pete's sake! She was three! And it was all that she wanted! How do you deny that?

Nobody did.

I remember people telling me at the time to enjoy it because it wouldn't be long before all she wanted would be a blue car.

She was three.

I laughed and laughed.

A car.

She was still struggling to write her name.

By the time she was old enough to drive a car, we'd all be using jet packs as our predominant method of transportation.

My little doodlebug driving a car. The very thought.

Before next Christmas she'll have her permit.

The very thought.

Bah, Humbug

2010-12-03T05:46:00.000-08:00

There was a Christmas - about one hundred and three years ago - when all I wanted was the latest Donny Osmond album. I mean, I wanted it bad. I could taste the want. The sweet, purple want. I remember the thought going through my head that night, keeping me from sleep, "Please, please, please, if nothing else, PLEASE let me have that album!" It was a mantra - it was a prayer - to God? to Santa Claus? to my parents? I don't know now and I didn't know then - it was just a way to put inadequate words to my deep desire.

The next morning I ran down the stairs. There was a mountain of gifts around the tree, as there was every year. Propped right in the front and center was a flat square gift, addressed to me. My eyes widened. Could it be? I wanted it so badly and there it - probably - was. I picked it up and held it for a moment - wanting to savor that feeling of anticipation. I looked at my parents - roused far too early, but smiling indulgently at me - "Open it!" I ripped back the paper to reveal the face of one harmless, cute boy with big brown eyes and huge white teeth. I hugged it. I squealed. I slit the thin protective covering with my thumbnail and ripped it from the album cover. I slid back the lid of the hi-fi so that I could play it immediately. Surely this would be a grand contribution to the Christmas joy of my entire family. (Christmases yet to come were generally set to soundtracks, too - most memorably Jethro Tull's Aqualung and Queen's News of the World. My parents - lovers of Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass that they were - could not possibly have appreciated this - but they understood and always allowed it.)

There were more gifts - a lot more - but I couldn't tell you what another one of them was. I had to be torn away from reading the liner notes to even be coerced into opening the rest of my presents. Sigh. That album - which probably set my parents back $7 - was all that I needed or wanted. It satisfied me to my core.

Albums (and tapes and CDs...) were always high on my wish list. Weren't albums great? I mean - you got the music, sure, but you also more often than not got a work of art. Sometimes you got a poster. Usually you got all the lyrics. Generally, there were photos. Every now and then there were stories. Yep. There was a lot more to getting an album than getting some songs to listen to. Getting a new album was an experience.

I can't imagine that the same joy is present when one opens a gift card good for a download.

There is a lack of - tangibility. Maybe that is what is lacking from Christmas present.

I loved buying (and making!) Christmas gifts. I made it a year round activity - carefully choosing items that I felt the recipient would enjoy - cherish, even. I never wanted anyone to feel like they were an afterthought. Oh, and I bought gifts for EVERYbody. If you were in my life, you were getting a present (and it was probably going to be a good one). When I erred, it was always on the side of excess. I lost a boyfriend or two because I went a little prematurely overboard with the giftage, inadvertently creating a situation of obligation and guilt (and probably fear). It wasn't my intent - I just - liked buying gifts. I made a co-worker or two uncomfortable when I presented gifts that were clearly not anticipated. Flowers were generally delivered to me later that day. Again - I'd clearly incited guilt, when all I'd meant to do was spread the love. When my kids were in elementary school, they not only took gifts for their teachers, and for each of their 'specials' teachers (art, gym, music..), but they were also sent with a little bag of treats on the last day before break - lip balms, candies, things like that, which they gave to the crossing guard and the cafeteria workers and, and, and..... I know those people liked being acknowledged, but I know that it meant even more to my kids to be able to give them something.

It feels wonderful to give.

And that is DEFINITELY something that is lacking from Christmas present. We live on a budget and every year it feels like a tight one and every year it manages to get just a little tighter. A few years ago I started really paring down that list of people I bought for. Then I pared it down some more. I stopped sending Christmas cards. I pared it down some more. Then I pared down the amount I could spend on the very small handful of people I still bought for. And then I pared it down some more. This year I am buying next to nothing for next to no-one.

And it makes me sad.

It makes me sad when I'm in a store and I think, "so and so would love that!" And I pick it up and consider it and put it back. I don't exchange gifts with so and so anymore. If I buy something for so and so, then I need to buy something for..... it snowballs quickly and gets out of hand. I walk away, humbug setting in just a little more deeply.

It's hard to decorate a tree that I know will not be buried in presents.

It's hard to go shopping.

It's hard to bake cookies for company that won't be coming - and will be watching their carbs if they do. Entertaining costs money.

I remember loving Christmas...

I used to relate to the Bacchanalian Ghost of Christmas Present. Now I am undeniably a ringer for good old Ebenezer.

What would Donny Osmond think?

Full Disclosure

2010-11-21T14:16:00.000-08:00

Full disclosure (because as I say later in the post, I'm a full disclosure kind of gal) - I had this post mostly written two weeks ago - it was just lacking the actual reviews and pictures - but then I got bronchitis and all bets were off. Better late than never, no?

I returned from the whirlwind vacation I mentioned in my last post to find three boxes waiting for me on the kitchen table. As I mentioned in that last post - times? they are tough. I don't order a lot. But I left for four days and lo and behold - it's like Christmas up in here. I should go away more often for oh so many reasons...

One of those boxes contained the iPad that I will be using for my job. As such, it is a loaner, so I am limited in what I am actually allowed to do with it - but it's still fun to have a new toy! (Even if I can't properly play with it.)

The other two boxes? Patience, my dears. I'll get to it.

This is my dog Molly.

I've talked about Mo once or twice before. If you're a pet lover, you're probably looking at her picture and thinking something along the lines of, "Oh, what a sweet old girl!" And you're right on both counts. She is both sweet and old. But if you're less of a pet lover and more of a furniture lover, you're probably thinking something more along the lines of, "I bet you could knit a sweater with the fur that dog sheds in a week." And you? My furniture loving friend? Would not be accused of exaggeration.

Enter box number two. The Bissell Pet Hair Remover.

Now I'm gonna give you full disclosure, here, because I'm a full disclosure kind of gal. I received this vacuum from CSN Stores in exchange for a review of the product. The following represents my honest opinion. The vacuum was easy to use and really did pick up a lot of fur. My sofa was visibly brighter after just a couple minutes of attention. Two thumbs way up for the pet hair eraser. Now it's just up to us to continue to use it. The first time was fun - a novelty. When it becomes a chore - well - we shall see. We do all wear a lot of black - it would be nice to be able to leave the house after having been on the sofa. Although today one of my kids used it on the other - and that worked pretty well, too...

But there were three boxes, right?

Right you are.

Box number three contained not one, but two Calphalon skillets. I'll review one of them, because I paid for about half of the pair and the other half was provided in exchange for a review. I think it would be pretty safe, however, for you to assume that for the purposes of this review, size doesn't matter and anything said about one will apply to the other.

I used the small pan last night to make Croque Monsieur (almost as fun to say as it is to eat). I wouldn't have needed butter, but I used some anyway. When one's food speaks with a French accent, one ought not play coy with the butter. I made four small sandwiches in the small pan. They browned very evenly and were quite delicious. Tom informs me that clean-up was a breeze. I had to ask, of course, because the one who cooks should never be (and almost never is) the one who cleans. Ok, ok, full disclosure - like I promised. Actually, when I asked, he shrugged and said, "It's a non-stick skillet. What do you want me to say?" Ah, the advantage of poetic license. I wanted, and was therefore able, to make him say, "clean-up was a breeze".

I think it's safe to say that we are both pleased with the skillets.

And the vacuum.

And CSN Stores.

The Universe Conspires

2010-11-21T09:51:00.000-08:00

"When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it." ~ Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

I'll admit it. I never read The Secret. I heard them talking about it on all the talk shows and I politely said "bullshit" into my hand, cleverly disguising it as a cough. If you want things badly enough - really, really want them really, really badly enough - they'll come to you. I'll remove my hand and not even attempt to disguise it as a cough anymore. Bullshit. Can I tell you how many times I've been told, when lamenting my weight issues, "You're just not trying hard enough. If you really want it to happen, it will". BULLSHIT!

Color me jaded if you need to. It's cool. I look good in green.

But...

But recently, the universe conspired.

I have two friends with whom I chatted every day without fail via facebook. I met Sandy once in real life, although we'd been chatting through emails and facebook before that. I met Pam online through Sandy. Sandy had also met her online. It was just one of those things that clicked. It clicked so hard, you may have actually heard it. We are like minded. That's easy to type. It's easy to say. It is much harder to actually find. But we found it, compliments of the wide, wide world of web.

So we chatted.

We shared stories and pictures - we shared big stuff and small stuff. We developed a strong friendship without ever having been in the same room. No - we developed a strong friendship without ever having been on the same continent. Sandy was in Germany, Pam was in Czech Republic, and I was in - Ohio. I think of their lives - and probably with some degree of accuracy - as so much more exciting and sophisticated than mine. They have lived adventures. I have lived - in Ohio.

A few months ago, we had reached the 'I love you, man' point in the relationship and started musing about how lovely it would be to continue our conversations over a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. We were all approaching crossroads of sorts and we were doing it together online. How much nicer would it be to do it in person? They thought we could choose someplace equidistant for them and then I could fly over. Vienna and Prague were tossed around as potential locations for a rendezvous. I smiled every time we talked about it. It was a nice dream. They seemed to think it was a serious possibility, but I knew it would never happen. The flight alone (and if you think I didn't look into it, then I'd like some of what you're smoking) would've cost almost as much as my car. Not my car payment. My car. Things are tight here in Ohio and we live very modestly. When I pictured myself with my friends on a patio sipping wine in Vienna, I somehow always ended up looking a little like Don Quixote fighting off the windmills.

But then, the universe conspired.

Sandy made a spur of the moment decision to return to the states to visit her parents. Pam just as suddenly made the decision to return to the states to stay with her mother for a while.

Now we were all in the same time zone.

Thanks, universe.

I drove to New Jersey with my husband, where I met up with Sandy. She and I took a bus to New York where we met up with Pam. A couple days before this was scheduled to happen, Pam sent a recent picture of herself, afraid we might not recognize her. She needn't have worried. Our hearts called out to each other. We saw her from about a block away and we ran into each others arms and dissolved in the sort of group hug you used to sometimes see at airports, but now only see in movies. We kept touching each others faces and arms as we walked - I think perhaps to assure ourselves that this was really, really real.

We ate, and we talked and we laughed and we shared that wine.

And we will do it again.

Because surely the universe will see the necessity of that.

I'm still not buying into The Secret. But sometimes the universe comes through.

Don't Call Me Daughter

2010-11-04T11:14:00.000-07:00

I was poking around on Etsy today, as I am wont to do on days when there are chores to be done which I would rather avoid, when I came across some knit and crocheted items that looked like what I was cranking out in junior high. I smiled, nostalgic. And then I saw the prices. Holy moley! Were they spinning yarn from the previously unshorn hair of virgins? No - as a matter of fact - upon further inspection, they were using the sort of yarn one can pick up at any chain retailer. My immediate thought: If I had attempted to charge half as much for something like that, my father would've been outraged. I heard his voice in my head, "Daughter, be humble."

Back when I did sell my wares, he was constantly accusing me of over-pricing, even when my prices barely covered the costs of my materials. "Price things fairly, Daughter, and remember yourself."

Some parents tell their kids they're great - the best - the sky's the limit - that they are worthy of all the world has to offer and more! I was told to remember myself and be humble.

Back when I did sell my wares, people in the know about such things would tell me not to sell myself short - that people would only desire it if they thought it was expensive. If you don't pay a lot for it, it isn't worth anything. That's some screwed up logic, right there, but I'm sure there's something to it. I tried to compromise - not going as high as they suggested, but not staying as low as the voice in my head - the one that calls me Daughter - approved. I'm sure you've guessed that that pleased no-one. "You are robbing these people, Daughter!" he would say, when he saw my price tags.

I can assure you - I never robbed anyone.

My basic formula was a relatively simple one: I would estimate the cost of the supplies I used and charge 1 1/2 times that. There were variations, of course, when very intricate work was involved, but that was how I typically determined cost. Using my formula, I made pennies per hour - sometimes fractions of pennies per hour - but I rationalized that by saying that I worked while I was watching TV or spending time with my family - things that I enjoyed doing and would've been doing anyway. Plus - I enjoyed my craft. How could I assign an hourly wage to something I loved?

This is all sounding pretty negative and perhaps you're thinking my father was a little harsh with me. Well, he was. But there were other lessons that went hand in hand with those of humility and fairness. By reminding me of those things - remembering myself - he reminded me that I was worth neither more nor less than anyone else. That NOone was worth more or less than anyone else - regardless of how much some folks thought they were - were TAUGHT that they were. Remember yourself, Daughter. Don't put yourself on a pedestal - you don't belong there. But don't denigrate yourself, either, because you certainly do not deserve that. Remember yourself.

I was taught - sometimes directly, sometimes by inference - that it didn't matter what the circumstances of your birth were - that didn't determine your worth. That the color of your skin, or your height, or the size of your bank account didn't determine your worth. That your character was not determined by the gender of the person you chose to spend your nights with. That the size of your house said nothing about the person that you were. That - in a word - you just needed to remember yourself.

Well, I remember myself pretty well, I think.

But a few extra bucks wouldn't hurt.

I'd re-open my Etsy shop in a minute if I thought I could make money like that for things I could churn out in a couple hours while I watched a movie. Or would I? "You're robbing those people, Daughter! How can you sleep at night?"

Well, not on 1,000 thread count sheets, that's for damn sure.

Listen to Me!

2010-10-31T08:19:00.000-07:00

One piece of the program I'm currently working on in preschools involves a twist on the standard show and tell (mostly tell) format. Traditionally, the kids sit in a circle and each gets a turn to share their story. It's an important part of the preschool curriculum. Children need to share their stories. However - it's a part of the day many preschool teachers do not particularly look forward to - although for the most part, they love hearing those stories. The problem arises when you have 15-20 three and four year-olds each waiting for a whole lot of other kids to tell their story before and or after they've already finished their own. That's a LONG time to wait, for kids that age. When our expectations exceed their developmental abilities, trouble begins.

Think to a class or group you've attended where everyone had to introduce and share a little information about themselves. This is interesting and fun for almost no-one. I want to say that your behavior, when you became frustrated and bored, was probably better than that of a preschooler, but perhaps I'm giving you more credit than is due. I had students do that for a while, myself, before I realized what a time-suck it was and that I - as the teacher - was really the only one getting anything out of it. I devised another way to collect the information I needed that didn't involve a WHOLE LOT of wait time for the entire group. (apologies to those of you who may have encountered me before that particular revelation...)

This piece of the program on which I am working acknowledges that need to share information while eliminating the LONG wait times. Children are partnered and each tells his or her story to their partner, then listens to their partner's story in turn. When I first asked my teachers to do this, they were skeptical. "The kids want everyone to hear their stories! We are doing them a disservice!" After two days, they realized that the kids didn't need everyone to hear their stories - they just needed SOMEone to hear their stories. The teachers experimented with pairings - friends with friends, kids who never played together, same gender, mixed genders - it didn't seem to matter. As long as SOMEone listened to what they had to say, they were happy.

A friend of mine recently told me about a little boy in her class who loves to raise his hand - and loves to be called on - but has a hard time speaking in front of the group, therefore freezing. Her solution? Position herself (or another adult) near him so that he can whisper the answers to them without wasting class time. He is pleased - he gets to do the talking that he wants/needs to do without the stress and pressure of having all eyes on him. It is a win/win.

This phenomena - needing to have our words be heard - is hardly exclusive to children. This weekend I did a gig serving samples at a grocery store. So many people - SO. MANY. PEOPLE. - approached my table, not so much because they were interested in what I was hawking, but because they wanted someone to hear their words - to listen to their stories. A few folks craved dialogue, and with them I engaged in a little back and forth, but the vast majority just wanted someone to talk to, not with. I was extremely indulgent - providing them with smiles for their jokes and sincere concern for their tales of woe; a mirror in which their own stories could be reflected.

And they left happy.

And I was happy. Because I wasn't the only one serving as a mirror.

So.

Tell someone your story today. We all need to be heard. But don't forget to listen to theirs as well. It isn't just a good idea for preschoolers.

Drop It

2010-10-21T03:39:00.000-07:00

So the lovefest is over. I now return you to my regularly scheduled self-loathing, already in progress.

I'm mostly kidding...

I kept my word yesterday. I didn't entertain a single bad thought about this shell in which I walk around the world. (And when I say, 'world', I mostly mean Ohio...) That's mostly because I was kept very busy with other, more pressing thoughts. Thoughts like:

Will there EVER be enough money?

Why do I insist on continuing to do things that I've proven over and over that I'm not very good at?

What kind of wine goes best with camping?

and

How are we going to manage Thanksgiving for 9 people in my sister's tiny apartment?

When my sister was married, she lived in a house that was both bigger and nicer than mine. When my parents would come to visit, they would obviously opt to stay with her. I understood that, but there was a period of time when my kids did not. It didn't help that their cousin sort of rubbed it in during that same time period - telling them that Memaw and Pepaw were coming to see her - not them.

Swell.

When my parents would come in to babysit for my niece, they stayed at her house, even when my sister wasn't there. When they would come to babysit my kids, she'd say, "We'll just bring them over to Wendy's for the weekend - that will be easier for everyone." I'm not sure how she figured packing a bag for the weekend because their parents were going away without them was easier for my kids - but I've learned not to spend too much time trying to unravel other people's logic. (That's totally a lie. I still spend WAY too much time trying to unravel other people's logic in an attempt to make it make sense to me. But I HAVE learned that it's a waste of time, so I try to deny doing it at all. How'm I doing with that so far?)

When my sister moved into the small apartment, I assumed that that would change. Now I was in the larger place - clearly mine would be the house out of which they would base.

Wrong.

My parents visited this week and opted to stay with my sister in her apartment. Ok. It's the first time they've visited since she moved out. I figured they just wanted to get comfortable in her new space (and with her new situation). Then talk turned to Thanksgiving. It seems that everyone but me assumed that we would have dinner at my sister's apartment. Now my house is not all that nice. And it's not all that big. But it's bigger than an apartment, for Pete's sake.

A girls' ego could take a bruising, y'know?

So.

The apartment is not yet fully furnished (yet it remains superior to my house, in terms of entertaining!!!!! Can you tell I'm a little bitter? Damn. I'd hoped I was hiding that a little better...), but it will be by then. She had been looking for a small table for her dining nook and was debating between a couple choices. I mentioned it's a small apartment, right? I did? Good. Now that she knows she'll continue entertaining the family in her small space (Am I being a little heavy-handed with the 'small' stuff? Sorry.) one thing becomes clear: She's gonna need to look at drop leaf tables.

Did you see how pretty those tables were? The perfect solution to entertaining a large crowd in a small space.

Me? I'll just arrive when I'm told to arrive and bring what I'm told to bring and leave when it's time to leave.

I'm in my late 40's. Think it might be time for me to drop more than the sides of a table? Yeah, you're probably right.

I'll work on that.

Love It!

2010-10-20T03:00:00.000-07:00

Today is Love Your Body Day. As I've already had to explain to my husband (Hi, Tom. Love you. Mean it.), that does not mean it is national masturbation day. Everyone knows that that distinction belongs to Joan Jett's birthday, and it's already passed us by this year. And, while I reckon that's one way to love your body, this day is about other ways. Love with a capital 'L'.

I spend a good bit of time on this blog talking about the things I don't like about my body. I'm a product of my environment, what can I say? But not today. If I start, stop me. Many recovery groups promise: Just for today, I will _________. Well, just for today, I will not hate my body. I will not say bad things about it or think bad thoughts about it. I will treat my body well today. I will feed it well and give it a chance to move. Move? I'll let it dance... I will be thankful for all of the wonderful things it can do rather than dwell on all of the things it cannot. I will be thankful for the battle wounds - the proof that it bore me children - that it has lived and loved for almost five decades. Those scars tell a story - and it's a good one. The story of me.

Just for today, I will love my body.

I will extend that love to everyone else I encounter today - not burdening them or me with unnecessary or unkind judgments.

I will encourage the young people in my life to love their bodies, too. I will remind them that they are not too fat or too skinny or too tall or too short or too - well - they're not too anything. They're just the right bodies to tell the story of them.

I will love my body, today - and I challenge you to do the same. Just for today. See how it goes. We may just find we want to continue the love affair tomorrow.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

2010-10-14T05:23:00.000-07:00

My daughter takes music lessons at a local college (no, not 'THE' local college - 'A' local college). She meets with her instructor in his office in the music building and they do their funky thing while I wait in the student lounge.

The first couple weeks of this, I was nearly overwhelmed by nostalgia. It felt like the music building in MY college. The bulletin boards offered the same information. The students with whom I shared the lounge had the same conversations my friends had 25-30 years ago. It even smelled like my old music building (Cogswell Hall, holla!). This smell, by the way, I would be hard put to describe. It is neither particularly pleasant nor particularly unpleasant. It is neutral, but distinctive, with undertones of valve oil.

I really started to look forward to taking her to her lessons - to sit in that lounge and smell those smells and hear those sounds - scales and warm-up exercises from various instruments in various practice rooms. I would look around at the students draped over the chairs in the lounge, talking about their classes and their professors, bitching a little but clearly into it. I wondered if any of them were falling in love and was certain that some of them must be. A campus in the fall is a very good place to fall in love. I may be projecting. At a very young age, I fell in love with campuses in general and campuses in the fall specifically. My love has never faltered.

But I've digressed.

Last week, a large group of students were having a meeting in the lounge and there was no where for me to sit, so my daughter's instructor invited me into the practice room for her lesson. How many nights I spent, sitting on the floor of a practice room waiting for a friend to walk me home. In the fall. On campus. I started to sit on the floor in the corner, but her instructor wouldn't hear of it and got me a folding chair. I would've rather been on the floor. Stupid instructor, reminding me that I'm old. "Here you go, Mrs. Howard." Ugh.

This week, I was able to sit in the lounge again. There was a small group of students having a meeting and sharing a couple pizzas, but I figured I could sit with my back to them and not be an intrusion.

The young lady leading the group was so self important I didn't know whether I wanted to laugh out loud at her or shake her silly little self. I had placed myself as far away from the group as I could get, and I had my back to them, but what she had to say was so very, very important that she was projecting across the whole lobby. In fairness, music and theater go hand in hand and no one can emote like a musical theater person. But still. It was pretty obnoxious.

She was planning a fundraiser. I chuckled to myself when she mispronounced the names of several prominent clubs downtown. Don't think me TOO mean. If she hadn't been playing the big shot so hard, I wouldn't have laughed at a simple, honest mistake. I am actually very generally tolerant. But she was acting like such a jackass that the rules changed a little bit. She went into a long spiel about how you need to deal with club owners and how they think and what they like and what they'll respond to. She expressed all of this with a great deal of confidence. And then announced that someone else would have to take care of it, because she wasn't old enough to enter a club.

I had to grab the handles on my chair to brace myself.

My nostalgic trip down memory lane came to a grinding halt.

I had enjoyed remembering the more romantic aspects of college life - of MY life a couple few decades ago. I enjoyed, as I may have perhaps mentioned, the sights and smells and sounds of a music building, on a small campus, in the fall. I did NOT like being reminded of how naive it all was. She really felt like the cock of the walk. She thought she knew everything. She knows nothing. And she's gonna figure that out someday and it's gonna suck. I felt almost bad for having laughed at her - even if it was only internal. The bigger they come, the harder they fall and all that.

(For the 12 year olds in my midst, yes, the last paragraph contained the words: cock, suck, bigger and harder. And the paragraph that preceded it, come to think of it, contained: grinding. Go ahead. Beavis and Butthead it up. He. Hehe. I'll wait.)

So I left campus last night remembering not how it felt to be young and have the whole future in front of me, but remembering, instead, how it felt when the world crashed in and that future became more limited. When I found out I didn't know as much as I thought I did - when nothing was the way it was supposed to be anymore.

Damn.

Next week, I might wait in the car.

Sobbing quietly and sniffing a bottle of valve oil.

Where's Tut?

2010-10-09T12:57:00.000-07:00

I am spending a beautiful fall weekend visiting with my parents. Beautiful does not begin to do it justice. Exquisite, glorious, pulchritudinous... if there is a fault to be found with this weekend, it would be that it is almost a little too warm for October. As a complaint, that holds about as much validity as: My husband is just a little too generous, or, I wish my children would stop doing extra chores without being asked, or, for my gentlemen readers, her breasts are just too darn large.

So.

What's the best way to spend a perfect fall day? Driving over the mountain to take in the foliage on the way to a craft show, of course. Tom and Lea opted out, which I am still trying to understand. It's a head scratcher. Mom, Liv and I are fans of craft shows. Dad likes live music and homemade donuts and he had reason to believe he'd be able to score both if he drove us to the show. Plus - he saw the attitude I was giving Tom about staying behind and probably knew that whatever I was dishing out to my husband, my mother would deal out a hundredfold to him.

Tut is no fool.

We neared the venue and there were detours because of road closures for the festival and the parade that had preceded it. Just before the detour we had passed several lots offering parking for $5. We'd passed them by, certain that we could get closer, but as the detour moved us farther and farther away from our course, this seemed less and less likely.

"Why didn't you park when we had a chance?"

I smiled. I KNEW it was going to be my dad's fault. It's always my dad's fault.

He turned down an alley, hoping for - I didn't really know what at the time. It turned out to be a fortuitous move. At the end of the alley, butting up against the very section of the show we were most interested in visiting, a group of youngsters were offering parking for $6. WELL worth the extra $1, we agreed. As we pulled up, they were posting their 'lot full' sign. I was trying to imagine how this was going to be Dad's fault (because I guarantee you that it would've been), when one of the boys approached my side of the car. I pushed the button to open my window, but nothing happened. I pulled it. Still nothing. I opened my door.

"If you're comfortable backing in," he said, speaking over me to my dad, "we can squeeze you in way back there in the back."

"Where?"

"Back there."

"What do you want me to do?"

"You'll have to back in."

"Where"

"Back here, sir. I'll guide you in."

The boy started directing us, from my side of the car, but I still couldn't open my window and the lot was too crowded for Dad to back in with my door open. The boy chuckled a little and went over to Dad's side of the car. After hitting several buttons, Dad managed to open his window.

The boy was coaching him like a pro, while my mom started in about the passenger window from the back seat.

"You hit the childproof lock button."

"What?"

"You're ok, sir, plenty of room, come on back."

"The childproof button! Why do you DO that?"

"Ok?"

"Cut it to the right a little, sir... plenty of room..."

"I've told you a million times not to hit that button. OOOOH! Why do you DO that? You do this ALL THE TIME!"

"You're doing great, sir. Come on back a little further, you're fine."

"HIT THAT BUTTON! Unlock these windows!"

"You're good, sir, right there."

The young man walked away, no doubt ready to talk to his buddies about why people over a certain age should have to retest for their driver's license every year. To be fair, my dad was driving just fine. He just - um - didn't know how to work his car... And in his defense - there are an AWFUL lot of buttons...

He put the car in park and Liv and I jumped out. There was a force as strong as gravity pulling me towards those tents. But Mom and Dad were still in the car. "Put that key back in and fix those windows before we go anywhere."

He did.

We walked to the show and it did not disappoint. I hate it when I get all geared up for a craft show and it's full of 'look what I can do with a glue gun' crafts. This one was full of wood and leather and fiber and silver and pottery. Yes, please.

I had just purchased a pretty pair of silver earrings and Liv was looking at some carvings of owls when Dad decided he'd like to get a head start on the promise of music and donuts. He arranged a meeting spot with Mom and he trotted off in the direction of the bandstand. The three of us shopped to our little hearts content and suffered not a moment's guilt for having abandoned him. When we'd had our fill, we headed to the designated meeting spot.

No Tut. "Where could he BE? OOOOOOH, that man..."

"Why doesn't he carry a phone?"

"I took it away. He didn't know how to use a phone."

Ok, I can buy this. After all, he couldn't manage the windows on his car...

"You should get him an iPhone."

"He couldn't even use his simple calls only phone - he'd never be able to use an iPhone."

"I know. But they have a GPS app and you can always see where he is. We're thinking of getting them for the kids..."

Upon relaying this story after we got home, Lea suggested installing a chip - like you would for a dog. I'll skip the DNA test, I'm pretty sure she's mine...

She looked some more - it was REALLY crowded. I mentioned that it was a beautiful day and an excellent craft show, right? We weren't the only ones who decided to take advantage of this. I started to panic myself. How were we ever going to find him?

Of course, we did. He was on the very corner upon which they'd agreed. But he was sitting by a garbage can, and she - as she expressed more than once - never expected him to be sitting by a garbage can. "A garbage can! Why would anyone sit by a garbage can? OOOOOOH, that man..." Poor guy, he was just seeking some shade. The shade of the trees was all occupied. He took what was left to him.

And he never did find any donuts.

You Can't SayThat!

2010-09-30T04:06:00.000-07:00

As Banned Books Week draws to a close, I thought it would be a good time to revisit the concept of forbidden fruit and the sweetness thereof.

Every year, when the list of books that have been challenged is posted, I shake my head in wonder. Then I make sure I've read everything on said list that I care to read. Sometimes something new and salacious slips under my radar. If someone (who I imagine with facial features pinched so tightly that eyes, nose and lips all merge into one scrunchy almost indiscernible feature in the middle of their face) thinks it needs to be removed from the shelves, well, it must be something worth reading. We certainly watched that happen when Tipper's folks succeeded in slapping parental warning stickers on recorded material. A parental warning sticker is as attractive to a kid buying albums as a big red clearance sign is to a bargain shopper. (I know - albums - blah blah blah - shut up and let me enjoy my crone years... and get off my lawn. Damn hoodlums.)

I am particularly offended by books that are challenged for using words that have since been deemed politically incorrect. Ok, here's the thing: I cuss like a sailor. I'm not particularly proud of it, but I'm not particularly ashamed of it, either. I cuss. A lot. But I never say the 'N' word. Never, never, never. That offends me. HOWEVER... to pretend that it was a word that was never casually used is revisionist. Attempts to ban books like Tom Sawyer or To Kill a Mockingbird or Gone With the Wind (to name just a few examples) based on their use of this word is ludicrous. That is how it was and this is how it is. We need to have enough faith in our kids to believe that they will be able to sort that out. Hey! We can even act like parents and teachers and responsible adults and HELP them sort it out. The offensive nature of this word (and others like it) is not nearly as dangerous as the offensive nature of ignorance. We can't ignore history just because it's sometimes ugly. Those who ignore history... aw, you know the rest...

I am not offended so much as I'm tickled when I hear criticisms of books that refer to menstruation, or erections, or sexual curiosity that are geared towards the 12-15 year old reader. Boy, howdy, you better believe that these books are not INTRODUCING these concepts to kids this age! Kids this age are just entering this world and it can be confusing and scary. Books can provide validation.

The last point I want to make is that parents know what is right for their child and certainly have a right to tell their own child, "I don't want you reading this." When I was in fifth grade, The Exorcist was hot. I wanted to read it in a bad sort of way. My mother said, "Absolutely not." Well, of course, that only served as encouragement. I got my hands on a copy and devoured it. Surprisingly, sleep did not come easy after I turned that last page. My mother refused to offer me any comfort. I'd made my (levitating) bed and I was going to have to lie in it. My mother, of course, was right. This was not an appropriate choice for me at that point in my life. But I did exactly what human nature compels us to do when we're told we can't have something: I sought it much harder than I would have had it been offered freely to me.

So go ahead. Keep challenging those books. It's the best way in the world to guarantee that they continue to be read.